The River’s Secret : Into Ọ̀ṣun’s Veil

The river was silent before dawn eerily so. No croaking frogs, no rustling reeds, no whispered songs of fishermen preparing their nets. Just the hush of early morning, heavy with a promise and a warning.

Ola stood at the water's edge, bare feet pressed into the damp earth. Mist curled low around their ankles like restless spirits reluctant to depart. Beside him, Èkóyé adjusted the folds of her wrapper, her gaze fixed on the dark, slow-moving current. The carved box had been opened hours before, its protective seals broken under moonlight. Now the ancient drum it had guarded for generations hung at Ola's side, its surface cracked with age but still resonant with power.

He glanced at it, then at Èkóyé. "Are you sure it's today?"

She nodded slowly, eyes half-lidded, as if listening to a voice only she could hear. "The river has opened. She's calling again. And she will not wait."

The drum felt heavy not just with weight, but with memory. With legacy.

A cool wind brushed past them. Ola stepped forward first, the water kissing his toes, then creeping higher. Cold, deeper than the weather should allow. Beside him, Èkóyé followed, her face a mask of calm despite the chill.

The river was shallower than expected at first, pulling them gently rather than with force. Each step forward felt like moving through thickened time. As dawn's light broke across the horizon, it failed to touch the water. The farther they moved into the current, the darker everything became. The golden warmth of the rising sun stayed trapped at the banks like it dared not follow.

It was then Ola noticed something strange. The water, which should have shimmered with morning hues, grew thicker, more viscous, like oil hiding blood beneath. And then the shadows began to move.

They drifted just beneath the surface figures with elongated limbs and hollow eyes, vanishing whenever he tried to focus on them. The drum at his side vibrated slightly, as if responding to the things unseen.

He tightened his grip on it instinctively.

"Don't fear them," Èkóyé murmured. "They are the Keepers. Spirits born of broken vows and buried names. They only attack the uninvited."

"I wasn't exactly invited," Ola replied, voice low.

"You carry the Drumfather's legacy. That's your invitation and your burden."

Minutes passed or was it hours? Time twisted in the river. Their bodies moved forward, but the world around them seemed to fold and breathe as though they were walking through the ribs of a great beast.

Then it happened.

Ahead, through the thickening mist and blackened water, a glow began to form. Pale and blue, barely visible at first, it shimmered with a strange rhythm. As they drew closer, the glow revealed itself an archway, ancient and bowed, formed from submerged roots and river-stone, wrapped in riverweed and carvings so old they hummed when the water passed through them.

The arch pulsed like a heartbeat.

Ola stopped. "Is that…?"

Èkóyé's voice was almost reverent. "Ọ̀ṣun's Veil. The place between river and spirit. Mortal and divine."

The air changed as she spoke the name. The water around their legs warmed suddenly, humming with life, with memory, with song. The silence that had once weighed on the river lifted, replaced by the faint echo of a woman's voice singing wordless but full of sorrow and longing.

"Is she… singing?" Ola asked, eyes wide.

"She remembers. She always remembers," Èkóyé whispered. "This is where the old promises were made. This is where we must go to undo what silence has broken."

As they approached the gateway, Ola's body tensed. The drum vibrated harder now, as though something inside it recognized the place. A deep pressure filled his chest.

"What happens when we go through?" he asked.

Èkóyé's eyes shimmered in the glowing blue. "We see the truth. Not just what was forgotten but what was forbidden. The river holds secrets the village no longer dares to speak. Some truths have teeth, Ola."

He swallowed hard. The weight of his ancestors, of the Drumfather's disappearance, of the village's silence all of it pressed against him now.

"What if I'm not ready?"

Èkóyé turned to face him fully. "No one ever is. But the river doesn't wait for readiness. It waits for reckoning."

The archway loomed above them now. Carvings along its surface glowed faintly snakes curled into drums, eyes without pupils, rivers spiraling into suns. Symbols older than stories.

Ola reached for the drum and held it in both hands.

Èkóyé placed her fingers over his. "Whatever you see on the other side don't let go of this. It's not just a drum. It's your name. Your bloodline. Your only shield."

Ola nodded, more to convince himself than her.

Together, they stepped forward.

The moment their feet passed beneath the arch, the water exploded in sound. Drums. Voices. Cries. Laughter. Screams. It was as if every moment the river had ever witnessed came rushing into them at once. Ola staggered, clutching the drum as a whirl of images burned across his vision.

He saw kings crowned beside waterfalls, children sacrificed for rain, warriors playing rhythms before battles no one survived. He saw Èkóyé's face younger, smiling beside the old Drumfather, and then weeping over a broken drum.

And then he saw himself standing in a river that bled fire instead of water, his mouth open in song he had never learned but somehow always known.

Èkóyé gripped his shoulder tightly, grounding him. "Breathe. You're crossing."

With a gasp, Ola blinked. The world around him had changed. They were no longer in shallow water.

They stood in a vast cavern beneath the river itself, illuminated by glowing roots and floating embers that hovered like fireflies. Strange creatures swam through liquid air above them serpent-fish with wings of smoke, and spirits shaped like drums that beat with no hands.

In the center of the cavern was an altar of obsidian and riverbone. Upon it rested a second drum larger than Ola's, pulsing faintly.

Èkóyé's voice was filled with awe. "We're here. The heart of the river's secret."

Ola stared, trembling. "What now?"

Her eyes, wide and shining, met his. "Now we ask the river to remember and hope she forgives."