This Story has been taken from 10 Tales of Arimanu Clan
The image is Designed in AI TOOL CANVA
In a faraway land, there was a small town called Abantulia.
Abantulia had lush green gardens, fresh rivers, and fields brimming with seasonal crops. Nestled in this serene landscape stood a quaint house with white wooden siding, a pitched roof, and flower boxes beneath every window.
In this house lived Liana, a pale, freckled twelve-year-old girl with long chestnut hair. Her sharp hazel eyes were always filled with curiosity. Liana was observant, quietly defiant, and unafraid to question authority.
She had lived with Grandpa Lomione ever since she had been separated from her parents at the age of seven, during a carnival outside of town called Nagrada. Despite the passing years, the memory of that day remained vivid, and the mystery of her parents’ disappearance lingered in her heart.
Grandpa Lomione, a quiet man with kind eyes and a deep love for books, had filled Liana’s world with stories, questions, and a sense of wonder. Every evening, Grandpa would tell Liana a story.
One evening, as the sun dipped behind the hills and the scent of dried sage filled the room, Grandpa Lomione began a story that felt older than time itself.
“Before Abantulia, there was Zayma,” Grandpa Lomione whispered, feeding dried sage into the hearth.
“They had lakes that sang, trees that healed, and skies that wept only joy. People shared everything then—until the sky changed.”
Liana, curled in her quilt, leaned closer. “What happened?”
“They stopped sharing". So the Sun hid behind stone clouds, and the rivers ran backwards. The survivors—our ancestors—built walls. Not just of stone, but of fear.”
She frowned. “But why be afraid of sharing?”
Lomione didn’t answer. He stared into the flames until they looked like falling stars.
Each morning, Liana followed a routine as steady as the rising sun.
She woke early, prepared a simple breakfast, and wore her simple dress. After brushing her hair and packing her bag, she rode her bicycle down the winding paths of Abantulia to school. Upon arrival, she quietly slipped into the classroom and settled into her usual seat in the far corner, where she could observe everything.
At school, her only friend was Esvan, the son of Mayor Bozoq.
Esvan had striking hazel eyes that seemed to flicker with hidden questions, framed by thick lashes and dark, slightly arched brows.
Esvan was thoughtful and perceptive. He often preferred to remain silent.
Esvan understood her and remained her friend, despite his father's disapproval.
Bozoq had a broad frame. His once-black hair was streaked with grey, and a neatly trimmed beard gave him a look of rugged authority. He was the mayor of Abantulia
As soon as the bell rang, the classroom erupted into noise as students packed up their things. Liana, as usual, lingered at her desk, her eyes on the book she had been reading during the lesson. She tucked it into her bag, but before she could leave, Taron’s voice rang out across the room.
“Hey, look at her,” he said with a loud, mocking laugh. “The orphan girl, always reading her silly books. Does it make you feel special, Liana?”
Marla joined in, twirling a lock of her hair.
“Bet your book is the only family you have left, huh? You’re just like those characters—alone and lost.”
“Hey, Marla, leave her alone,” said Esvan with a frown.
Liana’s face burned. She gripped her book tightly, but she didn’t say a word. It was easier that way—safer, quieter.
Every time she went to school, she felt like a misfit, as if she had been misplaced in this town of careless joy.
To escape these feelings, she often spent her spare time in the attic after school, reading. The shelves brimmed with books of all kinds—classic literature, science journals, vintage children’s tales. In that quiet space, stories became her closest companions. Some made her laugh aloud; others left her wiping silent tears. In her solitude, books didn’t just pass the time—they became the world she chose to live in.
One day after school, Liana climbed into the attic and pulled down an old red book with a thick, leathery cover and no title. Curious, she opened it.
The pages crackled like dry leaves, fragile but intact. The text inside was written in an archaic hand, slanted and deliberate. It wasn't easy to read, but something about it felt important, older than the town itself. She leaned closer to read.
“When the living gifts of the world are
mocked,
And laughter echoes louder than gratitude,
The Giver shall close its hand.
The rivers will still, the flowers will wilt,
The golden eye shall close.
For those who feast without thanks
Shall be snatched of blessings.”
Liana paused. A chill ran down her spine, despite the summer heat. She turned the page with care.
“This has happened before,
And shall happen again,
For the earth remembers
When it is loved, and when it is used.”
The attic, once a haven of warmth, now felt like a cathedral—silent, sacred, listening.
Could this be what was happening to Abantulia? Liana wondered. A warning etched in forgotten ink, ignored for generations?
She read on:
“Heed the signs—
The quiet skies, the restless night,
The silence of birds,
The refusal of light.
These are not omens.
These are answers.”
Liana shut the book slowly, her heart pounding. She stepped outside to get some fresh air.
That’s when she saw it—a glowing arc across the night sky. Not a shooting star. It moved slowly, deliberately. An asteroid, burning quietly through the void.
Later that night, a dream gripped her.
The Sun flickered first—like a candle in
the wind. Then the color drained from the trees, the sky dimmed to a violet
fog, and cold crept in from the corners of the world. People clawed at doors,
bartering gold for grain. Mothers whispered to starving children, “Abantulia
has enough.”
But there was never enough.
In the dream, Liana stood on a cliff, the last to see the Sun slip beneath the horizon and never rise again.
A crack of thunder woke her. Trembling, she ran to Grandpa’s room and told him everything. He listened carefully.
Liana lived in a town where people took everything for granted. The monthly galas that others embraced with laughter and pride felt foreign to her. What unsettled her most were the game festivals. In these games, the town’s finest wheat harvest was crushed into balls for a game they called “wheatball,” while buckets of fresh river water were poured into balloons and thrown in senseless competitions of splashes and shrieks.
To Liana, it wasn’t just foolish—it was disrespectful. Surrounded by abundance, the townspeople had grown arrogant, blind to the value of what they had, and ungrateful for the gifts the land gave them. And though she was only twelve, Liana saw with a clarity others lacked: blessings were meant to be cherished, not squandered in the name of fun.
As the town prepared for another festival, Liana’s unease deepened. She remembered the book and her dream.
It was the peak of summer, and the town buzzed with anticipation. This year, Mayor Bozoq and his assistants had promised even more spectacle.
The planning meeting for the festival was scheduled for late at night, to be held in the old stone hall at the town’s center.
That night, Liana lay restless in her narrow bed. The thought of another wasteful festival gnawed at her. She could no longer stay silent.
Quietly, she slipped out and walked through the silent streets, her heart thudding as she reached the hall where muffled voices echoed.
Inside, the elders sat in a circle, laughing and debating games like nothing mattered.
Liana stepped forward, her voice trembling but clear.
“Why do you waste the town’s precious resources on games and entertainment?”
Bozoq, a round-faced man with a crooked smile, scoffed.
“Since the beginning, our forefathers had been celebrating such festivals. We don’t waste it. We only utilize the extra resource”.
“Let us share our extra resources with other towns. We must stop wasting them,” Liana said. “We could invent new games that don’t waste food or water.”
Kurumokuru, a bearded man of forty, leaned forward.
“The festival is tomorrow. How can we do this in such a short time? We’re the elders. Our decisions don’t need a child’s approval.”
Liana’s voice rose.
“Why don’t you understand? These things—our food, our water, our gardens—are precious! They’re not meant to be wasted!”
Bozoq slammed his hand on the table.
“Shut your mouth! You don’t know anything. Our ancestors forbade us from sharing. Go back to your useless books.”
Liana’s eyes flared.
“You call books useless? Have you read this one?” She held up the red book.
“So what! It’s just poetry,” Bozoq snarled and threw it aside.
“Why don’t you understand?” Liana shouted.
Then a heavy silence fell.
She stepped forward slowly, her tone fierce. “What will you do when these things are gone? Will you still waste them for fun?”
The elders shifted uncomfortably. They started murmuring with each other.
“Maybe the girl is right,” Kurumokuru muttered.
“Don’t be a fool, Kurumokuru. It’s just an old poem.” Bozoq snapped.
“I don’t believe in a child. But I believe in the book.” Kurumokuru replied.
“Oh, stop. I’m the mayor—you’ll obey me.”
“As you wish,” Kurumokuru said with fear.
“It’s decided. We will celebrate as planned.”
Bozoq leaned closer and whispered to Liana.
“Things like that don’t just vanish, girl... You think they’ll disappear the way your parents did?”
Liana’s lip curled. “Keep mocking me.”, she said. Her voice lingered in the air long after she left.
Outside, beneath the watchful moon, Liana walked home alone. The night seemed darker now, the stars quieter. And though the elders returned to their plans, neglecting her advice, they still decided to hold the festival the next day.
As usual, people went to bed to sleep on the dark night just the way they do every day. Soon they got tired of sleeping. But what can they do at night? The townspeople stirred restlessly in their beds, tossing and turning under warm sheets. Every second became longer than before, as if the time itself had stopped.
The night lingered in strange stillness.
The air carried an eerie smell. Not a single rooster crowed, and the usual gold-streaked sky of Abantulias’s morning never came.
Everyone desperately waited for daylight to break. But the sun never rose. Instead, a suffocating darkness lingered over the town, thick and unyielding.
After a while, panic had settled in. Lanterns and candles became scarce as if the night had swallowed their flames.
As time passed, night creatures began to appear. Long centipedes crawled from between the cracks of stone walls, slithering across floors and climbing through windows. Green Snakes twisted through gardens and curled beneath doorsteps. Owls, bats, and creatures of the night filled the skies and the trees, their eyes glinting with eerie silence. The fields stood still, the rivers turned dull, and the flowers wilted without sunlight.
By the third day, fear turned to anger. The townspeople gathered in the square, clutching torches and muttering accusations. Their robes were wrinkled, their eyes sleepless, and their hearts filled with dread.
Children cried, elders trembled, and the once joyful town had become a haunted shadow of itself.
The townspeople gathered in fear.
“This is her doing!” Bozoq cried. “Liana cursed our festival!”
“She defied the elders!” shouted Kurumokuru. “She stirred something foul—she’s a witch!”
Within moments, blame was cast like wildfire. Liana, they said, had brought the curse upon the town. Her books, her questions, her defiance—none of it could be trusted.
But Liana, watching from her attic window, felt a chill not of fear, but of certainty. She hadn’t caused the darkness. But she had warned them. And now, the land itself was speaking the truth they refused to hear.
The disappearance of the Sun changed Abantulia forever. No more words or warnings needed. The truth was before their eyes. And the night wasn’t over yet.
As the panic and people's frustration grew, the elders called another meeting—this time, not to plan games, but to listen.
Liana was invited to speak, and for the first time, no one interrupted her.
"We thought it would never end," one elder admitted, his voice heavy. He continued
"We didn’t see what we were doing until it was too late."
Another nodded. "We wasted the gifts we were given. But we won’t make that mistake again."
“Tell us, Liana, what we should do now?” Kurumokuru asked softly.
“Let all people vow never to mock the grace of nature, but to cherish it with grateful hearts for all they have been blessed with. Let there be no more waste of precious gifts for fleeting games.” Liana said in a soft voice.
"And let us hope that nature will forgive us, and may the sun shine upon
us tomorrow,"
Liana
continued.
“But Remember! If even one among us is not sincere, perhaps the sun shall never rise
again." Her
tone sharpened, becoming more confident.
The whole town made a sincere vow never to mock nature, and they all ask forgiveness from nature. Liana and the entire town waited on the cliff for the sun to Rise.
A golden beam shone once again on the town of Abantulia.
Author,
Anonymous