Beneath The Roots of the Forgotten
There was no floor beneath him. No air to breathe. No direction to look toward.
Kliwon drifted in a space where color had been murdered long ago—where all that remained were shades of bone, rot, and dried blood.
He had crossed the threshold. Not into the realm of spirits, nor demons. Not the fields of the dead.
This was the place that came **before** all those.
Where the first ritual was spoken—not by mouths, but by wounds.
Where names were currency.
And silence was **alive**.
--- **1. The Descent That Was Not a Descent**
He wasn't walking. Not truly. The world around him bent inward like the throat of something ancient. The "ground" pulsed faintly with every step he took, like a heartbeat from a buried god.
The walls weren't walls. They were flesh woven from memory: mothers weeping into bundles of feathers, fathers whispering names into jars sealed with teeth, children who had no mouths.
As he moved, Kliwon felt his own past being **peeled** from his skin.
His name.
His village.
His camera.
All melted.
What remained was the sound of wings that hadn't flapped in a thousand years.
From the corner of his eye, a **face** emerged from the wall—long, jaw slack, skin like fermented soil, eyes wet and black. It did not speak with words. It exhaled scent: incense, burnt feathers, and blood.
It pointed.
Kliwon followed.
---
### **2. The Room of the First Offering**
He entered a vast chamber shaped like a womb. In its center floated an altar of bone and red wax. And atop the altar lay a **baby**.
Not dead.
But not alive.
Its eyes were open.
They locked on his.
It began to cry. But the sound came from **within his skull**.
> *"I am the beginning."*
> *"I was the first bargain your ancestors made with the dark."*
Kliwon's knees buckled.
"Who… are you?"
> *"The one buried so you may speak without being hunted."*
> *"The one whose silence bought you language."*
The baby smiled.
And then the altar burst into flames—blue, cold, impossibly still.
From the shadows around the chamber, hundreds of **pale arms** reached up from a lake of black water. They clawed at the fire, at the altar, at each other.
Kliwon turned to run.
But the crying chased him—inside his ribs, behind his eyes, echoing louder than thought.
---
### **3. The Spiral Inward**
A staircase unfolded ahead—not down, not up, but **inward**, like a spiral chewing its own birth.
Kliwon walked.
Each step burned part of him.
One memory.
One belief.
One truth.
They peeled away, and still he walked.
At the end of the spiral, there was only **white**. A void. No shadows, no sound. In its center stood a mirror.
He approached.
His reflection had no face.
And behind the faceless self stood seven silhouettes—thin, tall, motionless.
> *"You brought them."*
"Who are you?"
> *"We are the uninvited."*
> *"Born when the first sacrifice was denied."*
> *"Not gods. Not demons. We are the hunger that remains after the fire has been fed."*
Kliwon raised his hand.
The crow mark on his palm opened like a mouth.
And the voices inside him screamed—not in pain, but in **release**.
The world shattered.
---
### **4. The Perfect Village**
He blinked.
And now he was back in a village.
But it was too clean.
Too bright.
Too beautiful.
Children played. Women waved at him. Men called his name with warm smiles.
> "Kliwon!"
> "You've returned!"
> "Blessed one!"
He nearly believed it.
Until he looked at the sky.
And saw it was **painted**.
A veil.
Behind it, something vast and **breathing** watched.
He ran.
The sky tore open.
From it, fell thousands of faces—formed not from flesh, but from **words** and **prayers** long buried.
> *"You are the gate."*
> *"You are the feast."*
> *"You are the only name left."*
---
### **5. The Tree That Consumes**
In the heart of the broken illusion stood a tree.
It wasn't made of bark or leaves—but of **hair**, **teeth**, and **fingers**.
And from its roots, a woman emerged.
His mother.
But her eyes were too still.
"Son," she said. "Why did you disturb the silence?"
He stepped back.
"You are not her."
"But I am part of her," she said. "I am the part she gave up when she refused the ritual. When she hid you."
The roots lashed at him.
Tried to pull him in.
But Kliwon shouted—**not in fear**, but with **names**.
Names he had carried. Names that had whispered to him. Names that were never meant to be remembered.
And the roots recoiled.
The woman wept.
"You must open the final gate," she said. "You must burn the language that binds the world."
---
### **6. The Final Fire**
He stood now in a field of ash.
Above, the sky cracked. From the fissures descended crows—not flying, but **falling**.
They pierced him. Entered his skin. Nested in his ribs.
He did not scream.
He welcomed them.
Because now he understood:
He was not merely a vessel.
He was the **flame** itself.
He fell to his knees.
And burned.
But not with fire.
With **every unspoken word**, every withheld scream, every ritual never completed.
He became the ritual.
And the world changed.
---
### **7. Waking in the Wrong Reality**
He awoke.
Not from sleep. But from **ritual**.
He was back in the rice field.
The wind blew normally.
Birds chirped.
But nothing was the same.
The sky seemed to watch. The earth seemed to breathe. And the villagers… when he passed them, they **bowed**.
Not in respect.
But in **fear**.
Because now he was not a visitor.
He was the **keeper** of names.
And they knew—
Once names are remembered,
**they never die**.