Nobody had ever heard of Apo, and that suited the villagers just fine. It was the sort of place that existed in the comfortable spaces between more important places, tucked away at the base of Mount Apo where the world seemed to move a little slower and the air tasted of bamboo and mountain mist.
The village had perhaps fifty houses scattered across the hillside like stones thrown by a careless giant. Most were built from the grey local stone, their tile roofs weathered to a soft pewter that caught the morning light just so. Narrow paths wound between them, worn smooth by generations of bare feet and wooden cart wheels, connecting each home to the small marketplace at the village's center.
Here lived farmers and craftsmen, people who knew the difference between good soil and bad, who could predict rain by the way their grandmother's joints ached, who raised fat chickens and stubborn goats and grew rice in terraces that climbed the mountainside in lazy spirals. They were ordinary people living ordinary lives, and they liked it that way.
The most excitement Apo had seen in recent memory was when Elder Diwa's cat got itself stuck twenty feet up in an old mango tree. Half the village had turned out for the rescue operation, offering advice and commentary while poor Weaver Ben wobbled up a borrowed ladder, cursing under his breath about damn fool animals and why didn't the cat think about how to get down before it climbed up?
The cat, a fat orange tom named Fussy, had eventually come down on its own while everyone was arguing about ladder placement. It sauntered past the assembled crowd with the supreme dignity of a creature that had never needed rescuing in the first place, leaving behind twenty adults standing around a ladder and feeling somewhat foolish.
Then there was the ongoing legend of Mushu the goat, who had somehow managed to win the Annual Grassball Rolling Contest six years running. Nobody could quite explain how a slightly overweight goat had become better at rolling grassballs in straight lines than any human in the village, but there it was. Mushu had achieved the sort of local fame usually reserved for particularly large vegetables or unusually shaped clouds.
The goat seemed to understand its celebrity status, too. It would strut around the village square with what could only be described as swagger, occasionally stopping to pose whenever children gathered to watch. Some of the older villagers swore Mushu deliberately showed off, though they admitted this might just be their imagination.
Old Man Guro still talked about his turnip, the one that had grown to roughly the size and shape of a human head, though that had been three harvests ago now. He'd preserved it in his root cellar and brought it out for special occasions, polishing it lovingly while recounting the exact soil conditions and fertilizer mixture that had produced such a marvel. His wife had long since stopped listening, but newcomers to the village were treated to the full presentation.
The afternoon sun was painting everything gold when the sound of running feet broke the lazy quiet. Someone was coming down the hill fast, boots splashing through the puddles left by morning rain, laughter echoing off the stone walls of the houses. Birds scattered from the plum trees, their branches heavy with fruit that glowed like paper lanterns in the slanted light.
Kidlat burst into view like a small typhoon made of energy and mischief. Thirteen years old and built like a scarecrow, all elbows and knees and wild black hair that stuck up at angles that defied both gravity and common sense. His eyes were the bright blue of a summer sky, always lit up with whatever crazy idea had just occurred to him. They seemed to hold their own light, as if some inner fire burned just a little too bright for one small boy to contain.
He wore a lab coat that was clearly meant for someone twice his size, the sleeves rolled up and the tails flapping behind him as he ran. It had probably been white once, but now it bore the accumulated evidence of Kidlat's adventures, grass stains, dirt smudges, and what looked suspiciously like the residue of several failed experiments. Underneath was a black shirt already decorated with today's activities, dirt, what looked like plum juice, and possibly the muddy print of a frog's foot.
"KI! GET BACK HERE, YOU LITTLE DEMON!"
The voice belonged to Master Kanlaon, who came hobbling down the path in pursuit, grey beard flying, wooden ladle raised like he meant business. He was red-faced and breathing hard, coughing between shouts, but still moving with the determination of a man who'd been chasing after Kidlat for most of the boy's thirteen years. His robes, usually neat and dignified, were disheveled from the chase, and his pointed hat sat askew on his balding head.
Master Kanlaon was Apo's doctor, herbalist, storyteller, and official dispenser of wisdom, though mostly he seemed to specialize in exasperation. His small house at the edge of the village was crammed with jars of herbs, dusty scrolls, and the accumulated evidence of a lifetime spent trying to keep the villagers healthy and out of trouble. Dried plants hung from every rafter, bottles of mysterious liquids lined the shelves, and somewhere in the organized chaos was probably the cure for everything that ailed you, if you could find it.
He was also the closest thing to family Kidlat had ever known. The boy had arrived as a baby with no parents and no past, just bright blue eyes and an apparent determination to turn the quiet village upside down. Master Kanlaon had taken him in, though some days the old man wondered if he'd somehow adopted a small hurricane instead of a child.
Kidlat spun around mid-stride, grinning with that particular expression that meant he knew exactly what he'd done and thought it was hilarious. It was the sort of grin that made adults nervous and other children want to either follow him anywhere or run in the opposite direction. His feet never stopped moving, bouncing slightly on his toes as if standing still was physically painful.