The Old Man with the Sack and Cane
It was early morning in Nouvo Lakay.
The rain was gone, and the sun rose like a drumbeat against the sky. The streets, still damp from La Sirène's tears, steamed gently. The scent of cane, fire, and fresh earth filled the air.
And through it all, an old man walked alone, hunched over a cane, a worn sack slung over one shoulder.
He moved without rush.
People stepped aside for him without knowing why.
Children waved without understanding who they greeted.
Dogs followed him, but not too close.
His hat was low. His coat, dusty. His cane, carved from a tree no one had seen in this world. His sack rustled with things that clinked and sang when he moved.
Some said he was a beggar. Others whispered he was a myth.
Zion watched him from the edge of the distillery gates. The workers—newly hired and bleary-eyed—paused mid-task, sensing something was… off.
The man stopped in front of Zion.
He smiled with missing teeth and eyes that had seen the first fire.
"I see the rum finally flows."
Zion nodded, straightening. "We did what was needed."
The old man grinned wider.
"Good. Keep doing it."
He tapped his cane against the stone.
"This time, we were playful. The crying girl. The dogs that grew teeth. The holes that moved when no one watched. Funny things."
He leaned forward, voice softer now.
"But next time… if you forget… we might not be in the mood for laughter."
Zion swallowed hard. "I understand."
The old man nodded.
Then he turned and walked to the center of town.
There, without fanfare, he raised his cane high and stamped it once against the ground.
The air shifted.
A wind came—not from the sky, but from beneath.
From somewhere deeper than land.
One by one, unseen gates opened. Whispers curled like incense.
And just like that, the Lwa—who had wandered through the country in human skins and playful forms—began to disappear.
Some walked into alleys and never came out.
Others faded from the edges of temple walls like steam from cooling pots.
By dusk, they were gone.
All but one.
Papa Legba stood alone in the middle of Nouvo Lakay, the last thread between the world of men and the sacred land of Ginen.
He looked back at Zion one final time.
"Keep your gates ready. Keep your rum flowing."
"And above all else… keep remembering who protects you."
Then he tipped his dusty hat, smiled once more, and vanished.
No one saw where he went.
The people searched.
But the old man with the sack and the cane had gone back to the crossroads, where all things begin—and all things are tested.