kabocha, the beast of the woods, and calabaza, his sons. kabocha is distrustful of dragonkind, carefully hiding his little homestead deep in the orchard. cala (downturned horns) and baza (upturned horns) are curious, though, about these creatures so unlike their father.
once upon a time, in a forest deep and dark, there lived a beast. a creature of sharp claws and bared fangs and glowing green eyes, howling in layered voices. the people of the nearby village feared this beast greatly. they left the carcasses of livestock at the treeline, with honey and cream and fruit, hoping these gifts would keep the beast sated and away from the village.
in return, the village flourished. the beast, it seemed, kept away the other pests of the forest, and their crops and livestock grew strong and healthy, and the villagers could forage with no fear of wolves or forest-cats. and so it went, for many years.
until one day in late autumn, when a farmer found one of his cows lying gutted in the field. surely, he thought, only the beast had claws great enough to do this. so he gathered his neighbors and they debated what to do.
they left the beast an early sacrifice, and larger. it was gone the next morning, and the woods were quiet, and the villagers sighed in relief.
but then they found another cow, torn open and left in the red-stained grass. and over the next few days, a goat, a hound, a half-dozen chickens. their crops, which often flourished even into winter, had begun to wither, devoured by the little forest pests that had stayed away for so long.
the villagers grew worried. they gathered to debate what they should do once again. if they continued leaving gifts, and the beast continued taking their livestock, they may not have enough to make it through the winter. they feared what may happen should they refuse to leave sacrifices, but they feared starvation just as greatly.
"perhaps," said the schoolteacher, "the beast will sleep through the winter, and it is only gathering bulk to sustain itself."
"perhaps," said the butcher, "it has grown a taste for fat and flesh, and desires fresher fare than we give."
"perhaps," said the preacher, "it wishes to devour life and soul, and mere meat will sate it no longer."
"yes, that must be it," the preacher insisted. "such a beast cannot survive on fruit and flesh alone! such a beast craves fear, and pain, and death. we must leave it living things if we are to survive!"
the villagers trusted the preacher now, just as they had always done, just as foolishly, and left two live goats tied at the treeline. they were gone in the morning, but the fields were still stained red.
it was a difficult decision. but they made this sacrifice all the same.
laid at the treeline, jugs of cream and sweet wine, bowls of fruit, jars of honey and butter, loaves of bread. and a child. this child, the villagers had thought, was an orphan, who would miss it? strange and small and unloved, but a life nonetheless.
and in the morning, it was gone. it was all gone. the gifts, the child, the howls, the beast.
who knows what happened to the village? and who cares? these people who left food at the forest and then were shocked when hungry animals came into their streets. these people who chose not to investigate their animals' death in favor of throwing themselves to the mercy of some beast. these people who left a child to die to protect themselves.
i certainly do not know. nor do i care. i took my goats and their gifts and this child, and i left. i will do better by him than they ever tried to do. i will protect him, as i had protected them.
i hope they turned on their preacher. i hope they starved and fed the crows. i hope the rats run that village now.
