Fire and Spirit
1038 Words
Chapter 6: Fire and Spirit
Dawn broke not with sunlight, but with the drumming of hooves and the clang of iron. From the palace, a caravan of warriors marched toward Ubia—forty strong, clad in red leathers and bronze helms, led by Commander Dogo, the king’s most ruthless enforcer. Behind them rumbled wagons of oil barrels, axes, and siege tools, their shadows crawling like vultures before the kill.
In the heart of the village, Ada stood at the base of the Iroko, flanked by Baba Ogun and Old Mala. Around them, the villagers gathered, forming a ring of protection. Their eyes betrayed fear, but their stance was firm.
“They come,” whispered a young boy.
“We will not move,” said Baba Ogun. “We stand as one.”
Ada stepped forward, raising her grandmother’s amulet. “Let the king see that we are not afraid.”
The first line of soldiers arrived just after sunrise. Commander Dogo dismounted with the arrogance of a man who had never known resistance. His eyes swept across the gathering, narrowing when they settled on the glowing Iroko.
“You defy the will of King Esan,” he barked. “Step aside or be removed.”
“No,” Ada said, her voice calm but unwavering. “We will not allow you to harm the guardian of this land.”
Dogo sneered. “The king has no patience for folktales.” He signaled his men. “Bring the oil.”
Two soldiers stepped forward, carrying large clay jars. As they approached the tree, the ground trembled slightly, and a sudden gust of wind blew the torches out of the soldiers’ hands. The air turned icy cold.
The Ubia shimmered again, brighter this time. Whispers rose from its bark, soft and urgent.
“Protect the root... protect the land...”
The villagers gasped. Ada closed her eyes and pressed her hand to the trunk. “Speak through me,” she murmured.
In an instant, her body arched backward. A beam of golden light shot from the Iroko and enveloped her. She rose slightly above the ground, her eyes glowing like twin suns. When she spoke, it was not her voice alone, but a chorus—echoes of the past, the ancestors, the earth itself.
“This land was given life by Okwe,” the voices said. “He rooted himself in sacrifice to shelter the people. Harm this tree, and you sever the bond between land and spirit. You awaken the wrath of forgotten gods.”
The warriors stumbled back. Even Dogo took a step away.
“What sorcery is this?” he hissed.
But his pride would not yield. He drew his sword and stepped forward. “Cut it down!” he shouted.
A soldier raised his axe—but as he swung, the earth split beneath him. Roots surged up like snakes, wrapping around his legs and hurling him across the clearing.
Panic erupted. Some soldiers dropped their weapons and fled. Others hesitated, caught between orders and terror. Lightning cracked across the sky, though the sun still shone.
Dogo snarled. “You will all burn for this!” He grabbed a torch from one of his wagons and lunged toward the tree.
Before the flame could reach the trunk, Ada extended her hand. A gust of wind burst from her palm, extinguishing the torch and throwing Dogo to the ground.
He groaned, stunned.
The villagers began to chant—old songs, sacred words, passed from grandmothers to grandchildren. Baba Ogun beat his staff into the earth. The rhythm pulsed in the soil, echoed in the trees.
Suddenly, a glowing mist rose from the Iroko. The spirits had come.
They emerged from the light—shapes of ancestors, warriors, mothers, children—formed of smoke and starlight. They moved through the village, standing beside each living soul, placing hands upon shoulders.
Dogo’s eyes widened in terror. He turned to flee, but a wall of roots blocked his path.
Ada descended slowly, the light around her dimming, her body trembling. “Leave now,” she said. “And tell your king that Ubia stands protected—not by weapons, but by spirit and truth.”
Commander Dogo rose, dirt smeared across his face, his pride shattered. He staggered back toward his remaining men. “Fall back!” he barked. “We return to the palace.”
The soldiers did not argue. They turned and fled, the earth quaking beneath their retreat.
As the dust settled, the villagers erupted into cheers. Children hugged their mothers. Elders wept and clutched each other. Baba Ogun dropped to his knees and kissed the earth.
But Ada did not celebrate. She leaned against the baobab, her strength nearly gone. The pendant around her neck had dimmed, but it was still warm.
The spirit woman from her vision appeared once more, stepping from the light of the tree.
“You have done well, child,” she said. “But the journey is not yet over.”
“What more must I do?” Ada whispered.
The spirit touched her brow. “To heal the land, you must understand it. The king’s heart is not evil—it is wounded. There is rot in the palace that must be uncovered.”
“Rot?”
“The greed of men is never born—it is sown. Find the seed.”
Ada nodded slowly. “Then I must go to the palace.”
Baba Ogun, overhearing, turned with alarm. “Child, you cannot go there. They will—”
“They will not harm me,” Ada said. “Not if I carry the truth.”
The spirit smiled. “The Iroko will protect you. But remember—every gift has its cost.”
That night, while the village slept in peace for the first time in days, Ada sat alone beneath the tree. She looked up at its branches, now glowing faintly with a new light.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
The wind replied softly, “We thank you.”
A new journey was beginning.
The fire had been stopped.
But the true flame—the flame of change—was only just beginning to burn.
- Writer
