"What if..."
They spoke of a monster from the mountains, with teeth like knives and an insatiable hunger for human flesh.
Mothers whispered about this creature to their children, warning them against returning home late. For all the missing villagers were young children, and word on the street was that the creature found them to be more delicious than work-weary adults.
For years, the disappearances continued.
They tried leaving out what precious food they had, in a bid to assuage the beast’s hunger. After all, going hungry was better than being dead.
The food was always gone by morning, but the end of winter was still met with missing children.
Perhaps frustrated by the lingering winter chill and his empty stomach, a boy demanded to know if this creature had ever been seen. The surrounding adults rushed to hush him, scolding him for tempting fate so. Heedless of their chiding, the boy pointed out that only one dismembered body had ever been recovered, with wounds that seemed inflicted by dagger-like teeth.
He shouted that the disappearances only ever happened at night, that no one was ever awake to see the monster for themselves.
Again, the adults hushed the boy, dismissing him for a lunatic.
The third morning after this commotion, a wail pierced the air. It was the boy’s older sister, who had discovered that her brother was missing.
A witch hunt began.
Hunters began entering the forest in an attempt to locate the monster’s den, to kill it before more could be taken from their village.
They found nothing.
Spring was almost here once again, and one night, a panicked shout woke the village inhabitants. Those nearest to the clearing hurriedly armed themselves with what they could: a cleaver, a shovel, a bamboo pole, rushing outside to help.
All of them saw the same scene: a bloodied child lying motionless on the ground; a panicked old man, also bloody, with his back against the wall of a nearby hut. And a monster towering over the girl, teeth like knives, a low growl emitting from its throat.
The beast took one step towards the old man, teeth bared into a snarl.
Someone shouted, startling both the creature and the villages into action. Seemingly just aware that a crowd had gathered, the beast turned and fled into the forest.
The culprit behind all the disappearances, fleeing? Too good to be true!
The crowd present immediately gave chase, with more villagers being rallied by their shouts. The sizeable mob finally caught up to the creature at the mouth of a cavern, bludgeoning it to death without preamble.
Oh, how the village celebrated after that! Food and drink was brought out of storage, red paint smeared over everyone’s faces and clothes, mimicking their bloodied brethren who had paraded back with the monster’s head, held aloft as a trophy.
And where there was festivity to be had, there would undoubtedly be loud merrymaking, aided with the banging of drums and gongs.
The old man eventually succumbed to his injuries, the last victim of the monster that had terrorized their village for decades.
The stories unfolded from here, about the defeat of a man-eating monster. Traditions sprung up from these stories, but stories change with every retelling, becoming more embellished over the years. Regardless, generations to come would still partake in celebrations, complete with the donning of red attire, feasting, and loud noises. This festive season would be known as a celebration of the arrival of Spring, of family reunions.
Amidst all this was one who had witnessed everything that had transpired, one who had foraged for food from the doorsteps of the original village, one who had seen his mother drag a human from the river, only to realize that the child could no longer be saved.
He had lingered in the shadows as his mother swiped a heavy paw at the old man, whose knife was about to plunge into the breast of the girl on the ground.
He had fled from the mob together with his mother, only for her to nudge him none too gently into the cave after making him promise not to come out until it was safe. No matter what.
He had watched as the mob descended onto his mother, as her brown fur turned red and matted with her own blood, the last spark of life fading from her golden eyes.
He had heard the cacophony of noise all the way from the humans’ settlement, rejoicing in the death of the creature who had only tried to protect one of theirs.
To him, red was a repugnant colour.
To him, loud sounds were reminiscent of savagery.
To the child of the Nian, this was a season of mourning.
Mothers whispered about this creature to their children, warning them against returning home late. For all the missing villagers were young children, and word on the street was that the creature found them to be more delicious than work-weary adults.
For years, the disappearances continued.
They tried leaving out what precious food they had, in a bid to assuage the beast’s hunger. After all, going hungry was better than being dead.
The food was always gone by morning, but the end of winter was still met with missing children.
Perhaps frustrated by the lingering winter chill and his empty stomach, a boy demanded to know if this creature had ever been seen. The surrounding adults rushed to hush him, scolding him for tempting fate so. Heedless of their chiding, the boy pointed out that only one dismembered body had ever been recovered, with wounds that seemed inflicted by dagger-like teeth.
He shouted that the disappearances only ever happened at night, that no one was ever awake to see the monster for themselves.
Again, the adults hushed the boy, dismissing him for a lunatic.
The third morning after this commotion, a wail pierced the air. It was the boy’s older sister, who had discovered that her brother was missing.
A witch hunt began.
Hunters began entering the forest in an attempt to locate the monster’s den, to kill it before more could be taken from their village.
They found nothing.
Spring was almost here once again, and one night, a panicked shout woke the village inhabitants. Those nearest to the clearing hurriedly armed themselves with what they could: a cleaver, a shovel, a bamboo pole, rushing outside to help.
All of them saw the same scene: a bloodied child lying motionless on the ground; a panicked old man, also bloody, with his back against the wall of a nearby hut. And a monster towering over the girl, teeth like knives, a low growl emitting from its throat.
The beast took one step towards the old man, teeth bared into a snarl.
Someone shouted, startling both the creature and the villages into action. Seemingly just aware that a crowd had gathered, the beast turned and fled into the forest.
The culprit behind all the disappearances, fleeing? Too good to be true!
The crowd present immediately gave chase, with more villagers being rallied by their shouts. The sizeable mob finally caught up to the creature at the mouth of a cavern, bludgeoning it to death without preamble.
Oh, how the village celebrated after that! Food and drink was brought out of storage, red paint smeared over everyone’s faces and clothes, mimicking their bloodied brethren who had paraded back with the monster’s head, held aloft as a trophy.
And where there was festivity to be had, there would undoubtedly be loud merrymaking, aided with the banging of drums and gongs.
The old man eventually succumbed to his injuries, the last victim of the monster that had terrorized their village for decades.
The stories unfolded from here, about the defeat of a man-eating monster. Traditions sprung up from these stories, but stories change with every retelling, becoming more embellished over the years. Regardless, generations to come would still partake in celebrations, complete with the donning of red attire, feasting, and loud noises. This festive season would be known as a celebration of the arrival of Spring, of family reunions.
Amidst all this was one who had witnessed everything that had transpired, one who had foraged for food from the doorsteps of the original village, one who had seen his mother drag a human from the river, only to realize that the child could no longer be saved.
He had lingered in the shadows as his mother swiped a heavy paw at the old man, whose knife was about to plunge into the breast of the girl on the ground.
He had fled from the mob together with his mother, only for her to nudge him none too gently into the cave after making him promise not to come out until it was safe. No matter what.
He had watched as the mob descended onto his mother, as her brown fur turned red and matted with her own blood, the last spark of life fading from her golden eyes.
He had heard the cacophony of noise all the way from the humans’ settlement, rejoicing in the death of the creature who had only tried to protect one of theirs.
To him, red was a repugnant colour.
To him, loud sounds were reminiscent of savagery.
To the child of the Nian, this was a season of mourning.