Night of the whispers
504 Words
Chapter 4: Night of the Whispers
The night lay over Ubia like a velvet shroud, thick and silent. Not even the crickets dared to sing. Ada crept out of her family’s compound, her heart thudding in her chest like a drum. She carried nothing but the wooden pendant her grandmother had given her—an amulet carved with the sigil of the earth spirit.
She walked the familiar path to the Iroko tree, but tonight it felt unfamiliar, cloaked in an otherworldly presence. The shadows twisted strangely under the moonlight, and the trees seemed to lean in, watching her pass.
When she reached the ancient baobab, she knelt before it, her hands pressed to the earth.
“Okwe,” she whispered. “What must I do to save you?”
The tree groaned low, and its bark shimmered with faint silver light. Then, in a language both strange and familiar, a voice echoed from its depths:
“To save the root, bind it with soul, not soil. To guard the day, embrace the night. One must fall for all to rise.”
Ada repeated the words over and over until they etched themselves into her memory.
Suddenly, a gust of wind blew through the clearing, and the flame of her courage flickered. She stood, heart pounding, as shapes emerged from the shadows.
Spirits.
They were tall and thin, translucent beings with glowing eyes and bodies woven from mist. One stepped forward—a woman draped in leaves, her face kind yet unreadable.
“You seek to protect the sacred,” the spirit said. “But the sacred is bound by sacrifice.”
“What do you mean?” Ada asked.
The spirit gestured to the Iroko. “Okwe gave his life to save the village. Now, the balance tilts again. Another must choose.”
“Choose what?”
“To become the guardian.”
Amina’s breath caught. “Me?”
The spirit did not answer. Instead, she held out her hand. Ada reached for it, and the world spun. The night vanished. They stood in a space between worlds—neither earth nor sky. Stars moved like fish through water, and the air shimmered.
“This is the spirit realm,” the woman said. “Here, truth has no shadow. Look.”
Ada turned and saw visions playing in the mist—her village drowning in flood, the palace crumbling, people wailing. Then, the image shifted. She saw herself merging with the tree, glowing with golden light, and the land healing.
Tears filled her eyes.
“I’m just a girl,” she whispered.
“You are the chosen listener,” the spirit replied. “And sometimes, it is the smallest voice that speaks the loudest truths.”
The vision faded. Ada stood once more beneath the Iroko.
The night air was cold. But within her, a fire had been lit.
She now knew the cost. And she would pay it if she must.
The whispers in the leaves followed her all the way home.
- Writer
