The River’s Secret : Shadows on the Shore

Above the surface, while Ola and Èkóyé were facing ancient trials beneath the river's sacred temple, the village of Òbádè held its breath.

The sun was rising, but the warmth did not follow. Instead, a chill clung to the air a strange stillness that coated the earth like dew. Morning fog hung thick around the village's edges, refusing to burn away even as daylight touched the sky. The villagers knew better than to speak it aloud, but they all felt it: something had shifted.

Mothers kept their children close, speaking in hushed tones and clutching protective charms. The old men gathered near the shrine, eyes scanning the trees, hands resting on carved walking sticks that had once danced to drums but now only stood in silence. Even the dogs, usually rowdy in the mornings, whimpered and lay low, ears flat against their heads.

It had been over a full night since Ola and Èkóyé had descended into the river's heart. No one knew what had become of them. But the signs the thickened mist, the uneasy hush told them something sacred was unfolding.

The river, once restless, now seemed to be waiting.

Amáká, the village herbalist and midwife, stood at the riverbank, her scarf tied tight against the breeze. Her hands rested on her chest, fingers twitching as though itching to pull truth from the wind.

"They've gone too far," muttered an elder beside her. "No one has crossed Ọ̀ṣun's threshold in a generation. It's not meant for the living anymore."

Amáká didn't turn. Her voice was quiet, but fierce. "And yet silence has done us no favors. If the children do not knock, the ancestors will never open the door."

Behind them, drums that had long been silent leaned against the walls of homes. One was cracked down the center. Another bore bloodstains never fully washed away.

Suddenly, from the western edge of the village, a cry tore through the air.

It was shrill, panicked a sound that didn't belong in daylight.

A boy sprinted from the path that led to the marshes. Mud clung to his feet, his chest heaving. Behind him, stumbling through the fog, came a stranger soaked, gaunt, and trembling.

The crowd in the square parted in stunned silence as the figure collapsed to his knees, water dripping from his hair and robes. His skin was pale as moonlight, his eyes wild with terror.

Amáká rushed forward, kneeling beside him. "Speak. What happened? Who are you?"

The man's voice cracked as he gasped for breath. "They've come."

A silence fell like a dropped veil.

"The shadow," he whispered, eyes darting toward the river. "It's not alone anymore. Others have awakened. From beneath… from beyond… I don't know what they are, only that they move like smoke and hunger like fire."

A murmur rippled through the crowd.

"They are drawn to the river's power," the man continued. "To what lies beneath it. The secret you've kept buried… it is no longer buried alone."

The village elders exchanged alarmed glances. The earth beneath their feet seemed to hum with quiet warning.

Amáká's face darkened. "The trials have disturbed more than memory. They've stirred the forgotten enemies. The things Ọ̀ṣun once sealed beneath the veil."

She stood and turned toward the people gathered in the square.

"This is no longer just about Òbádè," she said. "The river is more than our home it is a living boundary. If the darkness consumes it, the world beyond our shores will feel its hunger."

A voice from the crowd shouted, "But what can we do? We have no warriors left!"

Another: "The drums are broken!"

And yet another: "The gods have turned from us!"

"No," Amáká said, her voice slicing through the fear. "The gods do not turn. We turned first. Now, we must face what we abandoned."

She turned to a group of younger villagers, including Aleshọ́rú, a boy not much older than Ola, known for his steady hands and strong voice.

"You've learned the old rhythms," she said. "Fetch what remains of the drums. If the elders will not beat them, then you will."

Aleshọ́rú swallowed, nodded, and ran.

Just as the village stirred into motion, a sound rose from the riverbank.

A splash.

All heads turned.

From the shallows, two figures emerged dripping, solemn, their faces ashen with fatigue but burning with purpose.

Ola and Èkóyé.

Gasps broke from the villagers. A few stepped forward, wanting to rush to them but something about their presence stopped them.

They looked changed. Marked.

Ola's eyes seemed to carry light beneath them, and Èkóyé's steps were not just hers they moved with something older, deeper.

Amáká stepped forward. "Did you find it?"

Èkóyé nodded. "The trials are complete. The river has remembered."

"But it was not without cost," Ola added. His voice was deeper than before, threaded with something that did not belong to a boy. "The shadow we feared is not alone. It is calling others feeding them with our forgetting."

The soaked stranger, still on his knees, looked up with relief. "Then you've seen them too."

"Yes," Ola said. "But now we know their name. And their hunger."

Èkóyé took a breath. "The trials gave us time. But not much. Balance is not yet restored. We must take the rhythm back to where it began to the source of the river and awaken Ọ̀ṣun herself."

The elders stirred. One stepped forward, leaning heavily on his staff. "You would summon a goddess?" he asked. "Do you know what you ask?"

"I do," Ola replied. "And I know what happens if we don't."

Amáká nodded, understanding. "Then we prepare. The village must rise. Not with weapons but with rhythm. With memory."

She turned to the villagers. "Fetch your drums. Gather your chants. We begin at dusk."

The sun was rising now, but it did not chase the mist away.

For darkness had already found its way to the shore.