The River’s Secret : Secret Beneath The Surface

The lanterns burned low, casting golden halos through the mist that crept in from the river's edge. Shadows danced on the mud walls of the village square as the villagers gathered, hushed and uneasy, around the fire pit where Èkóyé stood.

The Keeper of Shadows had returned, and with her came the weight of memory.

She said nothing at first. Instead, she knelt by the fire and placed before it a small bowl carved from stone. Within it, water shimmered though it had not been poured there. It shimmered like the surface of the river at dusk, and it moved with a rhythm that matched no wind.

When she finally spoke, her voice was low and melodic, like the river whispering over hidden rocks.

"There was a time," Èkóyé began, "when the river was alive with voices. Spirits ruled its depths and banks some kind, others cruel. They were the guardians of balance. Each had a role. A rhythm. And for centuries, the people listened. They gave offerings. They spoke with care. They kept the songs alive."

Her eyes drifted to Amaka, who still held the ancient drum as though it pulsed with breath.

"But greed came," Èkóyé continued. "And silence. The village grew rich, and then fearful. The old rites were abandoned. The sacred sites were forgotten. And those who had once guarded Obade withdrew… or were bound."

The fire cracked, and several villagers flinched.

"Bound?" asked one voice from the crowd.

Èkóyé nodded slowly.

"A covenant was broken. The darkest among the river spirits those who once punished imbalance were sealed beneath the riverbed, locked away by the last Drumfather with the help of Ọ̀ṣun's blessing. A temple was built above the seal. A place of music and offerings. It was called Ọ̀ṣun's Veil."

She looked toward the river, where fog now clung to the banks like draped fabric.

"But now," she said, "the Drumfather is gone. The covenant is broken once more. And the river remembers."

A heavy silence fell. Somewhere in the distance, a reed flute began to play itself soft and lonely though no musician could be seen.

Amaka's grip on the drum tightened. She could feel it again. That pulse. A rhythm echoing from beneath the earth, like a heartbeat deep under the water.

Ola stepped forward, swallowing his fear.

"What happens if we do nothing?"

Èkóyé turned to him. Her eyes, still reflecting the firelight, carried centuries of sorrow.

"The shadow stirs already," she said. "The floodwaters will rise again not from rain, but from within. The dead will not rest. The village will forget itself, piece by piece. Names will vanish. Bloodlines will dissolve. You have heard the river calling."

Ola nodded, remembering the dreams. The faces under the water. The strange songs that no one else heard. He had tried to ignore them. Pretend they were only nightmares. But deep down, he'd always known.

"The only way to stop it," Èkóyé said, rising to her full height, "is to journey beneath the river to the lost temple of Ọ̀ṣun's Veil and face what sleeps there."

A collective gasp rippled through the villagers.

"Face it?" someone whispered. "You mean wake it?"

"No," Èkóyé said. "Bind it again. Or banish it if you dare. But that choice belongs to the one the river calls."

All eyes turned to Ola.

He didn't speak at first. His chest rose and fell with shallow breaths. His hands trembled slightly at his sides.

He had never thought of himself as brave. He was no priest, no hunter, no heir to sacred drums. He was just a boy with questions questions that had led him into shadows he couldn't escape.

But maybe that was enough.

"Will you come with me?" Èkóyé asked softly.

Ola's gaze met hers.

And in that moment, he saw not just the woman before him but something deeper. A soul bound to the river's will. A keeper of pain and prophecy. She would guide him, but she would not protect him. That, he would have to earn.

He nodded.

"Yes."

A murmur spread through the crowd.

"You're just a boy," someone protested.

"He's the one the river wants," Amaka said before anyone else could object. "And he won't go alone."

Èkóyé gave a small nod of approval.

"We leave at dawn," she said.

But Ola stepped forward. "No. Tonight."

The villagers turned in shock.

"The river waits now," he said. "It's calling now. If we delay, it may choose another way to be heard. A louder way."

Amaka stared at him, then placed the drum in his hands. "Take this. It knows the river's voice better than any of us."

Ola held it tight. He felt the warmth of her fingers linger, a silent blessing passed from one soul to another.

Without another word, Èkóyé turned toward the river.

The villagers parted as she and Ola walked past them, side by side, toward the darkened banks where the fog curled like smoke and the moon hovered pale and watchful above.

No one followed.

Some prayed. Others wept. A few turned away, unable to watch.

Ola did not look back.

The moment his feet touched the water, he felt it the shift. The pull. Like stepping into memory. The current curled around his ankles like a question waiting for its answer.

Èkóyé waded in beside him, her voice low.

"Breathe deeply. Let the river know you're not here to take. Only to listen."

The surface shimmered, then split.

And two figures slipped beneath it, swallowed not by fear, but by fate.