In the village where the earth was cracked and the river slept underground, there grew a single sugarcane stalk—taller than the temple spire, sweeter than stolen honey.
No one planted it.
No one dared cut it.
The First Sign
It began with the sound.
At dusk, when the wind moved through its emerald leaves, the cane sang . Not the rustling of ordinary crops, but clear, golden notes that hung in the air like liquid amber. Farmers paused their work. Wives set down their pots. Even the crows sat silent on the fences, heads cocked.
The village priest declared it a blessing.
The village children knew better.
The Thief’s Mistake
One moonless night, a greedy man came with a sickle.
"Just one taste," he muttered, blade flashing.
The cane bled.
Not sap— music . A wailing chord erupted from the cut, so piercing the man dropped his sickle and fled. By dawn, his ears still rang with the sound of something ancient and furious.
The wound sealed by sunrise.
The Offering
After that, the villagers learned.
They brought gifts instead:
In return, the cane’s song grew richer. Its melody wove through dreams, curing fevers, mending quarrels, turning bitter thoughts sweet.
The Last Harvest
When the great drought came, the cane did the unthinkable—it bent .
Its tip touched the parched earth. The villagers watched as it poured its own syrup into the soil, drop by sticky drop, until the river woke with a gasp.
By nightfall, the cane stood straight again.
But its leaves rustled now with an ordinary sound, its sweetness faded to mere sugar.
The magic, they realized, had always been on loan.
