Way of The Pride

13| The Message

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Days later
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An onset of gloom seemed to have casted over the people of Isimir - subtle though it was but visible to keen eyes. It was there, concealed in strained smiles, peaking through weary sighs and settling beneath faces that portrayed a calm facade. The only ones who seemed unaffected by the disease were the young ones who radiated joy, their laughter a source of comfort.

In their own way everyone was moving on from the death of the Priestess.

A different kind of gloom had found its way to his home, holding the men in its spell. Agada laid on the bench, hands crossed behind his head, as his gaze wandered over the morning sky.

Threads of light slowly retreated giving way for dark clouds to dance across the bright skies. The sun rebelled at the intrusion - struggling in the face of darkness - yet the clouds continued to obstruct its path of light.

Darkness rising, heralding the scent of doom.

Terror like no other seized his heart, a bitter reminder of the helplessness he felt in the grip of his nightmares - fear of the unknown. Much like his dreams he was watching it unfold in reality, his confused mind pondering upon the meaning behind the signs.

Ever since the night Agada told his father of his terrible dream, since the night he confessed to the strange visions he had been experiencing, his father had completely turned to a recluse.

His worrying behaviour gave him sleepless nights. He now prowled about the compound constantly distracted, his hair unkempt, bearing the gaze of a worried parent. So disturbed was he that he had taken to his hut, locking himself in for long periods. He could not count the number of times he sent his disappointed patients away.

His father was a man of strong will who had experienced things ears dared not hear. He should have been back to his wise, old self. Days had passed and yet he remained unchanged.Were his dreams the source of his father's worry?

He had no one to blame but himself. If he had known his father would react so the secret would have followed him to his grave. He should not have yielded so easily in the face of fatherly concern. He should have hidden his emotions well to spare him of the agony he was passing through.

The alarmed bleating of goats followed by the sound of a cock crowing its protest drew his distracted gaze to the person entering their compound. There he was, the man of mystery, Aniweta.

He was dusting remnants of corn off his hands as he limped out of the pen. He must have finished feeding the goats. Scattered beside it were broken pieces of firewood. He bent down and started arranging them into a neat bundle. Somehow he managed to lift all that wood on one broad shoulder as he took them inside the cooking hut.

Had he been up since the crack of dawn?

Now that he noticed, the compound looked swept, the water pots filled to the brim and he had already fetched firewood that would last us for days. The sun had barely rose yet he was already done with the chores. Was he always this hardworking?

Oblivious to eyes on him Aniweta came out of the cooking hut, his hands reaching for the knots to adjust his waist-garment. The old thing looked worn, like it had seen better days. He still wore the garment he was brought in it with, refusing to wear any other clothing offered to him much to Agada's confusion.

Perhaps his refusal was because it was the only memory he had of his home.

His locs shielded his face so Agada was unable to see his expression. He was standing in front of his father's hut yet again, shoulders drooped in worry. It was the same dance he did the past few days and it always ended the same way. No matter how much he knocked the door always remained closed.