The headless deity and the hunter's bargain

A folktale from Somdal

In the mist-shrouded hills of Somdal, where dawn creeps slowly like a ghost through the terraced fields, there once lived a man unlike any other.

No noble blood ran through his veins, no sacred chants marked his days. Yet his name whispered in every hearth and harvest song, carried on the breath of the wind.

He was known for his fierce courage, his sharp cunning—and above all else, his unquenchable hunger for meat.

Each morning, as the world still hung in the fragile haze of dawn, the man would walk the narrow terraces of his land, inspecting the green shoots of his crops, feeling the pulse of the earth beneath his feet.

But one morning, as golden light began to warm the misty slopes, something unnatural caught his eye—something that should never have been there.

There, on the slender path between two fields, sat a figure—silent as stone, as still as the grave. The man froze. No traveler, no neighbor, no stray animal should be here at this hour. His heart hammered; his fingers clenched tightly around his spear.

Could it be a thief? An enemy? Or worse—something far older and darker than any man?

Slowly, step by cautious step, he drew near. The figure did not move. And as the distance closed, the impossible became clear.

The being had no head.

Yet somehow, with a chilling calmness, it sat picking at its own scalp, as if its head had been plucked away and replaced only moments before. The empty neck was smooth, pale, and impossibly still. The morning sun, weak and trembling, fell softly on the creature’s skin—yet no fear touched its face, for there was no face to fear.

A cold shiver slithered down the man’s spine. His blood ran ice cold, but he did not retreat.

Gathering every ounce of his courage, he unleashed a fierce yell—raw, wild, a call that shattered the morning silence like thunder ripping through the sky.

Birds burst from their branches, wings beating frantically. The headless figure jolted—then, in a sudden blur, slammed its head back onto its shoulders, as if it had been merely misplaced.

The man stood, spear raised, eyes blazing with a mixture of terror and disbelief.

“Spare me!” The voice came from the deity—clear, trembling, unnatural, like the wind speaking through hollow bones. “Spare me, and I shall grant you one wish—only one. But in return, you must swear never to speak of this day. Not to your wife, not to your children, not even to the whispering wind.”

The man’s grip loosened, curiosity creeping in. “What will you give me?”

The deity’s eyes, dark and deep as night, swept over the land—over the broad upper field and the smaller patch below.

“You may choose,” the spirit said, voice low and thick with ancient power.

“Shall I bless your fields so they yield endless rice, year after year? Or shall I bless your hands so that whenever you go hunting, the forest itself offers you its creatures—deer, boars, birds—as if they were gifts meant only for you?”

The man hesitated, his breath visible in the cold air. Rice could fill the belly, but meat… meat fed the soul, ignited a fire no grain could satisfy.

“I choose meat,” he said, voice steady though his heart raced. “Let the rice feed the belly, but meat—meat feeds the soul.”

“So be it,” said the deity, and with a blink, vanished—leaving only a faint breeze and the lingering scent of earth and smoke.

From that day, the man never returned home empty-handed. Rain or shine, the forest bent to his will. Deer stepped from the shadows to meet his gaze, boars trotted quietly at his feet, and birds sang him close with no fear. Even when his hair grayed and his legs grew weak, he hunted still.

And when death finally came, it was said that a lone deer entered his home, unafraid, and with one last trembling breath, the man brought it down.

He died as he lived—eyes burning with the eternal spirit of the hunter.

But the tale does not end there.

To this day, those who tend the fields of Somdal speak in hushed voices of the strange curse that marked his land. His upper field—the broad, fertile stretch where rice once flourished—now yields less grain than the small, stubborn patch below.

Some call it a mystery, a cruel trick of nature. But others—those who know the old stories—understand the truth.

It is the mark of the bargain struck with the headless deity, a dark reminder etched into the soil that even the earth remembers the choices we make. And if you ever wander the misty terraces at dawn, you might hear the faint rustling of leaves, the whisper of a silent figure watching… waiting.

Beware the hunger that cannot be satisfied, and never speak of what you see—lest the deity come for you, and the bargain demands its price once more.