Kaylahon

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Once only a woman of some renown, the babaylan Kaylahon brought together the scattered peoples living along the western coast of Timanduk. Many came to her seeking guidance, eager to understand the intricate connections between themselves and the spirits that populated this world: both spirits of nature, like the river and the stars, and the spirits of the departed. Her once small village soon swelled in size, and the number of people overwhelmed the number of homes.

Kaylahon knew they could always build more houses, but with each monsoon they would need to move and rebuild again. And wherever the growing population went, that new place would need to feed each mouth that came to her growing number, threatening to consume nature until it could not grow back. So, she sought another solution.

She sought Nulkab.

She knew of the volcano, and of the many stories that told of the mountain’s roiling hunger. Yet, unafraid, she climbed up the channels of cooled lava, listening to Nulkab’s thundering breath with each step. Civility and understanding were her tools, cunning and compassion for her armor. And, at the mountain’s peak, she met Nulkab’s spirit.

A large crocodile, scales obsidian and flesh magma, stared down at the babaylan as she ate her mid-day meal, smoke rising from its back. But seeing the terrible hunger writhing behind the behemoth’s eyes, Kaylahon did not attack, instead offering to share her food with the starving spirit. In this instant, she forged the first bond of our city. For we are a great many people, and so we hunger as well, our bellies rumbling in tune with the thundering of the great volcano. And so we grow food using its ash along its back, and in return, we offer Nulkab a quarter of all harvests.

When Kaylahon returned to her people, they rejoiced at the news of her new bond, and moved from where they lived to the foot of Nulkab. But as they began building, she foresaw another problem on the horizon. With Nulkab, they could eat well—but only if they stayed near it. When the monsoons came once again, they would have to make the choice: be ruined by weather, or begin to gorge and damage the land. So for this, she sought another spirit.

She sought Tulaylupa.

Tulaylupa was not like Nulkab, she knew. There were never great myths surrounding them, and the only ones who offered them tithings were the fisherman who relied on them for food. But she knew of the sea’s nature. The company of boats and sailors brought Tulaylupa some small happiness, yes; but when the weather churned its waters to dangerous storms, those the sea loved fled for safety, leaving Tulaylupa engulfed in loneliness.

Kaylahon walked to the bottom of Timanduk’s great river, swimming beyond where the light of the sun could reach. Territorial and fearsome naga attempted to slay her, but still she pushed on. An ibingan, formidable in its ancient age, blocked her path, but still she pushed on. And in a dark cave filled with starlight and sobbing, she pushed on. Until at last, like with Nulkab, she found Tulaylupa’s spirit.

A large manta ray, its back twinkling with the light of a thousand stars, lay alone in a cave, weeping. Gently, Kaylahon lifted the ray to her lap and offered it a song of peace; words that spoke of a greater understanding of the spirit’s heart, shattered by loneliness, and extended a means to help begin to heal that terrible wound.

And so the second bond of our city was made. For not only did we all seek a place to remain, Tulaylupa sought those who would stay. From Tulaylupa, we have great trade and great fishing, and with our tithings Tulaylupa gives us safety in times of a monsoon. With their presence, we thrive. With ours, they find new bonds once more.

And thus our great city of Kaylahon, named after Kaylahon herself, came to be.