Chapter Text
Before Kinich turned seven, he could already do a lot. Build traps, plant grainfruit, and twist castor oil plants into rope on this little plot of land his family moved into.
He could only learn from this arrangement, however.
Before that, they lived in a little shack house by the Scions of the Canopy. His father was a courier and was the breadwinner of the family, coming back to work now and then with the winnings he earned. Kneeling down to Kinich’s height, his cheeks hollowing in delight as he addressed the boy with gradient eyes.
“Here, little guy. A box of fantastic sweets for you. I know you little ones like this typa stuff.”
His dad had shaggy, forest-green hair matching a green beard and green eyes. He also had a strong build, extruding strength that the boy found admirable. In his veiny hands, he held a bundle of chrysanthemums assorted with purple and white flowers.
“Enjoy them while I give your mother some nice flowers I picked.”
Before he went to bed, he would always find the flowers in a potted plant by the kitchen sill.
The sweets were quite extravagant but still the best the young Kinich ever had in his entire life. Nothing was better than the taste of his dad’s sweets in the shack they lived in.
Kinich was often left to his own devices on their plot of land while his mother tended to the crops. He didn’t mind at all for he would spend his time feeling the grass under his bare feet as he watched his neighbors go about their ordinary activities. Sometimes he would watch his mother in their backyard and listen to her hums of a hymn his ears had yet to tune themselves to. From his mother’s raven hair, slim face, and yellow droopy eyes to her gentle fingers, she tended the plants with a meekness she held over Kinich.
Later in the day, she would carry him back inside their house, cradled against her chest, awaiting Father’s arrival. On some days she would retire early from her farm work while on other days she would go in late after the sun would set. This was one of those days when father would come home, his shoulders slouched, losing their assertive appearance while his body would sway back and forth as he held onto the doorframe of the house.
Whenever he came home like this his mother’s quiet expression would be overcome with a vigor that was absent in her day-to-day life as she addressed the man at the door.
Today there were no expensive treats or beautiful flowers, but Kinich had already expected that. Some other detail he noticed was how his mother stood closely by the door of his room with her hand wrapped around the rusty door knob.
His father’s speech came out slurred, but Kinich could still make out his words.
“Don’t worry, mi cielo. I will stop and do better… gain more than I ever had.”
Just like that, he would retire into the night and they would too. It went like this on some days. Other days…
His mother had retired early today; like routine, she would confront his dad at the door. This time it was different. Before the “crashing” would ensue, his mother would take him to his room, hastily planting a kiss on his forehead before closing the door. The “crashing” would soon follow; the sound of glass and dishware shattering scarred his ears. The big shards send vibrations through the house’s walls, causing a quick shiver to run up Kinich’s spine. He could pick up the slightest source of tiny shards tinkling on the floor; he will make sure to avoid those in the morning.
It ended as quickly as it started; he could hear his father’s grumbling retreating into the adjoining room and the creaking of another door that led outside. Kinich already knew who won because he would release his tiny fists from the ragged bed sheets and scramble for the window that looked out into the backyard.
Looking outside the window, Kinich would find his mother tending to the crops in their backyard, her figure illuminated by the orange glow of the setting sun, the fiery attitude she put up for his father now extinguished, reverting to a quietness he was so used to.
As night drew by, the noise of soft chirping permeated the silence of the dark. It was a noise he was unfamiliar with. Whenever he tried to track down the source of the sound it would get further and further. For a second, he thought the source had left the area; it was to his profound discovery that the noises had come back. Every night he would hear the chirps. The darkness of the night and starry sky was their stage.
Tomorrow, father would leave for work. In two days, the cycle would continue.
Today he spent his time standing on the porch as he watched the children his age play with one another. He used the porch's shade to protect himself from the wrath of the sweltering sun, but also to hide from the other children and observe from his spot in the shadows. It was cool under the shade, but he could still feel the sweat that pin-pricked his forehead.
They were playing a “ball game” if Kinich could recall.
A yellow ball with purple cloth crudely stitched together was tossed around the circle of children, their cries of joy and excitement permeating throughout the neighborhood.
“Tour-a-met!”
“Turn-u-ment!”
Tournament?
It wasn’t like he knew what that was anyway. Despite living close to the tribe, his family rarely involved themselves in tribal matters.
Still, he continued to watch on, absentmindedly picking at the tiny shard impaled at the bottom of his foot.
The corners of his mouth clenched, the bare minimum for him, to overcome the sharp pain embedding itself inside his skin. He continued to watch the children play as he pulled the little shard from the cavity in his foot; the accompanying discomfort was welcomed.
When lunch came, he returned inside and sat at the rickety table, sipping the soup mother had prepared. The sun’s rays that cascaded through the windows illuminated the little dust particles that flew through the air. The flowers his dad picked for his mother still sat by the windowsill. It seemed to have lost a few petals.
There was a lot more food than usual, only because dad was away.
His mom had already eaten… It had been a while since he could try something so indulgent. But he knew he couldn’t eat it all because his stomach was used to small amounts of food. It was best to save it for later anyway…
Mother was currently in the other room, where she and father slept.
The little boy grabbed the table for purchase to aid his descent to the floor. Careful not to make a sound, his skinny legs carried him to the scarred door of his parent’s room. He crept towards the door and peeked through the cracks. He leaned forward, straining his hearing to the best he could. He could pick up the scribbling of a writing utensil and her humming… but what was she humming? Curiosity got the best of little Kinich; for he would bend his toes against the wooden floor, one tiny mistake that would send a creek through the floorboard.
Quiet footsteps sounded from the other side of the door. The door was suddenly pulled back and before he could properly retract himself from his peeping pop, revealing the woman who had birthed him.
“My dear Kinich, what are you doing?” Her voice was soft and gentle like how she moved across the room, almost barely making a sound.
Before he could do anything, she leaned forward, gripping him by the armpits before pulling him into her arms. She closed the door behind them and carried them across the room before settling herself down on a stool.
With him cradled between her safe arms, she would go back to what she had been doing before his attempted “sneaking” interrupted her. He quietly berated himself for this in his head and for thirty minutes, he would go without asking questions.
They sat in pure silence except for the sound of their breaths intermingling and the scribbling of lead against groovy paper. He couldn’t help but notice the light purple blemishes on her skin and the scarring that trailed up her forearm. He was staring too long when his mother would still be in her movements and look questionably at the boy in her arms. To avoid the scrutiny of his mother, Kinich feigned sleepiness, turning in his mother’s grasp.
He diverted his attention to the movement of her pen; his diamond-like pupils would steadily move along gradient depths with intense concentration, tracing every twist and curve of her pen.
A black, inky-like liquid squeezed from its tip forming symbols, lines, and pictures of the earth. His fixation with something so simple embarrassed him, and his mother would soon catch on to his embarrassment.
“You are such a silent child, my Kinich. Don’t be afraid to ask any questions…” She lightly kissed him on the ahoge, an action so affectionate Kinich could not help but gaze at the woman.
She had glossy lashes like him, framing much softer eyes than his own. He felt so much softer around his mother.
“Mama… what are you doing?”
Her right hand went to his forehead, smoothing back his raven bangs as though she were praising him. Her left hand occupied itself with her dipping the wooden pen into a bottle of black liquid. In her frail voice, she answered.
“I am writing a story about a species of crickets that lived underground and one cricket champion who lived among them. This species of crickets only went up to the surface to mate, using up all their strength before dying.
“They lived like this for generations, until one day, the environment changed which killed many crickets, forcing them to retreat further underground. But this cricket champion wished to know what changed– he was filled with resentment when he was faced with a sea of ashes instead of verdant mountains and plants, transformed into a wasteland by a war between monsters and humans.
“Before the champion would retreat into the ground once again, he used the last bits of his remaining strength to lay a single cracked crystal egg…”
Was that it? Kinich thought.
Would the crickets ever resurface?
What would hatch from the egg?
So many questions would remain unanswered as he was met with his mother’s silence.
“Mama, is that it?”
“My dear, it is not finished yet…”
“...will you finish it?
“Someday I will because I do hope to see what would happen to the cricket champion.” A hopeful lilt to her voice.
…
“Why did the cricket champion want to see the surface so badly? The crickets were safe underground.”
Her slim fingers slid down from his forehead to cradle his cheek as she spoke. “The champion wanted to see the aftermath and find a way to fix the problem.” Her thumbs went to the corners of his vision and rubbed against the naturally dark lines around his eyes, coaxing an almost half-whine from the boy.
“But he died…”
An endearing smile flitted across her lips at his confusion. Her eyes were half-lidded with tiredness the little boy could not think of the cause for. When she noticed his gaze, all traces of her wearied state vanished immediately, only to be replaced with a smile. She glided her fingers, slow and deliberate, through his raven locks before saying:
“He held onto hope until the very end, my little cricket.” With that, she kissed him on the forehead.
Still– was there really any hope for the cricket champion? The champion knew what happened on the surface and yet he still decided to go above ground, carelessly sacrificing himself to lay a single egg that was cracked.
This was what Kinich thought to himself. He found it fanciful; to go to such lengths for something– for anything– it was outlandish to the boy who lived at the edge of the village.
Just like that, he laid on his mother's lap for very long, perhaps an hour, twisting and turning, his sleepy head would lol back and forth before finally settling on her chest where he would rest, enveloping himself in her earthly scent.
The story held no name, no title– just not yet. But the little boy won’t ever forget because it would be forever planted in his memory, not that he knows it. The day dwindled to night and he would hear the chirps of the night creatures once again.
With each passing day, the little cricket looked forward to the day he would see the story’s end, with the company of his mom and with many of his questions answered.
The following day, his mother would take him to the garden in their backyard. Kinich would watch her take the roots of the castor oil plants, slitting the strands in the middle and twisting them into a complicated pattern that Kinich was able to memorize. The tiny plant fibers would become elegant rope, demonstrating his mother’s skill as an excellent farmer.
For a while, they were like this. Humming while she worked, Kinich could catch the slightest bits of vocals mixed with her hums.
“The tale continues on…”
…
“... ignites the sky and earth…”
…
“We’ll wait for you, we will…”
…
She trailed off after every one and two verses, replacing words with hums as though the lyrics were lost to her. Kinich never asked questions while mother worked, but her empowering words from last night had given him enough courage–
“Ma, what are you singing?”
Her head perked up from behind the rows of Grainfruit, lips twitching into a smile. “I don’t remember its name… but what I do remember is that I started singing it after your great-grandfather passed away. He was very old… I think I am getting old too.” She reached into her hair and pulled out a single strand of gray hair; her expression turned into a forlorn look.
The slightest trace of emotion flashed behind the boy’s vacant eyes. Guilt boiled inside her stomach, a pit of regret that would keep filling up for she felt that she caused this for her own child. A weak tug on her loose shirt pulled her out of her thoughts. Those same unfeeling eyes blinked innocently.
“...I like the song.” He said almost too shyly.
“My beloved cricket…” The corners of her eyes creased proudly. She pulled him into her arms and held him close.
She went back to tending the grainfruit, breaking off each individual kernel from the orange fruit, the bulbous kernels tumbled into the basket. When she reached the shaft of the corn, she folded the green leaves neatly and dug up a hole from the ground. She placed the shaft into the hole and carefully shoveled dirt into the hole until the green leaves were never to be seen again.
What resulted from it was a hill of dirt.
“Your great-grandfather also told me this: never discard the shaft of a grainfruit plant too casually. One tale tells of a tribe that could not grow crops from their soil. The priest Maghan was told by the night spirits to plant animal teeth by a riverbed.
There was no water, requiring the priest to spill his own blood. Maghan did as such, and from his self-sacrifice grew the grainfruit that we see today.”
She looked into his eyes and held onto his cheek; her hands permeated with the warmth of Natlan’s phosolgin wafting through the air. “You could say… that the cricket champion is just like the priest too.”
Kinich did not know too many Natlanian folktales. He only learned about the legends his mother remembered from her “decaying” memory and her story about the crickets. He never believed most of the legends because he felt he wasn't in that position.
Living at the edge of the village.
Uneducated.
Ignorant to the myths and stories his tribe told about the gods.
In this shack of theirs, it was only him and his mom.
A warm hand smacked him lightly on the cheek, pulling him from his thoughts.
“Your head was stuck in the clouds, little grillo,” Said clouds were a foreboding gray. The air was more humid than before. Despite this, an endearing smile plastered itself on her lips.
“I think I have a name for our little story…”
Oh, how he looked forward to the day his mother would finish the story.
“The Hill of Silent Crickets.”
With that, she scooped him inside before the rain could catch them. They retreated inside where they would wait out for a new, and much better horizon.