It starts as a whisper of ozone on the wind. Then it becomes a voice -- not human, not yet -- a distant promise of power unsatisfied. I spring from sleep as the horizon flashes green and silver. Outside, a lenticular cloud gathers, pulsing with its own light. An unnatural storm, alive with gravity's fury, is forming.
Amina's voice crackles on my old radio before I even think to reach for it. She tells me that readings from satellites have spiked around an area near the Cameroonian Highlands, specifically by Lake Nyos -- but no one dares say "Nyos" aloud. Its name has become a curse among scientists. She pleads with me to hurry; something terrifying is waking.
Without pause, I climb aboard my makeshift sand-sail craft and chase the cloud. The desert blurs beneath as I speed northward through night. Each pulse of green lightning through the air carries a strange note, as if the wind were singing in a language I almost understand.
By midnight, I am above the shimmering waters of Lake Nyos. The new moon's reflection is thrown into chaos; a gyre of emerald light spins above the water. Black tendrils of storm stretch toward the stars, curling like the tentacles of a cosmic creature.
My breath freezes. The lore of my people speaks of a great serpent sleeping beneath water; we called it Dan Ayido, the Black Serpent. I wonder if ancient truth hides in these modern horrors. The vortex of energy above Nyos throbs with malevolence, and for the first time since the powers surged in me, I feel fear.
I raise my arms. Gravity bends tightly around the lake, as though to pin the darkness down. The storm balks, shrieking like wind through bones. Stones lift from the crater rim and swirl upward; I hold them still, my palms out.
Then a name slices through my mind, clear as a bell: Nyos. A voice speaks it -- or perhaps my own heart fears it. "Nyos," I whisper into the void. No answer comes, just the thunderous silence of expectation.
This storm is born of something ancient and angry. I keep my vigil until the first light of dawn, and when I finally let the rocks descend, the vortex has unraveled into mere mist. But I know it will return. Lake Nyos is speaking -- and the earth is listening.
As I drive my craft back toward home, my thoughts are heavy: the threat has a name, and it is unforgiving. The balance trembles more now, edged closer to abyss than ever before.