Slowest Roots

Druel woke up shivering.

His body was covered in sweat, though the night had been cool. His eyes darted, heart thudding, as though he'd just escaped from the jaws of something ancient. But there had been no beast. No nightmare he could remember. Only the sound of laughter—low, gravelly, inhuman.

It still echoed in his bones.

He rubbed his face, glancing toward the edge of the hybrid bamboo grove. Nothing but the quiet rustle of wind and shadow. He didn't know why, but he didn't sleep near that grove anymore. Not after the last time.

By morning, the fire was rekindled, and Ben stood with his hands behind his back in front of the tribe. They circled him loosely, some still stretching off sleep, others half-listening.

Ben cleared his throat. "We need to talk about… cleanliness."

Boji blinked. "Clean… what?"

Ben took a breath. "From now on, everyone is expected to wash their hands before eating. And after relieving themselves."

The camp murmured.

Kael scratched the back of his head. "With what?"

"Water," Ben said. "Sema will help set up a station by the kitchen. Twa Milhom showed me how to make it work with bamboo piping. We'll build basins too, for rinsing."

Ressa crossed her arms. "People been surviving just fine with leaves and rivers."

Ben's voice didn't rise. "And if one infected cut or dirty hand kills someone here, that survival ends. I'm not asking. We do this."

He looked around the circle. "We're also building private stalls—toilets. Not in the woods. Proper ones. West slope. Covered, controlled, and cleaned."

Tiva wrinkled her nose. "What if it stinks?"

"Then use it properly," Sema said before Ben could answer. "Ash every time. Cover everything. We'll take shifts."

Mala nodded. "Makes sense. Less danger around camp."

Ben continued. "Lastly, I'll be the first to test something else tonight—a shower. It's a small space with flowing water from above. Clean from head to foot."

The tribe blinked at him. Boji looked genuinely offended. "You're telling me there's been a way to wash the whole body—like all at once—this entire time?"

Ben smiled faintly. "There is now."

The next hours passed in rhythm.

Boji and Ben cut and split bamboo, creating narrow channels leading from the nearby stream into camp. The two argued about water pressure, gravity, and angles until Twa Milhom appeared, laughing under his breath, and shifted the slope of a pipe with a simple flick of his hand.

"Meko," Ben called, "help Ilari dig trenches down the west side."

Jano and Hagan were already carrying slabs of bark and stone for the toilet stalls. Druel, still pale from his early morning shivers, was quietly handed a shovel.

"You're managing ash dispersal," Ben told him.

Druel didn't argue this time.

By dusk, the first latrine was built, capped and covered.

A shower space stood next to Ben's house—a modest stall with split bamboo walls, a raised tank, and a line of smooth rocks beneath. It wasn't beautiful. But it worked.

Ben stepped under it as the others watched, half in curiosity, half in disbelief.

Cool water poured over him from above, carried by channels he and Boji had carved with their own hands.

For a few moments, the leader of Ikanbi stood still—eyes closed, face lifted—and let himself wash.

When he returned, clean, barefoot, and smiling, Sema wrinkled her nose playfully.

"You don't smell like work," she said.

"No," Ben said, "I smell like the future."

Later that night, as the camp dimmed, Ben sat again by the grove.

Twa Milhom stood beside him, arms folded across his statue-like frame.

"You're spreading habits, not fear," the god said. "That's rare."

Ben nodded. "They're starting to understand. They just needed to see it first."

"Lead by hands, not mouth," the god said. "You're beginning to do both."

Ben turned toward him. "What's next?"

Twa Milhom raised an eyebrow. "You tell me."

Ben didn't answer right away.

He stared at the stars. Thought of soap. Of grain storage. Of warm cloth. Of tools that didn't break after three uses.

"I want more than survival," he said. "I want roots."

Twa Milhom smiled faintly, looking down at the grove.

"They're growing."

Not far from them, Ilari and Meko worked late, whispering with excitement over a new split-pipe shape Boji had shown them.

"It pushes harder," Meko said. "Maybe we can make something like a—like a fast rinse!"

Ben saw them and smiled quietly to himself.

Innovation, he thought. Not just survival. Not just order. But something people believed in.

It started with hands.

But it would end with a future.

A real one.

Druel was digging at the edge of the grove, hands blistered, shirt damp with sweat. He'd been assigned the lowliest job—ash duty, trench maintenance, hauling rocks—but he hadn't complained. Not once since that morning.

He grunted as his spade struck something solid.

He knelt, brushing away dirt with his callused fingers. A flat stone, wide and oddly smooth, shimmered beneath the surface. Not quite round. Not quite square. It was shaped like something that belonged in a place—not just buried under it.

He picked it up and stared.

It was cool to the touch. Heavy but not rough. Something about it stirred an idea in his mind.

He stood and walked slowly—toward the grove.

Twa Milhom stood where the bamboo twisted toward the sky. As Druel approached, the god's gaze turned to him, unreadable.

"I have a thought," Druel said, hesitating just a few feet from him.

Twa Milhom raised a brow. "That's dangerous."

Druel ignored the jab, holding up the stone. "The dirt—our feet—this place… it stays filthy. Even with showers. But if we laid these… in homes, maybe just where we sleep or sit… we wouldn't carry mud around. We'd stay cleaner."

For a moment, there was no sound.

Even the breeze paused.

Twa Milhom tilted his head. Not in mockery—but in surprise.

"…Of all the voices," the god murmured, "I did not expect yours to carry this."

He stepped forward and reached out a hand.

Before Druel could speak, a wave of invisible force hit him—not pain, not at first—then a splitting blast of insight.

His knees hit the dirt. He clutched his skull.

Visions poured into his mind: tiled stone, smoothed clay, indoor walkways, drainage beneath the floors. Techniques. Angles. Patterns of stonework laid by forgotten hands.

His mouth opened in a silent scream—but no sound came.

Then—silence.

He collapsed forward, panting.

Around him, half the tribe had frozen, watching from a distance, unsure whether to rush or run.

Druel breathed hard. Then slowly, shakily, he stood.

His eyes blinked through sweat. He looked at Twa Milhom and bowed his head deeply.

"Thank you," he whispered.

And turned.

As he walked away, a soft red glow shimmered on his cheeks.

Two thin rope ring markings, perfectly circular, appeared beneath each eye—burned into the skin like tattoos, yet without pain. The symbol of Twa Milhom.

The brand of Ben's people.

The crowd whispered. Mala took a half-step back. Sema's brows furrowed.

But Ben, watching from the other side of the fire pit, smiled faintly.

Another one.

Not by force.

Not by command.

But by understanding.

Twa Milhom chuckled to himself and whispered to the grove:

"Even the slowest roots know how to reach water… if you let them grow."