The Arukari knew little of the Nahuna, save that they spoke to the moon and vanished like ghosts into the jungle. Their ways were not spoken of loudly, and children were warned not to follow their drums if heard at night.
One night, as the full moon crested above the palms, Tanu, a man of the Arukari, lay sleeping in his hammock. The jungle murmured softly around him, and the coals in the fire pit glowed faint and red.
His sleep was disturbed by an approaching figure.
It was Mira, a young woman of the tribe, her face lit by mischief and moonlight. She didn’t speak at first—just smiled in that playful way of hers, the kind that had gotten him into trouble many times before.
“The monkey spirit came to me,” she said at last. “In a dream.”
Tanu groaned softly. He had heard this tale before. “Your monkey spirit is a trickster. Every time he speaks his riddles to you, I end up in trouble.”
“I know,” she said, stepping closer. “But this time is different.”
Tanu shook his head. “This night is for dreaming, not for monkey foolishness.”
Mira paused, then smiled—and slowly let her robes fall. She stood nude and unafraid. The silver light kissed her curves, tracing every soft slope and secret hollow.
She took his hand and placed it on her heart. “This night is not for sleeping. It’s for witnessing. And some things shouldn’t be witnessed alone.”
Tanu watched her, and feeling her heartbeat, he rose from the hammock and followed her, as she danced naked into the beckoning jungle.
They crossed riverbank and root, through places where the forest grew so thick the moon barely pierced. Then they stopped at the sound of faint drums in the distance.
They followed the sound and reached a great hill and climbed it. At its peak stood an ancient temple. Stone lay in sacred geometry. Ceiba trees encircled the moon-temple, their trunks like pillars of a cathedral older than stars.
At the heart of the temple stood Aziya, moon priestess of the Nahuna, and surrounding her were members of her tribe.
Tanu and Mira slipped into the shadows at the back, keeping silent so as not to draw attention. They were not meant to witness this—but they watched, breath held and eyes wide with awe.
Aziya wore shimmering white drapes, her hair spilling like black water, her skin glowing with starlight. Serenity hung about her like mist.
“She is calling the moon,” Mira whispered.
Tanu said nothing. He had seen rites before. He had seen sacrifice. But this was neither.
Two young figures stepped into the light—a man and a woman, both bare, both beautiful like wild creatures. Aziya raised her arms, and they lay upon the altar.
She began to pray, and the couple embraced, becoming as one.
The drums grew louder, beating like the pulse of the jungle itself. The priestess began to chant—low at first, rising with the rhythm. The wind circled the grove. The trees swayed without touching.
Words left the priestess’s lips that no Arukari mouth could shape. The jungle listened, and Mira took Tanu’s hand.
The lovers on the altar moved in time with the drums. Their sweating bodies glowed in the moonlight, their union a ritual older than memory. Aziya’s voice rose like smoke through the branches, and the members of her tribe cried out in ecstasy.
Tanu shifted, wrapping his arms around Mira with a stirring inside him—not just lust, but reverence.
Suddenly a woman stormed from the shadows. She was tall, gaunt, and rigid, with a slash of coal painted across her face like a war-mark. Her eyes blazed with fury, and her spear was clutched in a white-knuckled grip.
She saw them—the man and woman, bare and joined beneath the gaze of the gods—and her lip curled as though she’d tasted rot.
“This is filth,” she spat. “This is not a rite—it is an abomination.”… She raised her spear, trembling with fury and loathing. “The moon is not your witness. She is your judge!”
She charged, swift and full of wrath, and thrust her spear at the lovers—but Aziya stepped between them and opened her arms, as if to embrace the blade that struck her chest.
And the moon answered.
It did not flicker or blink. It blazed.
A column of silver light struck the temple, passed through Aziya, and shattered the spear in her chest. Her body glowed—first pale, then brilliant, until none could bear to look upon her directly.
The attacker stumbled mid-stride and fell. As she hit the ground, her body disintegrated, scattering into the jungle like ash blown from a hand. She was erased from history, her name forgotten by all who knew her.
Aziya stood, radiant. Her eyes met the moon—and then she was no more.
The moon above burned twice as bright. At the base of the altar, white flowers bloomed—flowers no hand had planted, flowers no one had seen before.
The trees bowed. Even the insects held still.
Mira turned to Tanu, her face streaked with silent tears. He held her close as the Nahuna sisters left, one by one, without a word.
When they were alone, Mira stepped forward and picked a single white flower from the altar’s edge, wrapping it in cloth. No word was spoken between them—for what words could hold what they had seen?
Mira carried the flower. Tanu carried only the weight of knowing.
Since then, the moon rises differently over the hill of the Nahuna. It shines brighter—and sometimes lonelier. Aziya did not die. She was received. Some souls simply shine too brightly for the earth to hold.
There is no tomb for her, no shrine, no relic.
Just a story that a monkey spirit wanted the jungle to remember.
