Chương 11: B1 Chapter 10

I looked between my father and Eyowon. The air shifted between them, electric in a way I couldn't properly describe. It pressed against my skin and raised the hairs along my arms. The village had gone so quiet that I could hear the faint crackle of the cooking fires behind me, the soft rustle of leaves high above us, and the uneven rhythm of my own breathing. I waited as though the world itself were preparing to answer them. For a moment, everything remained still. Makua had stopped moving beside me.

He held himself perfectly steady, almost as though his heart had stopped alongside the rest of the village. Then he turned his head enough to look at me. His expression was lighter than the silence around us, but I could see the concern beneath his crooked smile.

"E'ru, brother, you need to figure this out," he said.

"I won't stand in your way, although it's dog shit that the old bat thinks you're stronger than me." Eyowon's cane struck the ground. The sound cracked through the village like a branch breaking in a storm. Several people flinched. Makua's smile vanished for half a breath, and his eyes shifted toward Eyowon. She stood rigidly before us, her white hair stirring in the warm breeze, her fingers curled around the top of her cane. The old woman's gaze could've cut through stone.

Makua wisely continued before she could speak.

"Go. Talk to them. Figure it out." There was no humor in his voice now. Only certainty. I pushed myself away from his shoulder. My feet touched the ground unevenly, and pain moved through my back as I forced my legs to hold me. My knees trembled beneath me. For a moment, I thought I'd collapse, but Makua kept one hand near my arm until he was certain I wouldn't fall. The ground felt hot beneath my bare feet. Dust clung to the blood drying along my toes, and every movement pulled at the scar across my back.

My body wanted to remain where it was, supported by Makua's strength, but something deeper urged me forward. Then I began walking. The first step was little more than a stumble. The second was steadier. By the third, I'd found a rhythm, though it was an ugly one. My weaker leg dragged behind the stronger one, scraping across the packed earth while I made my way toward my father and Eyowon. Every eye in the village followed me as I crossed the space between us.

The distance was short, though my body stretched each step into something larger. I felt the weight of every stare. Some people looked at me with pity. Others looked afraid. A few looked angry, as though my decision had already betrayed them. I tried not to look at any of them. My father watched me approach. The fear in his face deepened with every step. He'd always been strong in front of me.

Even when grief hollowed him out, even when the village whispered about the son he'd failed to protect, he'd never allowed me to see him break. He'd carried me when I was too young to walk, then carried me again after my body became too damaged to move without help. He'd lifted me from the ground after every fall and told me to try again, even when neither of us believed I could. Now he looked at me as though I were the one thing he could no longer save.

"Father, I know how much you've lost," I said. My voice sounded rough, but it carried across the silence.

"You lost my mother. You lost the future you believed your son should've had. You lost all the children you were promised, the family that should've surrounded you as you grew old." His face tightened, though he allowed me to continue. His eyes lowered briefly, and I knew I'd touched the wound he kept hidden from everyone else. If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.

"You lost the life you thought you were building," I said.

"You lost the man you thought I'd become. Every time you look at me, you see the child who should've been strong, healthy, and whole. You see the son who should've stood beside you during hunts, who should've carried your name into the next generation." My father's jaw clenched.

"Now Eyowon's asking you to risk the last piece of family you have, but you offered her the same thing. You offered her yourself without considering what that would mean if I lost you." A murmur moved through the crowd, but it died quickly.

"You were willing to walk into the forest because you believed it was your duty. You were willing to place your life in the hands of the gods because you thought losing yourself was acceptable if it saved everyone else." I took another step.

"But you never asked me whether I could survive losing you." I reached him and placed one hand against his arm. Beneath my fingers, his muscles were rigid. He was trembling, though he tried to hide it.

"You're the only family I have," I said.

"You're the only piece of my mother I have. When you tell me stories about her, I feel her inside my heart. I hear her laugh through your voice. I see the shape of her hands in the way you describe them. When you're gone, what'll I have left except the empty place where both of you should be?" My father's hand closed over mine. His palm was rough from years of work, scarred from old hunts and older battles. I remembered being small enough to wrap both hands around one of his fingers.

I remembered falling asleep against his chest while he told me stories about my mother. I remembered believing that as long as he was beside me, nothing in the world could truly hurt me. That belief had survived longer than my strength had.

"I know you see the boy who was broken," I continued.

"I know you see your son. I'll always be those things to you." His eyes shone, but he refused to let the tears fall.

"I know you want to protect me. I know you think that because my body has failed me before, it'll fail me again. Maybe it will. Maybe I'll fall before I reach the place Eyowon has spoken of. Maybe I won't return. But if I stay here while you go in my place, I'll lose you without ever knowing whether I could've done something." I turned my face toward Eyowon. She hadn't moved. Her expression remained unreadable, but her eyes were fixed on me with an intensity that made my skin prickle.

The mark on my forehead pulsed beneath the drying blood, answering the presence of the old woman, or perhaps the presence of whatever watched through her.

"But Eyowon's never asked anything of me," I said.

"She's asked many things of all of you, and this is the first time the gods have looked upon me without finding me wanting." A faint wind moved through the village. It carried the scent of ash, damp earth, and the bitter herbs Eyowon burned during ceremonies. The mark on my forehead tingled beneath the drying blood, then flared with a sudden heat. I swallowed against the pain.

"They've asked something of me. Our people have always listened when the gods spoke. We've trusted them because it isn't our place to question their will." My father's grip tightened around my hand.

"E'ru," he whispered. There was a warning in my name. A plea. Perhaps even an order. I looked back at him and tightened my fingers around his arm.

"Eyowon speaks for them, so I must answer." The words settled over the village. For several heartbeats, no one reacted. Then someone behind me drew in a sharp breath. Another person began to pray beneath their breath. Makua shifted his weight, ready to catch me if my legs gave out, but he didn't call me back. Eyowon lifted her chin.

"Then answer," she said. Her voice was quiet, yet it reached every corner of the village. The mark on my forehead burned. I felt something stir beyond the edge of my senses, something vast and patient turning its attention toward me. The sensation wasn't like being watched by a person. It was more like standing beneath the night sky and suddenly realizing that the stars were looking back. My father stepped closer.

"If you go," he said, "I go with you."

"No." The word left me before I could think. His expression hardened.

"You don't decide that alone."

"I'm not asking you to follow me."

"You're my son."

"And you're my father." I held his gaze.

"That's exactly why you can't come." He stared at me, wounded by the refusal.

"If the gods have chosen me, then they've chosen me," I said.

"You can't bargain with them by offering yourself in my place. You can't keep taking my burdens because you believe I'm too weak to carry them." His mouth opened, but no words came. I softened my voice.

"You taught me that our people must answer when the gods call. You taught me that courage isn't the absence of fear. It's choosing what must be done while fear is still inside you." My father looked toward Eyowon, then back at me.

"I taught you those things so you'd survive."

"Then let me try." The silence returned, but it no longer felt empty. It felt like a doorway. Eyowon turned toward the forest. Beyond the last huts, the trees stood in a dark, unbroken wall. Their branches tangled together overhead, hiding the sky. Somewhere within that darkness waited the place she'd spoken of, the place where the gods had marked me and demanded an answer. I'd spent my entire life being told what I couldn't do. I couldn't hunt. I couldn't fight. I couldn't carry the family legacy.

I couldn't stand beside my father. Now the gods had given me a choice, and for the first time, no one could make it for me. I released my father's arm. His hand remained around mine for one final moment before he let go.

"Come back to me," he said. I wanted to promise him that I would. Instead, I nodded. Then I turned toward the hut and took my first step alone.