Goddess of the Waterfall (แม่น้ำไหลผ่านใจคงฉัน)

The village of Ban Saithong rested on the edge of the Mae Yom River, a ribbon of silver that wound through emerald fields and dense forests. The villagers believed the river had a soul, a presence that watched over them. At its heart, past a roaring waterfall that churned white mist into the air, lived the river goddess known only as Jao Mae Phrai Nam. Her domain was sacred ground, forbidden to most save for the men taken there to fulfill her demands.

Stories of Jao Mae Phrai Nam had been passed down for generations, each tale rich with awe and trepidation. It was said she had risen from the water centuries ago when the first settlers arrived, her form shimmering like sunlight on ripples. She claimed dominion over the river and its lifeblood, promising the villagers’ bounty—rice fields that would never run dry, fish that leaped into nets, and rains that always came in time. Her favor brought prosperity, but it came at a price.

Every two years, a man from the village was chosen by lottery to climb the narrow path to the waterfall's basin. There, beneath the thundering cascade, he was offered to The Goddess. No one spoke of what became of him, only that he was gone by morning, and the village would wake to offerings left at the riverbank: golden lotus flowers, pearls the size of quail eggs, and urns of sweet-smelling water that healed wounds and eased sickness.

For decades, the villagers had followed this ritual without question. How could they not? The Goddess’ gifts were undeniable, and her wrath was equally so. When the headman’s grandfather once delayed a sacrifice by two days, the river swelled overnight, drowning the paddies and sweeping away half the village. Her power was absolute, and the villagers obeyed out of reverence and fear.

—❀—

On a humid morning in the eighth month of the lunar calendar, the village stirred with unease. The air was thick, clinging to the skin like a damp cloth, and even the birds in the banyan trees seemed subdued, their calls sharp and intermittent. The time of sacrifice was near, and the villagers knew it well. The river’s waters had begun to run colder in the mornings, an omen that The Goddess was growing impatient.

Khun Pramun, the headman, summoned the villagers to the temple courtyard, where the ancient banyan tree spread its gnarled roots and cast long shadows across the cracked stone floor. People arrived slowly, some out of duty, others out of fear. Farmers left their plows half-buried in the soil. Fishers dragged themselves from the riverbank, their nets abandoned and empty. Merchants from the market clutched their coin pouches as though wealth could shield them from what was to come.

The crowd gathered in uneasy clusters, whispering to one another as they waited for the headman to speak. Children clung to their mothers, sensing the tension in the air but not fully understanding its cause. The breeze that rustled the banyan leaves felt hollow, a reminder of how little control they had over the forces that ruled their lives.

Khun Pramun stood at the courtyard's center; his shoulders stooped with age and responsibility. Once vibrant, the gold trim on his tunic had faded with time, much like the resolve on his face. As he raised his hand to silence the crowd, his expression was as heavy as the air itself.

“The goddess demands her due,” he said, his voice deep but unsteady. The weight of his words pressed on the villagers like a stone. “If we do not act, she will punish us all.”

A ripple of murmurs coursed through the crowd, rising and falling like the river in a storm. The villagers exchanged wary glances, their faces a mixture of dread and resignation. Mothers tightened their grips on their children, holding them close as though The Goddess's wrath could sweep them away at any moment.

Yet beneath the murmurs was another layer of tension—one the headman was acutely aware of. It was an unspoken truth, a festering thought that no one dared to voice until a wiry figure stepped forward.

It was Nai Sila, a fisherman whose face was as weathered as the oars he rowed each day. His eyes were sharp, and his lips pressed into a thin line. He was a man marked by tragedy, having buried two sons who had climbed the path to the waterfall and never returned. His grief had curdled into something bitter over the years, and now that bitterness spilled into his voice.

“And what of Chai?” Nai Sila asked, his tone cutting through the murmurs like the crack of a whip. “Will he go as our sons did before him? Or does the headman believe his blood is too precious for The Goddess?”

The crowd froze, their attention snapping to Khun Pramun. The accusation hung in the air like a snake poised to strike. The headman's face darkened, his jaw tightening as his gaze met Nai Sila’s.

For a moment, it seemed Khun Pramun might falter. His hands trembled slightly, and his lips parted as though to deny the claim. But then he straightened, his voice hardening like iron.

“The goddess will have what she is owed,” he said firmly, though his eyes flickered with unease. The villagers exchanged glances, the tension rising. No one dared speak further, but the question lingered in the air, unspoken yet loud: would Chai indeed go?

By nightfall, the whispers had turned into wildfires, spreading from hut to hut. Lanterns glowed in windows long after the village usually fell silent, and low voices carried on the wind.

“Chai is gone,” one man hissed to his wife as they sat on the floor of their bamboo home. “Gone? Where?” she asked, clutching the folds of her pha sin skirt. “Into the forest. Someone saw him near the edge of the rice fields, running like a thief in the dark.”

Elsewhere, an elder shook his head as he spoke to his son. "The headman must have hidden him," he said, his voice heavy with skepticism. "Do you think Khun Pramun would really send his own son to The Goddess? He wouldn't dare."

The stories multiplied, each retelling more dramatic than the last. Some claimed Chai had fled to a faraway town disguised as a trader. Others said he had bribed one of the temple novices to help him escape. A few even suggested the headman had sent him upriver, hidden among cargo boats headed to the capital.

By morning, the rumors had reached every corner of the village. Chai was gone, and with him, the village's hope of appeasing The Goddess. The villagers gathered once more under the banyan tree, their faces pale with fear. Without a sacrifice, they knew the river goddess's wrath would fall upon them—and this time, there would be no escaping it.

Three days later, a desperate plan began to take shape. It started as a whisper in the market and grew louder each passing hour.

“Why must it always be men?” said one woman, her voice sharp as she husked rice. “Do The Goddess's stories ever say she prefers them?”

Others chimed in, emboldened by the question. The villagers were bound by tradition, but none truly understood its origins. If The Goddess demanded a life, surely any life would suffice. The idea was spoken aloud for the first time that evening as firelight flickered against bamboo walls. By the following morning, the decision had been made. They would send a girl instead.

The girl the elders had settled on was named Niramol. She was eighteen, tall and broad-shouldered, with deep brown skin that gleamed in the sun and thick black hair tied in twin braids down her back. She had grown up working alongside her mother in the fields, her hands rough from handling sickles and carrying heavy bundles of rice. Her manner was quiet, almost curt, and the boys in the village often teased her, saying she was more of a man than they were.

When the elders announced their choice, there were grumbles of approval from the men.

"She's hardly a woman," Nai Sila scoffed. "Look at her—built like an ox. The goddess won't mind."

"She never even wears her hair like the other women," muttered another man. "She'll barely notice the difference."

Some of the women tried to reason with Khun Pramun. "She is still a child!" But the elders dismissed them. "The goddess will have her," the headman said coldly. "It is better this way."

That night, the faint orange glow of the setting sun stretched long shadows across the bamboo walls of Niramol's house. Outside, the cicadas had begun their evening symphony, their song rising and falling in waves that mingled with the crackle of the fire pit.

Niramol sat cross-legged on the floor, her hands coarse and reddened from the day's work. Her body ached, but she showed no sign of it. Her broad shoulders relaxed as she pulled at a splinter in her palm with a needle. Beside her, her younger sister, Dara, a girl of fourteen with wide eyes and delicate hands still unscarred by labor, was busy weaving a garland of marigolds. She hummed softly, her voice still breaking with the awkwardness of youth.

Their mother, Malai, knelt by the fire, stirring a pot of curried fish soup. The smell of lemongrass and galangal filled the small room, mingling with the faint scent of sweat and smoke. Malai's friends, two older women from the village, had left shortly after an afternoon of chatter and cooking. The three of them were alone for the first time in hours.

"You should eat, Nira," Malai said without looking up from the pot. Her voice was soft but firm, carrying the weight of years spent raising daughters alone. "You've been in the fields since dawn."

"I'll eat in a moment," Niramol replied, still focused on the splinter. Her voice was low, and she spoke with the careful patience of someone who had learned long ago not to waste words. "I just want to get this out first. It's been itching all day."

Dara glanced up from her garland, her thin eyebrows arching in mock concern. "Careful, Phi. If you dig too deep, you'll lose the whole hand." Niramol smirked faintly, tossing a discarded marigold at her. "If I lose my hand, you'll be out in the fields in my place." Dara gasped in mock horror. "Never! I'd starve before I touched a sickle."

Malai chuckled softly at their banter, the lines around her eyes easing. For a moment, the weight of the world outside their home seemed to fade, replaced by the familiar rhythm of family. But the silence that followed soon grew heavy, and Niramol, sensing it, glanced at her mother.

"What did the aunties say?" she asked. Her tone was casual, but her dark eyes, sharp and knowing, hinted at more profound curiosity.

Malai paused her stirring, letting the question hang in the air. Then, with a small sigh, she sat back on her heels and wiped her hands on her apron. "The same as always," she said. "They worry. They whisper."

Dara frowned, setting her garland aside. "Is it about the sacrifice again?" Malai hesitated, glancing between her daughters. "Yes," she finally admitted. "It's all anyone can talk about now that Chai is gone."

Niramol leaned against the wall, her arms resting loosely on her knees. "What do they expect?" she said, her voice calm but edged with frustration. "They've built everything on this—this tradition. Every field, every house, every boat tied to the dock. It all depends on The Goddess being satisfied."

"And if she isn't?" Dara asked, her voice small. Malai's face tightened. "Then the river rises," she said simply. "The fields flood. The fish disappear. We've seen it before."

Dara hugged her knees, her face pinched with worry. "It isn't fair. Why does it always have to be someone's son? Why can't—" She stopped abruptly, shuddered, and bit her lip, afraid to finish the thought. "Why can't what?" Niramol pressed, her gaze steady. 

Dara hesitated, then shook her head. "Nothing," she mumbled. "It's just… it feels wrong, doesn't it? Like we're throwing people away. Even if it's for the village." Niramol didn't answer immediately. She stared at the fire, her dark skin glowing in its light, the muscles in her jaw tensing slightly. Finally, she said, "It's not about fairness, Dara. It never was. It's about survival. The village won't risk changing something that works, no matter how much it costs."

Malai sighed, her hand moving to rest on her lap. "It wasn't always like this," she said softly, her voice distant. "When I was a girl, the gifts to The Goddess were different. Smaller. Offerings of flowers, fruits, and rice. But The Goddess didn't always take them. Some years, we'd find the offerings untouched, washed back onto the shore. And when the floods came…" She trailed off, shaking her head.

"They started the sacrifices after that, didn't they?" Niramol asked, though she already knew the answer.

Malai nodded. "It was the only way. At least, that's what they said." The room fell quiet again, save for the crackle of the fire. Dara picked up her garland and began threading the flowers together again, her small hands moving faster.

"They'll figure it out," Malai said, at last, trying to sound reassuring. But her voice carried little conviction, and Niramol caught the flicker of worry in her mother's eyes before she turned back to the pot.

As the light outside faded to dusk, the three women sat together, the weight of the village's troubles pressing down on them like the humid night air. The cicadas sang on, oblivious to the burdens of humanity. And though none of them said it aloud, the question lingered in the shadows: what would happen if The Goddess demanded more than the village could give?

The next day, the midday sun beat down on the thatched roof of Niramol's home, but inside, the air was heavy with a different kind of heat—a tension that pressed on the walls and wrapped itself around those within. Niramol sat cross-legged on the bamboo floor, her calloused hands deftly repairing a torn fishing net. Malai stirred a pot of rice over the fire while Dara hummed softly as she braided the loose threads of a worn pha sin skirt.

Their tiny home felt calm, even comforting, despite the murmurs of unrest that had spread through the village since Chai's disappearance. But the peace shattered with a sharp knock at the door.

Malai froze, her hand tightening on the wooden spoon. Dara's humming stopped abruptly, her eyes darting toward the door as if expecting it to break open. Niramol looked up, her dark eyes narrowing. The knock came again, louder this time.

"Niramol," a voice called from outside. "Open the door."

Niramol set the fishing net aside and rose to her feet, her broad shoulders squaring instinctively. "Stay here," she said quietly to her mother and sister before crossing the room.

When she slid the door open, she saw Khun Pramun and two other village officials standing on the small wooden porch. Their faces were grave, and their postures stiff.

"What do you want?" Niramol asked, her voice steady but cold. Pramun sighed, his eyes darting past her into the house. "Niramol, you know why we're here," he said. "The village cannot delay any longer. The sacrifice must be made." 

Behind her, Malai let out a soft gasp. Dara stood abruptly, her small hands clenched into fists. "You can't mean to take her," Malai said, stepping forward, her voice trembling. "She's a woman. The goddess doesn't want her."

Pramun's gaze flickered, but his tone remained firm. "We have no other choice. With Chai gone, there's no one else."

"You could go," Niramol said sharply, her tone laced with bitterness.

Pramun's jaw tightened. "That is not how it works," he said. "The goddess will not accept me. It must be someone chosen by the village."

Malai stepped before Niramol, her hands raised as though to shield her daughter. "You can't do this," she said, her voice rising. "You're condemning her to die. She is all I have—she and Dara. How can you expect me to let her go?"

Pramun's expression softened slightly, but he didn't waver. "I understand your pain, Malai," he said. "But this is not about one family. It is about the survival of the village. You've seen what happens when The Goddess is displeased."

"She's not going!" Malai snapped, her voice breaking. "You'll have to drag her out of here." Dara ran to Niramol, grabbing her sister's arm. "P'Nira, say something!" she pleaded. "Tell them no!"

For a moment, Niramol hesitated. Her gaze swept over her mother, who stood trembling but resolute, and Dara, whose eyes were wide with desperation. Her chest ached, and a surge of anger rose within her—anger at the headman, at the village, and at the gods themselves.

"I won't go," she said, her voice low but firm. "You'll have to find someone else. I won't let you take me." Relief flickered across Malai's face, and Dara clutched Niramol's arm tighter.

But Pramun's expression darkened, and he took a step forward. "If you refuse, The Goddess will punish us all," he said. "The river will flood, the crops will fail, and your family will starve along with everyone else. Is that what you want?"

The weight of his words settled over Niramol like a stone. She clenched her fists, her nails digging into her palms.

"P'Nira…" Dara's voice was small and trembling. Niramol turned to look at her sister and then at her mother, who was watching her with tear-filled eyes. Her heart twisted painfully, but she knew the truth. The village had already decided. If she didn't go willingly, they would come for her anyway.

She took a deep breath, her shoulders straightening. "Enough," she said, her voice quiet but firm. Malai shook her head, her hands gripping Niramol's arm. "No. Don't do this, Nira. Please."

Niramol gently pried her mother's fingers away and knelt before her. "I have to," she said softly, her voice cracking. "If I don't, they'll come back. They'll take me by force, which'll only worsen things."

Tears streamed down Malai's face as she shook her head. "You don't have to do this," she whispered. "We can run. We can hide."

"There's nowhere to run," Niramol said gently. She reached out and wiped a tear from her mother's cheek. "You've done so much for me, for us. Now it's my turn."

She turned to Dara, whose face was pale, her hands trembling at her sides. "Dara," Niramol said, her voice steady. "You have to be strong now. You'll need to take care of Mother. Help her in the house, in the fields. You're old enough now." Dara's lip quivered, and she threw herself into Niramol's arms. "Don't go," she sobbed. "Please don't go."

Niramol held her tightly, stroking her hair. "I have to," she whispered. "But you'll be alright. You're stronger than you think, Dara. I know you are." When she pulled away, she placed a hand on Dara's cheek, smiling faintly through the tears welling in her eyes. "Promise me you'll take care of her. Both of you will be okay."

Dara nodded, sniffling, though her expression was one of anguish. Niramol stood and turned to the headman. Her face was calm now, though her jaw was tight and her hands clenched into fists.

"I'll go," she said.

Pramun nodded solemnly, but his face had no satisfaction, only a grim acceptance. "Thank you," he said. Niramol glanced back at her mother and sister one last time. Malai had collapsed to her knees, her shoulders shaking as silent sobs wracked her body. Dara clung to her, burying her face in her shoulder.

"I love you," Niramol said softly, her voice breaking. Then she turned and stepped out the door, her head held high.

As she walked away, the sound of her mother’s cries followed her like a haunting echo, fading into the distance as the officials led her toward the waterfall and into the unknown.