The sound that tore out of Ifabola did not feel like her own voice.
It ripped up from somewhere under her ribs, scraping her throat raw. Hands seized her shoulders; her mother's, Fẹ́mi's, others. The room tilted. All she could see was Kike's small body lying too still on the mat, mouth slightly open as if waiting to complain about being woken.
"No, no, no…" her mother kept saying, the words tumbling over one another, meaningless against the flatness of Kike's chest.
One of the older women—Auntie Bosede, whose hands knew every healing herb in the compound—pressed her ear to Kike's ribs. Her fingers searched for a pulse at the small, soft neck.
After a breath that felt like a century, she sat back.
Her eyes shone with pity and something harder.
"She is gone," Bosede said quietly.
The words settled over the room like dust.
Ifabola's mother let out a sound like a calabash shattering.
"No!" she cried, gathering Kike into her arms, rocking wildly. "She was breathing, she was right here—"
She looked up at Ifabola, eyes fever‑bright. "You said she was safe. You said the river—"
"She is!" Ifabola choked. "She's with the river‑lady, she's not—"
"Do not talk madness," someone hissed. "The child is dead in our hands."
Bosede caught Ifabola's mother's wrists gently.
"Sister," she said, voice thick, "let us lay her down. Let her spirit see we are not tossing her like a rag."
Together they eased Kike back onto the mat, smoothing her tangled hair, closing her small mouth.
Ifabola found herself pushed backward, out of the tight circle around the body, until her back met the wall.
The room smelled of smoke, sweat and something else—the faint, metallic tang that lingers after a spirit has left.
She pressed her left hand against her mouth to hold in another scream. Her right hand she clutched to her chest, feeling the cool sheath the river‑lady had wrapped around the burning mark.
She's not gone, she told herself fiercely. She's just…not here.
The others did not understand.
They saw only the empty shell.
"Call Baba," one of the younger apprentices gasped. "Send a runner—"
"He is days away," Bosede snapped, grief sharpening her tongue. "Do you want the boy to die on the road from running? Use your head."
Fẹ́mi knelt on the far side of the mat, frozen. His hands hovered over Kike's tiny form as if afraid to touch and afraid not to.
"She was just breathing," he whispered. "I felt it. Then it…slipped."
He looked up at Ifabola, eyes searching her face for an answer she didn't know how to give.
"I tried," she rasped. "I…she chose to go. The river—"
Her voice broke under the weight of their incomprehension.
Bosede's gaze flicked to her bandaged right hand, then away. "Take her outside," she murmured to one of the women. "Her ears are full. This room is for the dead now."
"I'm not leaving her," Ifabola protested.
Her mother's head snapped toward her.
"Go," she said hoarsely. "You did enough."
The words hit like a slap.
For a heartbeat, Ifabola swayed.
Then the woman Bosede had signaled—Auntie Funmi, whose own sons were grown and gone—took Ifabola gently but firmly by the arm.
"Come, little one," she said. "Let your mother…"
She did not finish the sentence.
Ifabola did not fight as Funmi led her out.
The noise in the room—a rising chorus of wails—dimmed as the door closed. In the corridor, the air felt too large. Her legs carried her without asking until she found herself in the inner courtyard, under the mango tree.
The tree's leaves were still. The sky above was painfully blue.
A line of women and apprentices hurried past toward the sleeping room, faces tight, carrying cloths and basins, candles for the night vigil.
No one stopped.
No one asked Ifabola if she was all right.
She sank onto the low bench Mama Ireti used to favor, staring at nothing.
A bird chattered somewhere on the compound wall.
From beyond, faint market noises drifted in—laughter, bargaining, a child's shriek of protest followed by a scolding slap.
Life, still going on.
Her stomach hollowed.
"Ọmọ mi."
Bosede's voice pulled her back.
The older woman had come out quietly at some point and now stood before her, the lines on her face deeper than before.
"Look at me," Bosede said.
Ifabola dragged her eyes up.
"You say she is with the river," the woman said. "Not gone. Do you know this, or is it the wish of a heart that cannot bear the truth yet?"
Ifabola swallowed.
"I saw her," she whispered. "By the halfway water. The river‑lady took her. Dupe is with them. They said…" Her throat closed for a moment. "They said it was safer than hanging between."
Bosede studied her for a long moment.
The courtyard noises faded to a hum.
Finally, the woman sighed.
"When I was your age," she said slowly, "I saw my brother in a dream after he drowned. He told me where his body was caught in the reeds. The next day they found him there. My mother beat me for 'inviting his spirit back.' Some people prefer not to know that paths run both ways."
She knelt in front of Ifabola, bringing their faces level.
"I do not know whether what you saw was true," she said. "But I know you are not a liar. And I know you have walked places most of us fear to think about. So I will not beat you for your words. I will only tell you this: be careful where you spill them. Grief makes ears sharp for blame."
Her gaze softened.
"You loved that child," she added. "That is clear in the way your hand shakes. Do not let anyone tell you otherwise."
Tears finally spilled down Ifabola's cheeks.
Bosede wiped them away with a rough thumb, then rose.
"There is much to do," she said, voice back to its usual briskness. "We must wash her, wrap her, sing her through the night. Whether her spirit listens from riverbank or ancestor's hall, she deserves proper sending."
She walked away without waiting for a reply.
Ifabola sat unmoving for several breaths.
Then, slowly, she got up.
She could not save Kike's body.
But she could walk beside it this last day.
The washing was done by women with steady hands and red‑rimmed eyes.
They laid Kike on a low board, wiped her with warm water smelling of camwood and bitter leaves, braided her hair as if for a festival. Someone found the small beaded necklace she had once stolen from their mother's basket and then "earned" by doing double chores for a week. They clasped it around her neck again.
Ifabola stood at the edge of the circle, fingers digging into her bandages, forcing herself to watch.
The sight did not become easier.
But the sharp, wild panic softened into a deep, aching heaviness.
When they wrapped Kike in white cloth, tucking it under her small feet, Ifabola stepped forward.
"Wait," she said.
All eyes turned to her.
She swallowed.
"I need to give her something," she said.
Her mother's jaw tightened.
"We have nothing left to give her," she said flatly.
Bosede laid a hand on her arm. "Let the child," she murmured.
Ifabola knelt by the board.
Her left hand crept to her neck, untying the thin cord of her own small pendant—a tiny cowrie shell filled with ground chalk Baba had given her when she first attended a public festival.
"For doorways," he had said then. "To remember you can always find your way back to us."
Now she placed it carefully in the folds of Kike's cloth, near her heart.
"So you don't get lost," she whispered. "Even on the other side."
For a moment, she thought she felt Kike's familiar stubbornness flare—a wordless I am not the one who gets lost.
Then it faded.
The women wrapped the cloth fully, covering the little face.
The world grew smaller and bigger at once.
They buried Kike by the river.
Not by the main burial grove—Bosede insisted children belonged where laughter could still find them, not in the heavy silence of old bones.
A shallow grave was dug near the place where the women fetched water, far enough that floods would not wash it open, close enough that the sound of splashing might keep her company.
Ifabola walked in the small procession behind the board, behind her weeping mother and silent brother.
The village watched as they passed.
Some faces were openly pitying.
Others held that tight, sour look that meant I knew nothing good would come of that house's magic.
Someone murmured, "Even their children are not safe from the mark."
A different voice answered, "Whose children are?"
The river gurgled indifferently.
They lowered the small wrapped form into the earth.
Ifabola wanted to jump in after her.
Instead she clutched the stone bead Baba had given her so hard the edges dug into her skin.
Bosede scattered chalk and herbs into the grave, murmuring prayers. A few of the white‑robed witches from the house added their own incantations, voices shaking.
Ifabola stepped forward once more.
She held out her right hand.
"I need to give her this too," she said.
"What?" her mother rasped.
"This." Ifabola opened her palm.
The bandage was gone.
At some point between the washing and the walk to the river, it had loosened and fallen away. No one had noticed.
The mark beneath had changed.
It was still there—the twisted curve borrowed from the hunger's name—but it was now traced over by another design, delicate and flowing, like overlapping ripples of water. Blue‑green light pulsed faintly along the curves when she focused.
Gasps rippled through the gathered mourners.
Her mother recoiled.
"What have you done?" she whispered.
"It's the river," Ifabola said, heart pounding. "She covered it. To slow him. To protect us."
"She?" someone muttered. "Which 'she'?"
Ifabola ignored them.
She scooped a handful of river water into her palm, letting it pool over the glowing mark.
Then she let it drip into the grave, onto the white cloth.
"Take care of her," she whispered to the water. "Please."
For a heartbeat, the surface of the thin puddle at the bottom of the grave shimmered.
Then it stilled.
They filled the hole.
Ifabola stayed until the last clod of earth fell, until the little mound looked just like Dupe's and Mama Ireti's, only smaller.
Only then did she allow herself to be led back to the compound, legs moving as if stuffed with wet clay.
That night, the wailing did not stop.
Women took turns sitting in the main room, singing songs of children—lullabies, clapping games, silly tunes Kike had mangled with her impatient tongue. Men came and went, leaving small gifts of food or coins, murmuring awkward condolences before escaping the heavy air.
Ifabola drifted through it like a ghost.
Every surface, every corner held a memory of Kike—chalk drawings on the wall, a cracked gourd she had claimed as "her" cup, the scuff mark where she had tripped chasing a chicken.
Her body ached with missing.
Sometime deep in the night, when even the wails had thinned to hoarse hums, she slipped out of the compound and made her way to the real river.
The moon hung low and fat over the water.
Frogs sang.
The air smelled of wet earth and distant cooking smoke.
She knelt at the bank, toes curling into the damp mud.
"Are you there?" she whispered.
For a long time, there was only the regular hush of water against shore.
Then the current around her ankles swirled.
A shape formed on the surface—not fully rising, only a distortion, like heat waves over fire.
You should be asleep, the river‑lady's voice murmured in her mind. Not throwing your grief at my banks.
"I can't sleep," Ifabola said, words trembling. "She's gone from here. My mother…she looks at me like I am a broken pot. The others whisper. Baba is walking in red dirt and doesn't know. How am I supposed to lie down and pretend everything is fine?"
The river chuckled softly.
No one asked you to pretend, it said. But your bones will crack if you never rest. Even stones sleep under moss.
"I don't want rest," Ifabola snapped. "I want this to stop. I want him to stop taking. If Baba fails out there, what then? How many more graves by your water?"
Ripples crisscrossed, reflecting moonlight in sharp lines.
You carry much for a small chest, the goddess said. But you are not wrong. The hunger moves faster now. It has found other mouths to speak through.
Images brushed Ifabola's mind—an abandoned hut, a circle of figures chanting, a half‑broken stone glowing sullenly.
"Ajani," she breathed. She had seen the man at the gate, shouting with too‑bright eyes. "He's calling it."
He thinks he is using it, the river replied dryly. Anger makes men drunk. They forget who mixed the wine.
"Can you stop him?" Ifabola asked.
I am water, the goddess said. I flow where I am called, I push where I can, I yield where I must. I can drown him if he steps too deep into me. But his feet stand on dry ground. That is the work of other hands—thunder, iron, choices.
Ifabola clenched her fists.
"What about my hand?" she demanded. "You covered his mark. Does that mean I can pull things as well as push them away?"
Silence hummed.
You hold two threads now, the river‑lady said slowly. One of hunger, one of flow. If you twist them carelessly, they will strangle you. If you learn to weave them, you may bind more than you burn.
"I don't have time to 'learn' slowly," Ifabola burst out. "He is eating people. Children. Friends. How many more teachers will I have to bury before I am 'ready'?"
A small wave slapped the bank, splashing her knees.
You think I do not feel every child who sinks into me? the goddess retorted. You think I enjoy tasting their fear? I am not your enemy, little priest's daughter. But I am not a spear you can simply throw, either. My reach is wide, but my rules are old.
Ifabola bit her lip.
The cold water helped.
After a moment, she asked more quietly, "Then what can I do? Right now. Not in ten years when I'm taller."
The current stroked around her ankles, almost like a hand.
Breathe, the goddess said. Stay alive. Remember. Talk to your father when he returns—or when he doesn't. Warn those who will listen. And watch for the man with the broken stone. When you see him, do not try to match his anger. Water does not beat fire by roaring louder. It smothers.
Cryptic, as always.
But a strange calm seeped into Ifabola's bones as the water cooled her skin.
Grief did not lessen.
Resolve settled beside it, heavy and solid.
She bowed her head to the shimmering reflection.
"Take care of Kike," she murmured. "And Dupe. And Mama Ireti. Please don't let him reach them."
He will try, the goddess said. He always does. But he is not the only one with teeth.
The ripples smoothed.
The presence faded.
Ifabola stood slowly, legs stiff.
Behind her, at the edge of the path back to the compound, someone watched.
She turned.
Fẹ́mi stepped out from the shadows, face pale.
"You shouldn't be out here alone," he said. "If something had—"
His voice broke.
He looked like he had aged five seasons since morning.
"You heard?" she asked.
"Some," he said. "Not all." He scrubbed a hand over his face. "I don't know what to believe anymore. River‑ladies taking my sister. Old hungers scratching at our walls. Baba sleeping near strange shrines. I just know I am very tired of graves."
"Me too," she whispered.
He walked to her side.
For a moment they stood together, staring at the dark water.
Then, awkwardly, he put an arm around her shoulders.
She leaned into it.
They walked home in silence.
Far away, under a sky streaked with red dust instead of humid clouds, Baba's staff burned briefly in his hand.
He woke with a gasp, sitting up in his bedroll.
The camp around him slumbered: snoring warriors, dying embers, the distant cough of some desert creature. Ogunremi, on watch, turned at the sound.
"What is it?" the war‑chief murmured.
Baba looked at his staff.
A thin crack had appeared near the carved head, faint but new.
He closed his eyes.
Somewhere deep in his chest, a thread had snapped—the subtle, ever‑present tug of a child's fragile breath.
"Kike," he whispered.
Ogunremi's face tightened.
"I am sorry," he said simply.
Baba nodded once, jaw locked.
He did not wail.
There was no river here to carry his grief's sound, no family to gather around the broken mat.
Only dry earth, stars like cold eyes, and the looming line of hills that hid the ruins of Òkìtì.
"We can turn back," Ogunremi said after a moment. "The queen‑mother can send others."
"No," Baba said hoarsely. "Turning back will not pull her out of the ground. Or the river. Or wherever she walks now."
He gripped the staff until his knuckles whitened.
"If anything," he added, "this makes our work here more urgent. I will not let her be one small name in a long line of pointless deaths."
Ogunremi studied him.
"You are allowed to break a little," he said gruffly. "Even priests are still men."
"I will break when there is time," Baba replied. "For now, I have work."
He rose, joints protesting.
Beyond the next ridge, under old red stones that remembered too much blood, a forgotten shrine waited.
Its carved doors had not been touched in generations.
Tonight, as Baba and Ogunremi stared into the dark, something on the other side of those doors stirred.
It tasted the echo of a child's last breath.
It smiled—if such things can.
And It waited for the footsteps It had been promised long ago.