Darkness Before the Bath

The village lay beneath a sky heavy with low-hanging clouds, the moon's silver light muffled beneath a blanket of swirling mist. The air was thick with dampness, carrying the scent of wet earth and fading smoke. The chanting had ceased, replaced by a profound silence that settled like a weight on Iyi's chest.

He sat alone on a rough-hewn wooden bench just beyond the small hut where he had completed the boiling water ritual. His fingers traced the faint glow still lingering in the sponge wrapped carefully in cloth. It pulsed gently like a heartbeat, steady but insistent a reminder that his journey was far from over.

Darkness was coming.

Not just the absence of light, but something deeper a presence that slithered through the unseen corners of the spirit world and brushed against his very soul.

Iyi could feel it stirring, a whisper of cold that brushed his skin and sent a shiver through his body.

He closed his eyes and tried to steady his breathing. The woman's words from the hut echoed in his mind:

"The hunger is spirit, boy. To walk the path, you must face what dwells in the dark before the cleansing."

He remembered the soft scent of the Doorway Soap, the warmth of the boiling water, the visions that had surged behind his closed lids faces twisted with betrayal, shadows of mistakes he'd tried to forget.

But now, in the hush before the bath, the real test awaited.

Slowly, Iyi rose and stepped toward the river that bordered the village a winding ribbon of dark water that reflected nothing but the somber sky.

The river was both barrier and gateway. It was the place where the physical and spiritual worlds met, where the living touched the dead, where the past could be washed away or swallowed whole.

He knelt at the water's edge, dipping his hands into the cool current. The river's touch was icy, seeping into his bones, and he felt the hunger twist within him like a living thing.

He pulled the sponge from its cloth and lathered it with the cold water, the faint golden flecks catching the dim light.

As he began to wash his face, the darkness seemed to thicken around him, the air growing colder and heavier.

His reflection shimmered on the river's surface blurred, distorted, almost unrecognizable.

Suddenly, the water beneath him rippled violently, and shapes began to rise ghostly figures, their faces pale and sorrowful, eyes wide with silent pleas.

Iyi's heart hammered as they reached toward him, hands outstretched, desperate and accusing.

He stumbled back, but the river held him fast, the shadows pulling him deeper.

A voice echoed from the darkness a low, mournful chant that wrapped around his mind and squeezed.

"Face us. See us. Know us."

Iyi swallowed hard, fighting the rising panic.

He closed his eyes and forced himself to breathe, to steady the storm inside.

The spirits were the echoes of those broken by hunger, by greed, by lies.

They were the debts unpaid.

He reached into himself, drawing on the faint glow in the sponge, the warmth left by the boiling water ritual.

Slowly, he began to speak not with words, but with intent.

He opened his heart to the darkness, acknowledging the hunger, the pain, the failures he had carried.

The shadows softened, their grasp loosening.

The river stilled.

When Iyi opened his eyes, the spirits had vanished, leaving only the gentle ripple of water and the quiet whisper of the night.

The darkness before the bath had passed.

But the journey was far from over.

He was no longer just a boy hungry for survival.

He was becoming a bridge a living conduit between worlds.

And with every step, the price of his passage grew heavier.