A Folk Tale

The sky had darkened to a deep charcoal by the time Jobe returned, the moon just starting to pull its way out from behind a veil of clouds. The faint orange glow of the hearthfire flickered from behind the hut, casting long shadows across the earth. He could hear voices before he saw them small, curious, high-pitched voices murmuring in anticipation, like the rustle of leaves before a wind.

He stepped quietly around the back, brushing aside the curtain of old woven beads his grandmother had strung years ago. The scene before him felt like something out of memory. His grandmother sat on her usual stool low, carved from driftwood and worn smooth by decades of use. She was hunched forward slightly, one hand curled over her walking stick, the other hovering above the fire as if trying to coax secrets from it.

Around her, a loose ring of children sat cross-legged, their eyes wide and expectant. Some had half-eaten roots or roasted grain balls in hand, others had already curled under thin blankets. All of them stared at the fire like it might open a doorway at any moment.

Then Naima saw him.

Her head jerked up. "Brother?!"

Jobe barely had time to react before she leapt to her feet and ran to him, bare feet kicking up dust.

"What are you doing here! Are You gonna listen to Grandma's story?" she gasped, tugging at his arm as if afraid he'd vanish.

"Yes "He chuckled, pretending to pull away. "She wouldn't leave me alone. Nagged me half to death. Begged like a hungry dog outside the smokehouse."

His grandmother raised an eyebrow, her mouth twitching in amusement. "Begged, did I? Ha! If I begged, the sky begged the sun to rise. You just have ears full of goat hair and a skull twice as thick."

The children giggled.

Jobe shrugged. "Well, I'm here now. Can't waste a good evening pretending I have better things to do."

Naima beamed and pulled him down to sit beside her, right between two of the younger ones little Kofi with the gap in his teeth, and Lina, who always tried to copy Grandma's cackles. Jobe folded his legs under him, feeling a strange tightness in his chest. It had been years since he sat here among them.

His grandmother leaned forward, squinting at him. "Hmm. You always thought you were too old for folk tales, huh? Too big for the fire."

"I never said that," Jobe said.

"You didn't have to," she muttered. "You started looking at the world like it owed you truth. Like every story without blood and iron in it was a lie."

Jobe said nothing for a moment. The fire crackled. "I think... I think I just needed the kind of stories that could teach me how to keep going."

"And what do you think these stories are for?" she asked softly. Her voice had lost its usual bark just for a breath. "The fire doesn't burn for children. It burns for whoever's cold."

Jobe lowered his head. "Maybe I was colder than I thought."

She nodded once, satisfied. Then the mischief returned to her face. "Well, sit there and hush your mouth then. I was about to begin before your big feet stomped in and scared off the good spirits."

One of the boys giggled. "Grandma says that every time someone's late!"

"Quiet, all of you," she snapped playfully, raising her stick and waving it like a spell.

The fire crackled, and the shadows of dancing flames played across the children's faces. Jobe sat cross-legged among them, arms loosely around his knees, his younger sister Naima nestled beside him. His grandmother, wrapped in her shawl, her gray eyes gleaming with the weight of memory, lifted her hand slowly.

"Listen, little ears," she began, her voice low and deep, like a song hummed by the earth itself. "Tonight, I tell you of the land before our land... A place far, far away. Beyond mountains that kiss the sky. Beyond deserts where even wind forgets its name. This was a place ruled by five great Houseseach mighty, each gifted."

She raised a bony finger.

"But even those five bent the knee to one greater still. A House of fear and wonder. The House of Trizarki."

The children leaned closer.

"The Trizarki were not powerful because of gold, nor numbers, nor metal blades. No. Their power came from beasts—creatures bred for war, for silence, for death. They rode monsters. Whispered to things that no other House could tame. And leading them was a king King Zuberi. His voice carried like thunder, and his name opened gates before his feet could touch the dust."

She paused, stirring the fire with her stick.

"King Zuberi had two sons. Amara and Akara. Twins born of the same mother, the same hour, and the same breath. They loved one another deeply brothers in spirit and blood. They fought side by side, laughed at the same fires, won battles that made the bards grow hoarse."

"But time does what it always does," she said softly, "and soon the question came: who would wear the crown?"

"The council argued. The people whispered. Amara was born first, calm, steady, like a still lake. But Akara... Akara burned. Fast, sharp, hungry. He believed he was meant to rule. That his brother's calm was weakness. That the crown belonged to him."

The wind shifted. Sparks rose into the air like fireflies.

"And so Akara plotted. He whispered in dark corners. Turned friends into spies. Amara discovered it but he would not raise his hand against his own blood. He could not. So he made a choice."

She looked at Jobe now, her voice sharper.

"He gathered those still loyal to him not soldiers, not beasts. People. His people. The ones who believed in him. And he fled. He would not kneel to his brother's cruelty. He would not live in chains, not even if those chains were made of gold."

"They crossed rivers, deserts, storms and lake bigger that you couldn't see land on the other side. They found new land. Our land. And they began again. Quietly. Carefully. Free."

"But Akara… he would not forget. He would not forgive. His pride bled. And from his throne of stone and ash, he sent the beasts after them the deadliest creations of his House. Not to conquer. Not to capture. But to erase."

She drew a slow breath.

"No one knows if Amara was ever found. Some say he died a king with no throne. Others say his line survived, hidden among new names, new songs. Some say..."

Her eyes flicked around the fire.

"…he watches still, through the eyes of his blood."

Silence.

Then the old woman laughed, easing the weight of the tale. "But who knows? I'm just an old woman with stories and sore knees."

The children giggled. Even Jobe smiled faintly.

She leaned forward with a twinkle in her eye. "Sleep well, little warriors. And remember this freedom is never given. It is taken. It is carried."

She turned to Jobe with mock sternness. "Even by stubborn grandsons who take too long to sit when they're called."

Jobe stood, stretching. "Careful, old woman. Tell one more lie and I'll make Nema carry you to your hut."

She swatted her stick toward him, and he ducked away, laughing.

The fire burned on, and the stars blinked quietly above.