The Moon That Carried Me Away: Memories from Tootori

[Jupiter]

The Moon That Carried Me Away

Memories from Tootori: A Story of Khaaeris (Júpiter)

The sound of the sea crashing against the shore echoed through the night. The full moon rose high in the sky as the wind carved its way through the emptiness of the cherry tree branches, stripped bare of any leaves. The steep, mountainous valley was scarred by massive blades of rock and mounds of black basalt, like much of the island of Tootori—marks that seemed far from natural, a reflection of volcanic activity all too recent in geological time. A gaze from the heavens surveyed the land below. Something stirred beneath the crimson leaves of a helva tree that gleamed under the moonlight. Earth was hastily overturned.

The vision above dove down.

The hunt.

A rat’s shriek.

A baby’s cry.

The image of the brightmoon.

Blood dripping onto the ground.

"He’s born!" a young woman’s voice called out.

"Six days after the cherry blossoms fell."

An elder woman, dressed in white robes, carrying a bow and arrows, made a note as others—older, yet still younger than her—cut the newborn’s umbilical cord.

"Not as if they’ll bloom again" spoke the oldest among them, voice lined with bitterness, clad in a deep, almost black, purple robe. A finger pointed at the new mother.

"You’ll have to hand him over."

"What shall we call him?"

"If our prayers are answered, this shall be the sweet moon of the cherry blossoms. The flowers will be the sign."

"Khaaeris" said the priestess in white.

"Cherry Blossom Moon."

"Leave us" the eldest ordered.

"Only me and the child now."

A bow was raised toward the moon.

Years passed.

A view from above: strands of brown hair on a young boy’s head. Khaaeris. As he sat still, his skin was pierced by a large thorn soaked in ink—point by point—guided by the hand of a white-haired woman dressed in white robes, carrying a bow and arrows. The image of a crescent moon slowly filled into a full circle.

"OUCH!"Blood mixed with ink. A hard slap. A child’s cry.

"I knew giving you that name would make you weak! Boys should bear the names of warriors, not of sweet things!"
A man’s voice thundered from the background, making the child cry even louder.

"He brought life to the island, Khaaloori"

the woman retorted, though she did not dry her tears. 

"Khaaeris. Blood is life."
Her hands cradled the boy’s face as blood dripped onto the ground, contrasting with the cherry blossom petals falling over the mountainside.

"He brought nothing but a bunch of damn flowers. The sea grows worse, the earthquakes shake harder, the land is salted—LOOK AROUND, DAMN IT!"

His father’s words lashed like a whip against his back. Blood and tears mixed on the soil like a sacrifice made in vain. Khaaeris did not understand their words. He only knew his name was given because of the full moon that preceded the return of cherry blossoms to the island after many lifeless seasons. 

A symbol of sweetness joy, and life.

But times were hard. Fish washed ashore, lifeless. The ground trembled constantly. Tidal waves swallowed parts of the island as salt spread through the earth. Eyes of disdain came first from his own home: his father growing increasingly bitter after the death of his mother, who passed a few years after his birth.

He was forbidden from certain places.

A freak.

Where did such hatred come from? Why did everything seem like his fault, yet no one told him why?

There were no calendars in Tootori. No years. Every day was marked by the moon. Even so, when he was about ten years old, he was to take part in a ritual alone with the High Priestess. Sometimes, that was the only thing that seemed to prevent his father—or anyone else—from erasing his hated existence. 

His failure.

His shame.

The image of his tattoo blended with the real moon above—full, but reversed: the black moon.

It was the darkest day one could face in Tootori. The black moon was a sacred, ominous event.

[“A moon spirit will descend upon Tootori today. There is no joy, no hope. Today, there is only suffering. Only the strongest may seek communion with the spirit. If found, blessings may be bestowed upon those who ask.”]

In his broken sleep, thoughts bloomed from his heart, starving for love.
What if the moon spirit took him away?
Somewhere he could live. Somewhere he could call home.
Up there… was life better?
Tears soaked his straw mat. With closed eyes, he made his wish—to gather the courage to meet the spirit of Tootori, even without leaving home. For her to come to him that night. To find him. To take him away.
The sound of thunder followed the rumbling earth.



A booming, draconic voice surged into his mind.
Crawling across the packed dirt floor, Khaaeris was drawn toward a silver light glowing from behind the cloth of his hut. Hand reaching for the curtain—electricity coursing through his limbs.

Darkness.

“It is decided. On the next black moon, Khaaeris will be offered. Blood for the harvest. Blood for the fish. Blood for peace.”
The voice of the High Priestess. His father did not object.
He agreed—silently.

“NOW GO!”

[i]His deceased mother’s voice jolted him from his sleep.
Thunder. Lightning. The cold darkness of a moonless night. No one else was there.
Only him, walking toward the beach where towering waves crashed against the rocks.
A white light illuminated a small boat. 

A feeling: Go now. Don’t look back.

A knot in his throat.

Above the boat, a force seemed to pull it toward the sea.

Don’t look back.

Don’t look back.

[/i]

Ignoring the message, he turned toward the temple mount.  A silver light radiated strongly from the sky. A hooded figure stood, bow drawn, arrow aimed at the child. A bolt of lightning struck the rocks, pushing the boat with the boy into the waves A vortex of information and aquatic figures. A small boat defying every possible chance. Clinging to the mast, he prayed to the moon to let him live.

A comet marked his path.

Days stretched into what felt like eternity. Khaaeris drifted between lucidity and delirium, drinking small drops of his own blood in desperation, praying to the moon not to forget him.

[Khaaeris, blood is life.]

The droplets in the water lured fish—silver miracles from the depths. Yet the thirst burned. Salt tore at his throat. The cold nights gnawed at his bones.
But the comet’s light guided his path—firm, unwavering.

How much time had passed?

One night, a flash lit the sky as if it were day. The sea devoured him without mercy. Whipped by torrents of water, salt, cold, and the force of nature, the boy blacked out. When his eyes finally fluttered open, he gasped for air. Soft hands, cool as the sea breeze, held him. His gaze met the gentle, otherworldly faces of those from the nereides. He had washed ashore on their island—alive, but barely. Though his mind had been shaken by the storm, the path of the comet was etched into his memory, burned into his thoughts as if seared by divine will. He knew the way back. Even if he never wished to return.

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