Chapter Text
The townspeople in Balantagi have always lived their life under the control of their beliefs.
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Urbanization failed to dig its claws around Balantagi during its rise. According to hearsay, the town itself declines such changes. It has never been the people, they are mere puppets. It has always been the town itself. When people outside Balantagi speak of its name, they only whisper. It is almost as though they are careful not to be heard by the very town. They claim it is alive and the townspeople are prisoners in their own land.
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Deep-rooted in the very foundation of all houses built, all the trees that cast a shadow on the roads, the expanse of dry lands, and the crops that never seem to thrive are the beliefs that have been passed down from every single generation that lived and died. Not a single soul knows of the origin of such beliefs and if there are questions, no one dares to ask. They live in the shadows of their ancestors. Fetuses have their lives already laid out for them despite the uncertainty that they will even let out their first cry — they are to live a life in the name of Balantagi and every god, deity, and magical creatures that reside in it.
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There is no escaping it. Townspeople cannot leave the land, unable to, in fear of falling into the same demise the ones who fled before fell into. Balantagi is a hopeless case.
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The lack of hope is tangible. It is in the very air they breathe, the resignation.
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It is why no one offered a hand to help the Min family in finding Yoongi. Once lost can never be found, that is their mantra. It is futile to search for a boy if they are certain what they will find is a corpse. Not even if the Mins have always had their home open for everyone to take shelter in. Not after all the crops they have given away for free. Not after every table they have ever placed food upon, all the stretched palms they held with theirs, and all wounds and illnesses that their only son, Yoongi, has ever healed as the only shaman in the town.
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The road is deserted, as it always is, but every once in a while, the cowards hiding behind sealed windows and doors close their eyes and let guilt eat them from the inside in every desperate cry of a mother that echoes around. Once in a while, they stand still as statues and do not dare whimper when they hear knocking on their doors from an anguished father.
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I plead with you, open your doors. I only ask for another pair of eyes to search and another voice to call for his name.
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Not a single door opened.
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On the third day, Balantagi fell eerily silent. Not a cry, not a single knock. Birds rarely flee to the town and if there are, they do not come in flocks and that is why the townspeople have never been graced with the singing of birds come dawn. Not that they have ever been graced with anything. Come dusk, locks opened, chains unwrapped, and levers lifted. Slowly, they step out of the confinement of their pathetic houses and look towards the house at the heart of the town, lacking the usual welcoming aura it expels.
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Mrs. Min fell ill. Neighbors of the Mins claim her clothes were drenched with sweat and her eyes stark white when Mr. Min carried her to their house.
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The townspeople arrived at a mutual conclusion that it had started— Min Yoongi angered someone, something, and now it is starting to take its toll on the people of Balantagi. First on him, then his beloved parents, until every person in the town collapsed with stark white eyes, bathing in their own sweat. Until everyone is ended and perhaps it is the only escape they can have from the curse that befallen Balantagi.
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Whatever the young Min did, it must have been of equal extent. After all, "an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth," is what Balantagi stands for.
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The damage is wrought, it is up to the instigator how long it lasts.
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They think it's the Balete tree, standing a few kilometers between the last house down the end of the main road and the woods that lead to a distant mountain. Yoongi frequented there in hopes of finding more knowledge for his healing; he stood tall, hands behind him, chin held high, as he looked at the ancient, magical tree with both wonder and apprehension. A few have warned him, elders, particularly, saying he is a talented healer without a doubt but he is still a boy and boys tend to be foolish. However, Yoongi only offered an understanding smile and continued with his trip down the end of the main road, where the Balete tree stood tall with all its gnarled roots and the void of chambers that formed inside it.
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Some were considering asking Mr. Min if they could offer any help to his wife but stopped realizing that he would probably only lead them to search for the lost boy. And who would want to risk being the next by helping?
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This is why it is to their great surprise when they receive the news that a shaman from a neighboring town will visit the Mins on the night of the fourth day. It is a mere rumor spread from the ones living at the entrance to the town, they claim they witnessed Mr. Min left at dawn and came back in the afternoon. They are unbelieving that he would leave his wife's side and decide that his trip is most apparent for the sake of Mrs. Min instead.
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Once the moon takes over the sun, no door nor window is left open and unlocked in Balantagi. Except this day; curious eyes watch the young man, unmistakably a shaman with the various tassels and ornaments that hung from his belt, along with embroidered pouches, walk with grace through the haunted road of Balantagi. His eyes lack the ever-present unease seen in the townspeople nor does he cower when he passes by a particularly large tree or an expanse of dry, open land that extends to no one knows where. How enviable.
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The young boy carries a salakot under an armpit with visible thick black strings dangling with various sizes and shapes of colorful beads on one half, while the other is bare. His other hand rests on an axe sheathed in his belt. The confidence and certainty in his walk speak of that he carries with him not only his paraphernalia but also wisdom. However, his face does not belong to a shaman. Too angelic, pure. However, after all, they could say the same about Min Yoongi, with his jagged raven hair and porcelain skin.
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The shaman did not once steer his gaze away from the road before him to look back at all the scrutinizing eyes fixated on him. The wind howls from time to time, biting, and disrupting the white locks of the shaman's hair and the ends of his light satin robe. What piqued most of the townspeople's curiosity though is his marred arms. The flesh is a raw pink and ugly, scar from his elbows down to the palms of his hands. It did not make him less entrancing but rather more mystifying.
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Everyone peeks around the blades of tall grass separating each house to watch as he enters the Min household after knocking once.
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The silence becomes too unbearable after a while, the wind turning freezing cold, and in the distance, everyone swears the woods scream in reminder. One by one, the townspeople retreat into their houses and once more, the long road of Balantagi is deserted.
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Mothers usher their children inside their rooms, small hands clutched onto sweaty, old ones, muttering a silent plea to anyone powerful enough to help them get through one night once more. The same plea is said every other night. In the living rooms, fathers latch their locks and secure the windows tight, blowing off the wick of every candle lit. Garlic cloves tied within scraps of fabric hung from nails buried on top of each window sill and on the floor in front of every entry to the house are lines of salt. It is a tedious routine for the people of Balantagi but what they believe they must do.
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The corner of their minds is filled with fresh thoughts of the mysterious shaman who has graced their town with his presence. No one who lives outside Balantagi has ever set foot in the town, no one ever dared. At least until the shaman. Some wonder with amusement at how naive he must be while others marvel at the idea of a savior — a savior in the form of a sacrifice. An old ritual but everything in the town is old anyway. Morals be damned, his life is more expendable than anyone else's.
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Should he possess the qualities they need, it is guaranteed that there will be no traces of the shaman leaving Balantagi, unbeknownst to the shaman now taking in the interior of the Min household.
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If Mr. Min is confounded to see a young man enter his house when he is expecting a feeble man with a white beard reaching the floors and a cane made of a tree branch supporting his entire weight, he hides it. Surely, if the mere name of this strange young boy renders a catch in the breath and an awestruck silence, he is at least decent at what he does.
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"Are you an assistant to the shaman, young man?" Mr. Min asks, never too certain to not ask.
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"No, sir, I am the shaman. And no, I do not have any assistant," the shaman answers, treading the wooden floor of the Min household.
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If Mr. Min is horrified to see the scarred flesh of the shaman's arms, again, he hides it.
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"Silang, that is your name?"
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"Call me Jimin, Mr. Min. Silang is the name people decided to call me but I prefer to be called Jimin of the Park clan."
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"I'll lead you then, Jimin," Mr. Min says. The Park clan does not ring a bell. There are no Parks in their town.
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Jimin has seen worse. That is the first thought that came to his mind upon the sight of a frail lady lying in a huge bed. No blood in sight, no open wounds nor bubbling sores, decaying flesh, or exposed organs, just drenched clothing and stark white eyes.
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Jimin has seen worse but that is speaking physically. He still has not seen what lies on the inside, what a mere human eye cannot see, even the new machinery that scholars have been using in urbanized places he has visited.
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He lays a hand on the belly of Mrs. Min and Mr. Min watches as the young man utters strings of syllables he has never heard before. The old man looks away, too disturbed by the sight of his arm. The writhing woman lays still for a few seconds until Jimin retreats his hand.
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"Nothing to fret about," Jimin concludes after a long silence.
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The old man's gaze flits between the shaman and his wife, waiting for something more. Perhaps a cure he would recommend or anything. Anything at all that would make Mr. Min feel less useless. Before he can ask, Jimin speaks further.
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"Do you grow any trees with healing properties? Surely you must know. Any at all. I need its leaves to cover the wound once I've—"
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"Wound? She has no—"
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"Applied my salve," Jimin finishes. Mr. Min watches as the shaman pulls his wife's drenched clothing to reveal her stomach. "Here. A wound."
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"There is no—"
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Jimin silences him with a finger which he then uses to prod on Mrs. Min's stomach, he trails his fingertip along the expanse of flesh and he watches as his wife cries in pain.
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"There is. You just cannot see it."
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"How?" Mr. Min asks, horrified.
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Jimin looks at him with pensive eyes. He frowns, deep in thought, looking directly at the old man but his mind is somewhere.
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"It is beyond your capability to see. How the wound is made exactly, that, I do not know. I am a stranger to the entities that reside in Balantagi, and until I have not had the privilege, or in other scenarios, the misfortune, of meeting any of them, I cannot tell you what happened to your wife. All I know is it has something to do with your missing son. They targeted her womb. Probably because the cause of their anger came from it."
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Mr. Min is rendered speechless. There are too many questions running across his head but decides to focus on the question posed to him.
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"I'm afraid there is no tree in this town that has healing properties. Other things, they do, but healing, no. Yoongi gets his supplies outside town."
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"Are you certain?"
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Mr. Min thinks of all the trees in their town, most he has not had the misfortune of coming across. All tall, foreboding. The mere thought sends a shiver down anyone's spine. "No, shaman. You can search yourself but do be careful."
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The shaman answers him with a curt nod and leaves without a single word.
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Balantagi screams evil.
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Jimin ignores the voices he is hearing and the dark figures he sees running past the open fields of dead crops. Mere apparitions. There tend to be plenty of them, especially in towns like Balantagi. The air smells of petrichor despite the land being unbelievably dry. The wind stirs the dust and frolics the tallgrass— Jimin wonders what he'll find hiding in them, waiting to pounce. He walks and walks and walks and not once stops, everything is either dead or evil.
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He came to a stop when he heard a shout from behind him after passing the last couple of houses.
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"Young man! Where are you heading to?"
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Jimin turns around, salakot on his head, a hand still on his sheathed axe. "Searching for something."
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"The boy?!"
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"No, not the boy."
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The old man looks at him with wide, unsteady eyes. He's standing as if he is on limited time and anytime he must run back to his home. Jimin takes in the pale colors of his hanbok, similar to everyone else's, and the worry that creases the corner of their eyes and foreheads.
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"Do not continue any further, young man, it's dangerous. Our house is the last one down here, there is nothing past this," the old man warns, voice lowering the more he speaks, the shake of his head becoming more frantic.
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Jimin wonders how can these people endure a life in constant paranoia— shaking like a leaf for having to stand outside the comfort of their house for hardly past a minute, with eyes that can never be at ease, never staring at one spot for longer than a second.
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"I'm afraid I must. A life is on the line."
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"If there is any life on the line, it's yours," comes a gritted reply. "There is a tree, down there, you ought to avoid it. Do not dare anger what is living in it if you are foolish enough to continue with your trek."
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Jimin watches as the old man walks hurriedly towards the last house he passed by without so much as a single glance back to him. He lets out a long breath before turning back and walking down further.
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He stops dead on his track and whips his head to his right, down the flat soil after a kilometer. He notices the landscape changes the further he goes, tallgrass slowly fading to a flat expanse of dry soil.
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Jimin looks back at the road in front of him. There is still at least a handful of kilometers left before he reaches the woods and he just passed by the last lamppost in the area. It's pitch black and Jimin is not gifted the ability to see through so much darkness.
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He turns his gaze back to his left. In the very middle of the field stands, with all its glory, a gigantic, ancient Balete tree. Of what species, he doesn't know. He's only heard of them, never seen one. Never thought he'd be able to see one. He eyes how far the branches reach and how high up the ground the aerial roots are hanging from.
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He's heard marvelous things about what the sap of a Balete tree can do as well as the coagulation and therapeutic effects of its leaves. Maybe the aerial roots can be boiled and he can get something out of the condensation. Surely, the branches are sturdy and can be used for various craftsmanship. Jimin's mind reels with a dozen ideas but before he lets himself be lost in them, he heads toward the tree.
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It becomes more apparent the closer he gets— the tree is practically pulsating with magic.
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"Not evil," Jimin mutters. If this is the tree the old man was warning him about, he wonders just how much of the town's fear is for nothing. His eyebrows burrow in wonder at the unadulterated magical energy that enveloped him once he reached the farthest point of a thick branch, a couple of roots hanging from it.
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Regardless of the lack of evil surrounding the tree, Jimin approaches it with caution. He might be protected by the power entitled to him but it is still in his best interest to not offend or startle any entity that might be living near or in the tree.
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"I'm here to ask for a few leaves. May I be granted the permission to approach further and pluck some?" He says and hears his voice echo back to him.
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Silence replies to him. The wind blows and Jimin turns his hat around to see clearly. When nothing answers or gives any sign of approval or refusal, he walks further.
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However, he hears rustling from behind him when he stops to assess the surroundings of the tree. There is someone, or maybe something, with him. A human or a magical entity, he isn't certain. It's too far from him. Regardless, he turns around in one swift motion. It's never a good idea to have your back turned on anyone, magical or not.
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He is greeted with the sight of a tall man around his age; at least the age he appears to be. He is wearing a layer of clothing, all black, under a light black robe. His hair, too, is black and long but not as long as everyone else's, just shy past his ears. Its locks are unruly and do not seem to be affected by the relentless howls of the wind. The man eyes him curiously.
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"Are you from the town?" Jimin asks, hands on his sword.
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"Yes," comes the short reply. His voice is deep but light as if the wind carried it to Jimin.
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Perhaps that does not really answer his question of whether or not this man is a friend or a foe. Of course, anything he will see is from this town.
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"Do you need anything from me?" He decides to ask further.
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The man appears to be in deep thought, lips forming a frown. His eyes land somewhere distant and flit back to the shaman after a while. "No, I do not think so. Do you?"
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"Do I?"
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"Need anything from me?"
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"No," Jimin says. "But I do need something from this tree," he continues, tilting his head towards the tree just a few meters away from him. Its aura is conspicuous, demanding Jimin's attention but right now there is something of equal interest in front of him in the form of a young man.
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The man seems to consider what Jimin said, his frown coming back. There is an inquisitive arch to his eyebrow and what was a placid look on his face is replaced with curiosity once again.
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"And what might that be?"
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"Young man, I assure you, whatever I am here for does not concern you. You can go back to your house," Jimin says, starting to get impatient. It's a problem of his, one that his friends have never failed to chastise him for.
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"I cannot until you are finished with your task."
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"What, are you townspeople concerned I am doing harm to your tree? I am not."
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"No, not at all. You seem incapable of harm," the man grins. Jimin eyes him pensively. He does not know how to take the comment. It might be harmless but it could be a sign the man sees him as someone weak. Jimin still has not determined whether or not he is magical.
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"What do you need? Leaves?"
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Jimin snaps back from his thoughts and pins the man with a wary look before nodding and straightening. "A few."
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He watches the figure in black tread the path towards the tree in graceful steps, hands never leaving his back. The man reaches an arm out and starts plucking leaves from a nearby branch. Jimin is tempted to say something to break the sharp, muted ringing echoing in his ears but he remains quiet.
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The man walks towards him, hands clutching the leaves behind him. He approaches Jimin slowly, as how one would with a feral animal, careful not to startle. They regard each other with steady eyes, waiting for the other to break contact. No one did until the taller man was right in front of Jimin and he nearly coughed with the dense feeling that suddenly engulfed him. It smells of root and tree sap, and an underlying smell of petrichor. His gaze flits back to the man and Jimin knows he recognizes the second it clicks on Jimin.
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This man is the entity living in the tree. Or perhaps is he the tree itself?
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Jimin straightens and before he can bow his head deep, the entity speaks.
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"Don't. Do not concern yourself about it. Go on, be on your way. The town is a kilometer away from here," the entity says, voice as mellow and deep. Perhaps it is one of his abilities, to lull one with his voice and once their guard is down, that is when he'll pounce, like sirens in the wild sea.
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Jimin nods but stays rooted in his spot. "Jimin of the Park Clan," he says after a second, head hung low.
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"But your name is Silang?" The entity asks.
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The shaman shakes his head before finally looking up. He is greeted with black eyes with a single dot of white as the pupil. Jimin watches it contract for a split second. There are black vines adorning his neck, moving as if it were alive under his skin, its tendrils snaking from below his jaw up to his cheekbones. "Jimin. I'm the last descendant of the Park clan—"
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"How old were you?"
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The shaman was taken aback by the question, not expecting him to be cognizant of the Park clan, and more certainly did not assume that he would be aware of how impossible it would be for Jimin to be this young when the last record of the ancestors of Park clan dates a century ago. Hence, it must have given away his immortality. Such a gift is not unheard of, especially for shamans, but not something ordinary either. In their case, shamans gifted the secret to eternal life by being a disciple of another shaman stop aging the moment the gift is bestowed upon them.
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In Jimin's case, in his 25th year, when he nearly died of performing an ancient, dark ritual of being in contact with a fetus still inside the womb using a dark spirit as a tether. It is incredibly dangerous as the spirit feeds off the woman and the longer it serves as a bridge to the shaman and the fetus in the womb, the more threatening it is. The woman was on the brink of death due to the curse and the fetus that had yet to grow limbs was fatally wounded. The woman lived enough to give birth to the baby and Jimin watched the life leave her eyes months later as he held the premature boy in his arms. However, not even a minute of holding the baby, the blood covering its body starts to burn Jimin's arm like acid, melting his flesh like a blaze.
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To this day, Jimin is not certain why it happened. The shaman who taught him for a decade and also the one who introduced him to the ritual professed that it is because the life of the baby is a product of dark magic, consequently, it burned Jimin being a disciple of things good and holy— to which Jimin decide not to comment on and just accepted the only explanation he had.
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I was the one who performed the dark magic, if the product burned me, shouldn't I be killed by the process first? He remembered wondering to himself once.
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"Not quite, Silang, it does not work that way," Jimin is pulled from his reverie when he hears the entity's voice. He startles when he realizes. "I apologize, I gave into the temptation to know what's going on in your head."
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Jimin nods. The entity lifted a brow.
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"Well, 25. My name is Jimin Park. Silang is a name people have given to me, I do not mind it but I prefer to be called by my name," Jimin states, answering both questions.
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"You have not changed your identity? Mustn't you?"
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"Again, people have given me the name Silang, that is what they call me. There are only several souls who know me by my name, majority are shamans themselves. I do not heal when simply called or asked, only when offered by something I cannot deny— and only the most desperate can find a way to possess something an immortal would desire to have. By then, I must reveal who I am."
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"Clever," the entity grins.
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"Not clever, just as desperate," the shaman retorts without missing a beat.
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"How so? You claim it yourself; only the most desperate can find a way to possess something a shaman will desire to have, much more an immortal one. What might be to your desire?"
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"Are you inquiring?"
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The entity's tall frame shakes with mirth and Jimin is still a boy, somewhere, somehow, and cannot resist the urge to smile back.
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"I must leave. Will you let me? Now that I've taken something of yours?" Jimin says, face now serious, laced with an underlying worry.
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"This tree is as much of the town's as much as it is mine. You can go."
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Jimin nods and looks into his eyes, not once did he find it terrifying, only riveting. "I will find a way to repay you..."
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"I cannot give you my name."
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"Of course," Jimin nods. "I will come back. If I am allowed?"
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"As much as anyone else in this town, yes, you are, shaman," the entity says, voice soft but still just as deep. He speaks to Jimin as if talking to a small kid, gentle and indulging.
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"I will come back then," he says. Jimin squint his eyes as the moon illuminates his face, now peeking behind dark sheets of clouds from where it was hiding. He looks towards the distance he must trek to reach the Min household and then back in front of him.
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"Yes, you will," comes the timid reply before he offers Jimin the leaves he plucked, his hand with tattoos similar to the ones on his neck. "Go your merry way now."
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Jimin mutters his gratitude in his mind, not wanting to stay in such close vicinity of a being so powerful despite his lulling voice and the smooth slopes of his face.
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