When the Drums Wept
The skies calmed.
The rip above the world slowly mended, but the people of Zantrayel remained on their knees—eyes lifted, hearts trembling.
The Lwa stood above them, radiant and vast. Though their true forms were unknowable, the people felt them as warmth on the skin, the scent of fresh rain, the weight of memory.
Papa Legba tipped his hat.
Erzulie Freda blew kisses that turned into petals across the wind.
Ogou Feray gave a nod that could split stone.
Maman Brigitte and Baron Samedi laughed together, arms linked.
They looked upon Zion's people—so young in the eyes of gods—and they smiled.
"You have honored the bond," said Maman Brigitte.
"And for that, we leave in peace… for now."
Then, one by one, the Lwa turned and crossed back into Ginen, the realm of spirits, where light and shadow merge in song.
Only one stayed behind.
At the crossroads within the heavens, a great table had been set.
Golden fruits, roasted beasts, jugs of bloodwine, honey, and sacred oils—all placed under a tree that bore no leaves, only bones and stars.
Maman Odetta now sat at the center, not as a mortal—but as something greater.
Around her, the Lwa gathered—not to rule, but to honor.
They laughed with her, praised her wisdom, drank to her journey.
"A hundred years a guide," said Ogou Feray, lifting a horn.
"And still your fire has not dimmed."
At the end of the banquet, Baron Samedi rose.
With a graceful bow, he extended his gloved hand.
Maman Brigitte followed, her veil trailing in sacred mist.
"It's time, cherie," said Samedi. "Let's take you home."
Together, they walked with Maman Odetta—not to oblivion, but to where the resting souls of the faithful sleep, watched over by the Lwa, shielded from hunger, harm, and time.
A place even the Devoured cannot reach.
For seven days and seven nights, the drums of Zantrayel beat on their own.
No hand touched them. No musician approached.
Yet their rhythm pulsed through every hill and village, every forest and firepit.
A deep, aching mourning-song, sung not in words but in memory.
Zion stood alone on the high ridge above Bassoun.
He said nothing.
He only wept.
The man who bore gods, who led a broken people into nationhood—wept like a son.
And the land wept with him.
The trees bent.
The rivers flowed slower.
Even the beasts fell silent.
For all their power, all their glory, all their rising strength…
The heart of Zantrayel now beat with the absence of its first mother.
And still, from beyond the veil,
Maman Odetta watched