Thick black smoke fills my lungs. I breathe it easier than the clean stuff. Soot, ash, coal, the only thing us grounders know. We live in these here caves. Outcasts to society because of our grotesque features. I can’t help it if my face has large enough holes, fingers can be put through them. Burnings I was told it was called. I didn’t care, I liked mi holes. They put them on each cheek and the corner of my left eye. I moved during the ceremony, if I hadn’t I wouldn’t be seeing you too well.  O’ and my pal Lefty, wasn’t his fault he lost half his face to the flames, he was too young when the last Black Moon came and knew no better.

 

Only a mere 8 years old, no boy deserves that. But this is our way, we are no longer boys. Boys must become men and our way is by fire. We know what we did. Why the villagers hiss and sneer at us. We were the chosen ones and we failed them, by losing our way from the light. Losing is part of life. Boys who cannot be men don’t deserve light. So, we reside here, comforted by the shadows in these caves.

 

Every ten years or so it happens. Young boys of eight are taken from their nests by their own mothers; dropped like yesterday’s waste in the village circle. All the villagers were told never to intervene in this most sacred ceremony. All the doors of every home are locked, windows shut, and no light to be seen. This group of boys, no longer weights clung to loving mother's legs. They were the chosen ones. It is the greatest honor of all within our village. We rely on them to bring back the light.

 

 

Boys born in the year of the Black Moon are said to be sacred children. The only form of tribute that can be given to ZaBath, our Lord of Light, our bringer of harvest, our savior. They are his feast to bring the village it's own. 

 

The ceremony begins, eight young lads lay huddled together in the complete darkness. “ZaBath” they cry out to. Fearing their first encounter with true darkness. They cry for the moon to turn on once more. For their loving mothers to find them. But their cries only echo back to them. Then they feel true coldness. All only bearing thin garments and loincloths. Their cries then hush and turn to moans and shivers.

 

The chosen ones had a choice, as they stand together in fear natural instinct like in any being, brings a choice. Two, in fact, are widely known throughout the village:

1. find their way home back to their loving mum (or so we thought ),

2. or follow the light.

 

A great fire built on the edge of the forest to attract the group. Villagers dressed in all black hide in the trees with great drums, each beating into them to attract them. The weaklings go on crying back to their mothers. There, they face a fate worse than the fire. While the others, follow the light, a place where the boys never return. Some maids tell empty tales of how they live with the mighty Zabth in his Kingdom as noble princes. But rumors are as true as wet nurse tales. And the drummers, well they are a myth, but some believe they are the spirits of past, lost boys. Come down to bring more boys to their leader.

 

All mothers knew since what must be done for this. They must make them men. They must have their boys remember that this is a cold world, and can not rely on their mother throughout life. They must be burned. No one is safe from the fire.

 

Indeed, it truly is a ghastly scene. Lefty told me he was too young to remember. An excuse like any not to talk about it. But when he did mention it he only repeated one thing.

“All there ever was, was fire, it bathed our skins, filled our lungs, and hid our screams.”

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