The River’s Secret : The Keeper of Shadows

Days passed, yet the river remained unsettled.

The skies had taken on a bruised hue, the kind that made the birds fall silent. The breeze carried whispers rustling through palm fronds and tugging at doorways as if the very air sought to caution those who dared ignore its message. At night, the waters pulsed with strange currents, eddying in circles that defied the wind.

The villagers noticed.

Fishermen returned with empty nets and hollow eyes. Children avoided the banks where they once played, claiming they heard voices from beneath the water. Dogs, once brave, now whimpered and refused to approach the river's edge.

Obade held its breath.

Then, as the sun bled into the horizon one evening, turning the sky into streaks of crimson and gold, a figure appeared silhouetted against the light like a ghost walking out of the past.

She came from the path between the forest and the river, where no traveler ventured after dusk. Cloaked in dark green that shimmered with mossy patterns, the fabric moved like liquid shadow. Her hair, long and coiled like serpentine vines, framed a face both ageless and knowing.

Her eyes gleamed. Not with light, but depth like the river when it hides something at its bottom.

A hush fell over the village.

"She's not one of us," someone whispered.

"But I've heard of her. My grandmother told stories…"

"Èkóyé," an elder finally breathed, voice barely louder than the wind. "The Keeper of Shadows."

The name struck the crowd like a dropped stone into still water rippling with fear, awe, and curiosity. Even those who didn't recognize the name felt its weight.

Èkóyé walked with a quiet authority that needed no escort. Each step stirred the dust and silence alike. She moved toward the center of the village, where the shrine once stood before the floods devoured it. Her gaze never wavered. It passed over every soul like a tide measuring who might drown and who might rise.

Amaka stepped forward. She held the ancient drum close to her chest, as if it might speak again or protect her from whatever this woman brought.

"Who are you?" she asked, her voice steady despite the tremor in her chest. "And what do you want with Obade?"

Èkóyé's gaze settled on her. There was no hostility in her look only a vast, quiet sadness, like someone who had watched too many storms come and go.

"I am the guardian of the river's forgotten secrets," she said.

Her voice was like water running over stones—soft, but unyielding.

"I come with a warning… and a choice."

She reached beneath her cloak and drew out a scroll wrapped in reeds and sealed with a knot of river grass. With reverence, she untied it and unfurled the parchment on the ground.

The crowd leaned closer.

Drawn upon the aged map were strange symbols and winding trails that matched no roads on modern charts. Hidden groves with names lost to history. Submerged temples. Ruins swallowed by the current. Ancient sigils that pulsed with a faint, unnatural glow under the fading sun.

Ola, standing beside Amaka, felt a chill crawl across his skin. He had seen parts of this map before—in dreams he dared not speak aloud. The sound of dripping water echoed in his ears, though the ground was dry.

"This," Èkóyé said, pointing to the largest symbol a spiral etched into what would be the heart of the river, "is where the cycle began. And where it must end."

"The shadow rising," she continued, her eyes now on the villagers, "is not new. It is part of something older than memory. Older than names. It returns when the land forgets. When the river's truths are buried too deep."

A gust of wind stirred the edge of her cloak. For a moment, Amaka thought she saw faces within the folds fleeting, watching.

"What must we do?" she asked, voice softer now.

"Uncover what lies beneath," Èkóyé said. "The river remembers, even when we do not. You must return to the drowned places. Listen where others turned away. If you do not, the shadow will not merely rise it will claim."

"Claim what?" asked Ola, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Everything."

The crowd stirred uneasily.

A young mother clutched her child. An elder made a sign against evil. Some turned away, unwilling to meet Èkóyé's gaze. But Amaka stood firm. The drum in her arms beat once softly, like a heart stirred by fate.

"Why us?" she asked. "Why now?"

"Because the river chose you," Èkóyé replied. "And because time is running out."

Behind her, the wind shifted.

The sun dipped completely beneath the horizon, and in the silence that followed, the river let out a long, mournful sigh like something ancient waking from a long sleep.

Èkóyé gathered the scroll, then turned to leave.

"Wait," Amaka called. "Will you help us?"

Èkóyé paused. "I will guide. But the river does not reveal its secrets freely. It demands something in return."

"What does it want?"

Èkóyé's eyes flicked to Ola, then back to Amaka.

"Sacrifice," she said.

Then she vanished into the coming night.