Mro Folktale — The Chasm of the Serpent King: A Tale of a Vanished Village

Long, long ago, atop a high mountain ridge, there was a Mro village called Boga. It was home to a hundred families, all living together in peace and harmony. The village chief, an elderly and wise man named Boga, was deeply respected by all.

Life was simple. The villagers farmed their jhum fields, worked hard, and celebrated their festivals with joy. The most cherished celebration was Chiasad Poi, the harvest festival, when they offered animal sacrifices to the spirits. It was a time of dance, laughter, and song.

But then, strange things began to happen.

At first, livestock started disappearing. Goats vanished from their pens. Chickens never returned to their coops. Then, children—one by one—began to go missing. As if the earth itself had swallowed them whole.

Chief Boga called for a village gathering. Faces were pale with worry. “My little boy never came home from play,” said one man. “My cow disappeared just days ago,” said another. An elder muttered, “Perhaps we’ve angered the spirits. We haven’t held the Kháng ritual in two years.”

So they held the ritual the next morning. A grand offering was made: a black bull sacrificed, prayers chanted, drums beaten. But it changed nothing.

More children disappeared.

That’s when Menlang cried out, “My daughter went to the spring—and never came back!”

Another man, Singbot, suggested they perform the Tangmangtuk ritual to appease the river spirits. This time, the villagers offered goats, chickens, ducks, and even doves—always in pairs.

But just as the ritual began, terrible news came—Chief Boga’s own daughter had vanished.

Devastation swept through the village.

A fourth council was held. Boga stood before the people and declared, “If we fail again, we must abandon this place. No village can survive where its children are eaten by shadows.”

A search party was formed. They combed the forest for two days, but found nothing. Then, a boy came running from the village center.

“There’s a strange pit in the bushes!” he said.

They rushed to see. There, hidden beneath thickets, was a gaping chasm—deep and dark, surrounded by unnaturally clean ground, as though swept daily by unseen hands.

“This is no ordinary pit,” muttered Singbot. “This is the mouth that has swallowed our sons and daughters.”

The villagers decided to set a trap. They tied a goat to a wooden post near the chasm and watched. But in the morning, the post was gone—dragged away as though it had never been.

An old man said, “This pit leads to the lair of the Serpent King. He is no ordinary snake. He carries the earth on his back. He cannot be harmed.”

Menlang screamed, “Then he has eaten my daughter! I’ll rip out his heart!”

“I agree,” said Singbot. “This creature must die.”

“But how?” asked the chief.

Then came Klamfai, the village blacksmith. “I’ll forge the biggest hook you’ve ever seen. But I need help.”

Everyone worked together. For seven days and nights, they hammered and shaped a massive iron hook, five arms in length. A pig was tied to it as bait, and the villagers heaved it into the pit with a thousand-arm rope.

At dawn, the rope was nearly all gone—only a few arms remained above ground.

Then, they pulled.

Something tugged back.

The ground trembled. The wind screamed.

From the abyss rose the Serpent King—his eyes like molten rubies, his coils vast enough to encircle the entire village seven times. The people screamed, but they did not stop. They pulled and hacked and fought.

And finally, the serpent was slain.

His flesh was divided among the villagers. But the widow and her grandson, Singmen, received nothing.

“Bringing serpent meat into a widow’s home brings misfortune,” the others said.

The serpent’s body took seven days to completely vanish into the pit. Every day, a piece fell in—thudding like a falling mountain.

Boga was delighted. “We will celebrate Chiasad Poi on the next full moon,” he declared. “No more fear. No more sorrow!”

When the day came, drums rang out. Children danced. Men sang. Women laughed. The village rejoiced.

But no one invited the widow or Singmen.

“Something is coming,” the old woman whispered to her grandson. “Don’t go near the celebration.”

Singmen stayed home. He fell asleep to the sound of distant drums.

But at dawn, the mountains shook.

A roar tore through the valley. Earth split open. Trees fell. Water surged.

And in the place where Boga village once stood, there was only a lake—silent, endless, still.

Only the old woman and her grandson survived. Standing at the edge of the high cliff, they watched the golden sun rise over silver ripples.

Their village was gone, swallowed by the Serpent King’s revenge.