Roots

The firelight flickered across the clearing, casting long shadows against the bamboo grove and the newly built huts of split timber and thatch. Morning mist curled through the grass, and Ikanbi stirred with quiet, uncertain energy.

Ben stood in the center of camp with a sharpened stick in hand—not as a weapon, but as a pointer. Before him, fifteen pairs of eyes looked on: tired, guarded, some fearful… all waiting.

He cleared his throat.

"If you're here, you're alive," he began, voice firm. "But that doesn't mean you're safe. Life here—true life—must be earned. We don't survive by hiding. We survive by working."

He turned the stick toward the older man with broad shoulders and a heavy brow.

"Jano. You've got hands like tools. You'll lead shelter construction—help keep everyone dry when the rains come."

Jano gave a respectful nod.

"Ressa," Ben said, turning to a severe woman with a tight braid and sharper tongue. "You'll assist Sema with cooking and firewood. She's the camp's heart—treat her like it."

Ressa folded her arms, but gave no complaint.

"Tiva," Ben gestured next to the youngest of the newcomers, a lively girl who kept fidgeting with her headwrap. "Water duties. Fetch and clean. You'll work with Laye."

Tiva grinned wide. "We'll be the cleanest camp in the world."

Ben cracked a small smile. "That's the idea."

He turned to the tall young man in worn leather, eyes always flicking to the trees.

"Hagan. You've got a hunter's eyes. Learn from Kael and Joren. You'll be tracking with them before long."

Hagan nodded, quiet and serious.

"Meko," Ben pointed to a wiry boy half-hiding behind Boji. "You're with Boji. Learn fishing, learn patience."

Boji threw an arm over Meko's shoulders. "I'll teach him everything—after he stops tripping over the nets."

That earned a few chuckles.

Ben turned to a woman with dark, steady eyes.

"Ilari. Your steps are quiet. Your hands are quick. You'll scout and forage with Mala."

Ilari gave a quick nod, already seeming to measure the forest in her mind.

Then Ben's eyes fell on the last of the newcomers.

Druel stood with arms crossed, mouth curled into something between a sneer and a smirk.

"And you," Ben said slowly, "will help where you're told."

"I don't take orders from boys," Druel muttered.

"Then leave," Ben said. "Now."

The camp went silent.

Druel's face twitched. He glanced toward the bamboo grove—and froze.

Because Twa Milhom was standing at its edge.

No fire. No words. Just watching.

The vines around the grove began to ripple, curling forward slowly, subtly—like they were listening. Like they could decide at any moment to reach out and pull him in.

Druel swallowed, then nodded stiffly.

"…Fine."

Ben didn't smile. "Good."

He turned to the others.

"This land protects us. But it's not safe. And it doesn't protect cowards. You want to stay alive? Earn it."

The morning assembly ended with murmurs and hushed footsteps. The tribe dispersed into motion—some to hunt, some to fish, others to clear more ground near the forest's edge.

Later that day, Boji sat near the river, showing Meko how to tie a tighter loop in the netting. They both looked up as Ben approached.

"You doing alright?" Ben asked.

Boji shrugged. "We caught four yesterday. Might try the fish-dam idea tonight."

Ben crouched beside him. "I've been wondering… do you think they trust me?"

Boji glanced up. "Some do. Some will. Fear gave us a start. Trust will keep us. You're not just feeding people, Ben. You're building something."

Ben nodded, eyes distant. "I want them to last—even if I don't."

Boji blinked. "Don't talk like that."

"I'm serious. If something happens to me, I need to know they'll keep going."

"You'll need a partner, then," Boji said. "Someone who can help lead. Someone smart. Strong. Pretty. Maybe someone who likes to argue—keeps you sharp."

Ben chuckled.

That night, the fire burned again.

This time, there was laughter. Cooking smells. The soft sound of tools and footsteps. No one dared step beyond the boundaries of the camp, but within the lines Ben had drawn—life returned.

As the sky turned black and the stars glittered above, Sema sat beside Ben, handing him a slice of roasted tuber.

"You did well today," she said. "No shouting. No fire. Just work."

Ben bit the food. "For once."

Sema looked at him. "You're planting roots. Fire scared them. But roots… roots will hold them."

Ben didn't reply.

He just looked out across Ikanbi, where shelters rose like hope from ash…

…and where a god watched quietly from the grove, smiling at the boy who dared to lead.

The stars had shifted. The camp had gone quiet.

Ben sat with his legs stretched out in the dirt, back against a stone. He was tired, but not sleepy. His mind was full—people, roles, tools, fire pits, shelters—and all of it balancing on a thread he wasn't sure he could keep from snapping.

Footsteps that made no sound approached from behind.

Twa Milhom didn't say anything at first. He just sat beside Ben, dropping into the dirt like a shadow melting into the ground.

After a moment, the god sniffed the air and tilted his head. "You smell like death wrestling a wet animal."

Ben blinked. "I've been working."

"You've been fermenting."

Ben frowned. "I've rinsed off in the river."

"Ah," Twa Milhom said, mock solemn. "The sacred splash-under-the-armpit method."

Ben made a face. "We've got more important things than smelling good."

The god raised a hand. "No. You don't. Not anymore."

Ben squinted. "What does that even mean?"

"It means you're building a people, not just a survival group. Which means their filth, their food, their breath—it matters. Their habits matter."

Ben looked genuinely confused now. "So what do you suggest? We all go roll in the river together every morning?"

Twa Milhom laughed, deep and delighted. "No, little root. I'll show you what a shower is."

"A… shower?"

"A structure. With moving water. Clean water. Piped from above, poured over the body, every part. Head to toe."

Ben stared. "Every day?"

"Every day," Twa Milhom said. "Especially after hunting. Especially before sleep."

Ben whistled low. "And what—people just stand under it? Naked?"

"Yes."

Ben blinked again. "Isn't that… wasteful?"

The god turned to face him fully now. "Wasting water is letting it pool and rot near the kitchens. Using water to stay clean is how you prevent death. Parasites. Infections. Rotting wounds. Do you want your tribe to die from stomach cramps or swollen bites that fester?"

Ben paused, thinking about Kael's injury. About Sema's burns. About how many times people had just wiped their hands on leaves.

"…What else am I missing?" he asked quietly.

Twa Milhom smiled—genuinely now.

"Hand-washing."

Ben cocked his head. "What, like… before dinner?"

"And after using the bathroom," the god said. "Which—by the way—shouldn't be the wild anymore."

Ben stared again, slowly shaking his head. "You're serious."

Twa Milhom gestured toward the west slope of the camp. "Build three latrines—public toilets. Dig deep, slanted trenches. Build covers, and drop ash daily. Keep the smell low. Keep the sickness lower."

Ben took a slow breath. "You're… giving me the rules of hygiene?"

"I'm giving you culture," Twa Milhom said. "Not just fire and fish. But civilization. It doesn't begin with a crown—it begins with a clean backside."

Ben let out a stunned laugh.

"And here I thought you were all storms and rope and blood magic."

"I am," the god said proudly. "But I prefer my worshippers not to stink."

They both sat for a long moment in the moonlight.

"Alright," Ben said eventually. "Showers. Hand-washing. Toilets. If we're going to build something real… let's do it clean."

Twa Milhom stood, brushed off his hands, and said over his shoulder as he walked away:

"Tomorrow, I'll show you how to carve the drainage paths. And Ben…"

"Yeah?"

"If you let that Druel man use the kitchen without washing his hands, I'll set his hair on fire."

Ben grinned in the dark.

And for once, the future didn't feel like a burden.

It felt like a plan.