Next to the Hunchback Horse Graveyard, the clamor of the battlefield couldn’t reach the ears of the busy adults. None of them could shout or run freely like the children did anymore. Consumed by their search for something among the houses and streets, the grown-ups had forgotten that they, too, had once been so carefree.

  Beside the city’s quietest corner lay the noisiest place in the ancient city of Diang. Alongside the kids' shouts came pounding footsteps, sticks clattering as they clashed or banged on shields, and drumbeats thudding on old barrels, or anything that could hold a rhythm.

  Swords were crafted from sticks, wrapped in layers of cloth. Shields were woven from rope. Armor and helms were fashioned from coconut shells, wood, and straw. Every piece of equipment had to be sturdy enough to block hard hits, yet light enough to charge across the battlefield.

  The young warriors spent a fair amount of time adorning their faces with soot from cooking pots or red turmeric powder, tucking chicken feathers and leafy sprigs into their hair. With just a glance, anyone could see their pride and unshakable spirit.

  Demons and Humans lived together in the same city, sometimes even under the same roof. They all made use of the same scavenged materials, so their attire, headgear, and weapons often looked quite similar. Only one key distinction was needed: Demons smeared their faces with soot, while Humans painted theirs with turmeric.

  Both Humans and Demons had an important figure to rescue, known as the Royal Captive. One of them was the Princess of Straw-Hair.

  “Prince! O Prince, save me! I beg you, save me!” she cried, her voice laden with desperate entreaty, even as a broad grin spread across her face.

  The Princess bounced about atop a raised mound of earth, where three wooden stakes driven into the ground stood for a deep dungeon. She eagerly waved a cloth handkerchief in a call for help. Her cheeks were flushed a cherry red. Her straw braid hung all the way down to her butt, gleaming golden under the scorching afternoon sun. No princess had worn a crown as dented as the steel pot on her head. When sweat dripped and stung her eyes, she would secretly take off her crown and braid to fan herself for relief. She would then scramble to put them back on whenever the referee hollered at her.

  On the other side of the battle line, the plump mother of the Demon King looked even more impish than the princess. She lounged on a wobbly wooden throne, wearing a coconut-leaf hat for shade. She stuck out her tongue, rolled her eyes, and now and then stood up to wiggle her hips—pulling the silliest stunts to provoke the turmeric-faced warriors.

  Getting close to these two rambunctious figures was no easy task. In front of each stood three straw-bale fortresses, topped with fluttering flags, tightly guarded by sentries. The defenders positioned below were usually fatter, smaller, weaker, or slower than the attacking team. Next came five palisades of firewood, each measuring three arm-spans in length, which could only be circled around, not knocked down. Then came four long moats made from coconut tree trunks, which had to be leapt over with both feet. Finally, there were two doorless wooden prisons. All of it had been laid out by the leader of each side with calculated precision, prepared for every battle.

  The leader of the Human host was the Prince, who bore the name ‘Two-Headed Lynx.’ He led his warriors to disrupt the Demon King’s formation, clearing a path toward the fortresses to seize the flags.

  “Crush those hens! Don’t let them lay eggs!”

  Demon King, Three-Horned Mandrill, roared his rallying cry. He spurred his horde of little demons to smash through the enemy’s defenses with brute strength alone.

  From the top of the watchtower, the old referee laughed gleefully, thoroughly enjoying the sight of the two sides clashing fiercely. From time to time, he glanced at the incense stick burning down, waiting for the right moment to ring the bell and signal that time was nearly up. Before Referee Rono struck the three final chimes to end the battle, the Prince had to rescue his beloved. Meanwhile, the wicked yet filial Demon King had to save his dear mother.

  If time ran out and neither side had rescued its Royal Captive, the impartial referee would determine the winner based on the number of flags captured, enemies defeated, prisoners taken, and fouls committed.

  To reach their Royal Captive, each side had to capture at least two of the three flags atop the fortresses. Any warrior struck on the head, shoulder, chest, or thigh was expected to declare themselves dead and leave the battlefield. If pushed to the ground, the unlucky soul would be escorted straight to the prison camp. Captives still had a chance to return to the battlefield if two teammates touched them to stage a rescue. Right below the watchtower, more than ten sharp-eyed assistants helped the referee oversee the match.

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  Even though Referee Rono had carefully inspected the padding on the children’s vital spots and the thick cloth wrapped around their wooden swords, many warriors still ended up covered in bruises. The kids, mostly toughened by now, didn’t mind too much. They even enjoyed teasing each other with, “Play hard, take it hard!” whenever someone got teary. Mr. Rono always taught both sides to honor the warrior’s code: no blows to vital parts, and never from behind. Anyone who broke the rules on purpose faced heavy point deductions, and could even be subjected to severe punishment.

  After snagging two flags, the Demon King pressed his forces to hunt down every Human warrior, both to wear down the enemy and to rack up more points. The slain warriors grumbled as they left the battlefield, joining the ranks of the drummers and assistants near the watchtower, where they cheered for their side.

  “Guard her!” “Guard her!” “Protect our Princess!” the Prince shouted without cease.

  He had also captured the second flag and ordered his troops to fall back and hold the line. Meanwhile, the Demon horde, riding high on their momentum, charged straight for the final flag. Three-Horned Mandrill, battle-crazed, chased after every warrior feigning retreat, completely unaware he was about to stumble into a trap.

  When the enemy formation revealed an opening, Two-Headed Lynx darted through the gap in the Demon horde. His comrades surged forward to shield him. With a daring leap, he tore the grass ring from the wooden pole—right in front of the princess, screaming at the top of her lungs.

  The triumphant host erupted in joy. The kids near the watchtower leapt to their feet and poured onto the field, hailing their heroes. Katuo tossed aside his braid and crown, dashed over, and leapt onto his prince’s back. Ramii and Katuo’s team had officially claimed the summer championship, having brilliantly outplayed six other teams.

  ~~~

  “What sort of humans are trickier than demons?” Hudyn deliberately shouted, loud enough for the victors to hear. “Next time it’s my turn to switch sides and change my luck. I cannot abide that egg-stealing trick of Ramii’s. There’s no glory in this win!”

  The more Hudyn sulked, the more the kids enjoyed it. The victors laughed and crowded around the defeated king, ruffling his sweaty, matted hair. Still, they wore innocent looks and kept one eye on the referee. Mr. Rono allowed no mocking or bullying in his game. If the winners behaved badly, he would take away their victory and hand it to the other side.

  “Today it’s sunny, tomorrow it rains! Yesterday tears, today laughter! Respect your opponent; respect yourself!” That was the motto he had the children memorize and shout before both sides charged into battle.

  The kids formed an orderly rank and puffed out their chests. In turn, Mr. Rono and Katuo bestowed upon each a hexagonal medal wrought from ebony. Each champion of the winning team received a small reward in honor of their victory.

  Every year, Mr. Rono and Katuo chose an animal to carve upon the medal, and this year’s emblem was the lynx. According to ancient lore from the Bidueng region, the lynx is held to be a sacred creature, one none would dare lay a hand upon. It is said that those with pelts of silver are granted twin lives, and thus know no fear in the face of death.

  Hudyn stood off to the side, his tanned, angular face still sulky. Katuo, the slender and fair-skinned boy, grinned mischievously as he handed Hudyn a finely crafted ebony sword. It was the prestigious reward for the warrior who had taken down the most enemies that season.

  After the ceremony of honors and rewards, the losing side had to carry the winners on their backs for a lap around the field. The defeated were further obliged to offer tributes such as pastries, candies, marbles, and playthings… Even if they had nothing else left, they’d surrender their weapons and armor. Still, the losers rarely stayed grumpy for long, as new matches would soon give them a chance to get their revenge. At the end of each season, Mr. Rono would shuffle warriors between the Demon and Human sides to keep the teams balanced.

  Following each match, the kids teamed up to clean the battlefield and repair the fortresses, palisades, prisons, and all the rest that had served the game. There on the playground, they would gather firewood and build a campfire, over which they boiled potatoes, roasted corn, and toasted bread. Every so often, someone chipped in with dried fish, smoked meat, or sausages. The tribute treats, fruit, candies, and pastries alike, were laid out for dessert and shared among them.

  And if there wasn’t enough food, it didn’t matter, for their hollow bellies still kept nibbling at dry crumbs of bread. When there were no battles to fight, they found other diversions. Their fun carried on from day into night as they lit campfires, chattered, sang, and got up to mischief until late. That was simply the way of the children here, for whether by day or by night, whether many or few, so long as they were together, there was always something to play and share.

  One of the children’s most cherished nighttime pastimes was the telling of ghostly tales. The city of Diang, scarred by the ravages of war and pestilence, was steeped in uncanny and fearsome legends. These stories passed from one voice to another, and by the time they reached the children’s ears, they were spiced up with thrilling details, whispered in trembling tones. Amid the silent gloom of night, they savored the chills stirred by spectral stories and the cool breeze. On occasion, they were treated to the sight of flickering will-o’-the-wisps dancing in the graveyard.

  No place was more fitting for weaving ghostly tales than this deathly ground. Throughout all Bidueng, no city boasted a vaster graveyard than Diang.

  ~~~