was too busy gobbling up my own meat.”
“Soon after the tribe had gone to sleep, the angel arose, his wings and halo showing clearly
despite the darkness of the night. I had stayed awake to observe our divine visitor. He walked
silently and smoothly through the bushes of nettles while I followed painfully behind. At a
certain point, he stopped and raised his arms and a portal opened up. I followed him as he stepped
through, and a world of spinning clouds swallowed us entirely.”
“At the other end of the portal, a battle scene met our eyes. Angels with halos like my own
friend were fighting creatures of the darkness. Then, a strange person slammed his staff on the
ground, and the angels turned into nettles, waving in the breeze. As I know now, that person was
the Incubus.”
“He was clothed in black, with a cape swirling around him. He wore a magnificent mask
carved from jade, with precious gems rimming the sides. Everything on him was black, except for
the mask, which contained intricate patterns that drew my admiring gaze and at that moment, I
thought he was beautiful.”
“Suddenly, the Incubus raised his staff and pointed it at the nettles, which were waving
around frantically.”
“‘No!’ my angel screamed, launching himself over the cliff, scrabbling at the Incubus. As their
bodies met, there was a blinding flash of light, then an explosion. The evil creatures fled into the
darkness of the earth, screeching in fright. In a split second, the battle was over, with only a little
lake in the shape of a crescent moon left behind.”
By the time the old man finished his story, we had arrived at Crescent Lake. The man
whispered in my ear, “Remember, remember the tale of Crescent Lake,” and he breathed his last
breath, collapsing in my arms.
Years have passed. Though I am still uncertain whether his story is true or not, one thing he
said is definitely right. Dear reader, we must remember those who have sacrificed for us, those
who bear the mark of the angel.
