Honbul: Flame of the Soul

At times, the world is cruel for no reason at all.

That was the first truth the child ever learned.

He had eaten nothing for two days now. He had gone from house to house begging for food, but all he met with was cold disdain.

The last place he went was an old thatched cottage. An elderly woman lived there alone, a woman the village praised for her generosity. Leftover rice would do, please, he begged. Without a word, the old woman went into the kitchen. The child clung to that last thread of hope as he waited for her to return, but instead of a bowl of rice, she came back carrying a large basin. She flung the dirty water over him, then beat him all over with a rough twig broom.

“You little wretch! Who told you to come in here and bring your curse with you? Get out!”

The child knew nothing at all. He did not know his own name. He did not know his parents’ faces. He did not know why people hated him.

The only thing he knew was that he could see what other people could not.

People pointed at him and called him a cursed brat, a ghost-spawn, a monster born under an evil sign. They were all convinced he would bring spirits in his wake. And if they hated him for it, he hated them just as much.

The child ran for the mountain behind the village. Scratches covered his small, thin body. After climbing the ridge for a long while, he came to a great old tree. From beneath its branches, the whole of the little village could be seen at a glance.

Alone, the child crouched there and trembled.

The chill wind kept slipping through the wet rags clinging to his body.

He had always been alone, and there had never been a time when he was not cold. The only ones who ever broke the silence uninvited were ghosts.

Humans are afraid of you.

You belong with us.

Why won’t you answer? Hm? Hm? Hm?

“Shut up.”

The child muttered into his knees.

Why do humans hate you?

We know why.

Maybe you aren’t human either.

“Close your mouths. Say one more word and I’ll tear you limb from limb.”

It was no empty threat.

“......”

“......”

“......”

The chattering voices stopped all at once.

The mountain fell silent. Even the insects seemed to hold their breath as they watched him. Far off, an owl called into the night.

It sounded almost unreal.

The child wrapped his arms around himself. Humans, ghosts—he was sick of them all. He wished he could simply stop seeing anything.

“Would it help if I tore my eyes out?”

The words slipped from him like a sigh.

“Hm? That won’t do.”

At the voice that answered, as if on cue, the child fell silent for a moment before snapping back.

“I told you, if you spoke to me again, I wouldn’t let it slide.”

“Oh dear. So that’s how you took it.”

The child, who had been hiding his face between his knees, lifted his head.

A tall man stood before him in a black robe.

Not a ghost?

The child stared at him with wary eyes. The stranger stood with the moon behind him, and his face was hard to make out.

“There’s no need to be afraid. I’m human, same as you.”

The man said it with a small shrug.

“From the look of you, you’re one of us.”

“......One of you?”

“Yes. That’s what we call ourselves. Ah, and by we, I mean those who can see. Like you. And like me.”

Without a word, the child curled his cold-stiffened toes. He looked as though he were only half listening, but in truth he was hanging {N•o•v•e•l•i•g•h•t} on every word. It had been a very long time since he had last spoken properly with another human being.

“Do you know what that means?”

Caught off guard by the sudden question, the child thought for a moment before answering.

“A talent... for seeing ghosts...”

His voice was barely above a whisper.

The child watched the man carefully. His face was hidden by darkness, but the child could tell he was smiling.

“Can you read?” the man asked gently.

The child shook his head without speaking.

“That answer still has a logic to it. The word is usually used for someone with such extraordinary talent it seems almost uncanny... but taken literally, what you said is not entirely wrong either. For a child who cannot read, that was an impressively sharp answer. You’re a clever one.”

The man’s voice softened.

“But the word we use is written with a different character, and that changes its meaning a little. Not the one for ghost. The one for nobility.”

The man broke off and bent down.

As he knelt and reached out, the child flinched and drew back. But the man only laid a hand on his head and slowly, gently stroked his hair.

“It means one who possesses a rare and precious gift. One born with a gift of worth.”

When he had finished speaking, the man studied the child as intently as if he were peering into a deep well.

The child did not avoid his gaze.

The man’s eyes were clear and steady.

After a long while, he rose and began to remove his black robe. Its hem stirred in the cold wind.

He draped it over the child’s shoulders, then held out his large hand.

“Precious child, will you come with me?”

Far off, the owl cried again.

So it had not been a hallucination after all.