There was a lake on a mountain inhabited by Kalkai, these bloodstained demons. Legend has it they have not eight, but fifty tentacles, a mouth bigger than a sinkhole lined with spear teeth, and an affinity for sinking fishing boats. In my village we called the Kalkai 'Bear Whales', which we also call the poor fishermen. Every red moon in May we draw up names to offer a sacrifice for Nanzand, to honor him from protecting the village from the Kalkai's wrath. The fishermen were set off on their down-to-earth fishing boats of banana leaves and abandoned straw from the Dye Soakers threw away, and the crowd surrounding the lake rejoiced when the Kalkai punctured the boat as I watched the terrible ceremony. If the fisherman refused, we would be charged with treason and be hanged on a swaying palm tree right by the Kalkai's jaws, but never quite. It was better to die an honorable death. Every May's red moon, I reminded myself as I poured water into the clay container.

"Shiba, come here," her mother called, finishing her bread dough she was making for dinner. "I want to tell you a story from my grandparents from generations of being Wheat Folders. The story of the golden deer."