ROOT OF RESILIENCE

Root of resilience

That night, Abel dreamed of chains.

He and other villagers were bound together, forced to carry heavy loads across the dry land. Armed men shouted as whips cut through the air. Blood stained the dust beneath their feet. Abel lifted his head in pain—and then he saw his mother.

Hannah stood among the guards, her face covered in blood, her body trembling as she cried uncontrollably. A sharp sword was pressed against her neck. Slowly, mercilessly, it was raised.

Just as the blade began to fall—

Abel jolted awake.

His chest rose and fell rapidly as he sat up on his bed. Dawn had barely broken. Pale light slipped quietly into the valley.

“What a beautiful morning,” he whispered to himself, though his hands were still shaking.

His mother lay nearby, fast asleep, unharmed.

Abel rose and stepped outside to fetch firewood. He carried his cutlass and a strong rope as he walked toward the farm, the memory of the dream clinging to him like a shadow.

Halfway there, he heard it.

A woman’s cry.

A baby’s cry.

The sound cut through the quiet like a blade.

Abel slowed his steps. Something was wrong. Carefully, he moved toward the sound and hid behind a soursop tree. From there, he peeped through the leaves.

What he saw froze his blood.

Some of the elders stood in a clearing. In their hands was a newborn child. Without mercy, they tore the baby apart, laughing as though it were nothing more than an animal.

Abel’s breath caught in his throat.

On the ground, the child’s mother knelt, crying bitterly.

“My son… my son!” she wailed.

One of the elders turned to her sharply. “If you speak of this,” he warned, “you will die like him. The land does not accept this child. He must be dead.”

Abel trembled. His legs shook. His skin turned cold, and his mouth went dry. Slowly, carefully, he tried to move backward.

Then his foot struck a stick.

The sound snapped through the air.

A torchlight swung toward him.

“There!” a voice shouted.

Fear took over.

Abel ran.

He ran as fast as his legs could carry him, branches tearing at his skin as the elders chased him through the bush. His lungs burned, but he did not stop. Desperation drove him forward until he dove into thick bushes and hid.

One of the men followed.

“Come out, come out,” the man said, laughing deeply. “Wherever you are, I can feel you.”

Abel’s eyes searched the ground. His hands closed around a heavy tangerine stick lying nearby.

The man turned his back.

Abel moved.

With all the strength fear gave him, he struck.

The man fell—motionless.

Abel stood there, shaking, his body splashed with blood. His heart thundered in his ears.

Then a voice spoke behind him.

“Oh no,” it said coldly. “You have killed Mr. Smith. Come here, little boy. Now we must kill you.”

Abel did not look back.

He ran.

As he fled, he tore off his clothes and flung them aside, knowing they would search for him. By the time the valley stirred awake, Abel was gone.

And with him, the silence had begun to c***k.