Written for the Watermill Grimoire Project.

The Malagan is a story. It is a telling of times that were, a telling to guide the spirits to the beyond. It is a celebration of unity and a blessing for those gone. I’m that memory of a tale, which should carry the wild spirit of he who has passed. Yet, my story is forgotten, I’m not a tale, nor a memory or a thought. I’m haunted by the tatanua I’ve betrayed, the spirit which doesn’t see the land of the golden sun.
I see him walking amid the tall pines, a wisp of smoke in the twilight breeze. I see him skidding over the white-capped waves. His whisper sings in the twilight. His breath cuts between brittle leaves. He is always there and I always remember what I have forgotten. I’m the outcast. I’ve not tasted the flames, where my brethren become one with their spirits, with their tatanua. I stand cold and barren, with hidden eyes and the knowledge of what I’ve lost.

I’m named for that which I’ve betrayed. I’m the evil spirit, the twisted tatanua, which has no tale to tell and a life of tainted remembrance.

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