Like a window into the world of the ancients, the statue of Aya stood in the evergreen virgin forest. Her eyes seem to follow you as you move around her. Her heaving chest, rhythmic with that of anyone who came close to her.
She was a piece of a fairy tale that extended into reality.
Mystic as she appears, she inspired no nightmares in her admirers. Daring visitors touched and felt her bare living breasts.
She was a toothless poisonous snake that had become a tourist attraction, some sort of fallen angel that was forgiving of ill talks and ill tales fabricated to explain away her genesis.
Questions buzzed in the village trees about her true origins.
They said she was traveling to a neighboring village for a cure to a disease that plagued her people and was attacked and killed by highway robbers. But like the faith of her people in their great destiny, she refused to die. Her lifeless body tied to a tree by the robbers, blended with the tree into one body that kept sprouting and growing for centuries like the progress of the Ayan tribe.
Whether the famous tales attributed to her were true or worth whatever fate she was condemned to, her only response to the mysticism surrounding her was the wooden smile she wore and the golden silence she’s kept for ages.
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