Sleep was a traitor that had fled the palace of Ile-Ife. It had been banished by the scent of smoke that clung to the very mortar between the stones, by the ghost of wailing that echoed in the silent halls long after the voices had grown hoarse. Queen Moremi moved through the royal compound like a restless spirit herself, the weight of the day a mantle of lead on her shoulders that no hand could lift.
The formal indigo and silver wrapper had been exchanged for a simple, undyed linen shift, but the crown of her thoughts was heavier than any coral-beaded diadem. It was a cage of thorns, tightening with every remembered image: the hollow eyes of the child in the courtyard, the tremble in Idowu's voice as he spoke of faceless warriors, the devastating helplessness in her husband's gaze.
Her feet, bare and silent, carried her to the palace gardens. By day, this was a place of vibrant, ordered beauty—a testament to the kingdom's prosperity. Terraces of medicinal herbs released their sharp, clean scents under the sun; beds of vibrant flame lilies and delicate moonflowers painted the grounds in bold strokes of red and white; the careful geometry of the paths spoke of a world under control.
But tonight, under a moon shrouded by the lingering haze of distant fires, the garden was a place of distorted shadows and eerie silence. The familiar scents were subdued, overpowered by the stubborn, acrid ghost of the raid. The flowers, closed for the night, seemed like clenched fists. The leaves of the broad banana plants hung limp, their edges tinged with a faint, ghostly dusting of ash carried on the wind. The only sounds were the nervous chirrup of a lone cricket and the soft crunch of gravel under her feet, a sound that seemed obscenely loud in the oppressive quiet.
It was from a secluded arbor, thick with the scent of night-blooming jasmine struggling to be noticed, that she heard them. Voices, low and urgent, cutting through the stillness. They came from the Pavilion of Council, an open-sided structure draped in flowering vines, where Ọranyan often met with his chiefs during the day. Now, it was a stage for a nocturnal, desperate debate.
Moremi melted into the deep shadows of a fragrant frangipani tree, its white blossoms glowing like pale, watchful eyes in the gloom. She did not intend to eavesdrop, but the currents of their discourse were the very currents pulling her kingdom under, and she needed to feel their pull.
"—a wall of fire!" a voice was saying, sharp with agitation. It was Chief Gbolahan, the commander of the city guards, a man whose body was a map of old battle scars and whose mind was a straightforward ledger of force and counter-force. "We clear the forest for a mile around the city. Deny them cover. Let them come at us across open ground, and see how their raffia armor fares against a volley of flaming arrows!"
A softer, wearier voice answered. It was the High Priest Baba Ewe, his tones usually rich with the cadence of ritual chants, now frayed with exhaustion. "And what of the Orisha of the forest, Chief? What of Osanyin, who guards the green, living things? To burn his domain is to invite a wrath that makes these raids look like the mischief of children. We are dealing with a spiritual pestilence, and you suggest we fight it with torches. You might as well try to heal a fever by setting the patient ablaze."
"Then what would you have us do, old man?" This was a younger voice, laced with the impatience of fear. Moremi recognized it as Adeyemi, a rising warrior, bold and untested by true despair. "Chant incantations at them? Throw kola nuts and hope they go away? My men are ready to fight, but they need a foe they can see, one that bleeds! These… these phantoms…" He trailed off, the bravado crumbling to reveal the terror beneath.
"We must strengthen our ase," Baba Ewe insisted, his voice gaining a sliver of its old authority. "Our spiritual vitality. The enemy feeds on our fear, our confusion. We must make grand sacrifices to Ogun, god of iron and war, and to Esu, the messenger who can open the ways between worlds. We must appease, we must fortify."
"We have made sacrifices!" Gbolahan snapped, the sound of his hand slapping his thigh a sharp report in the night. "Two white rams just last moon! The smoke of our offerings rises, but so does the smoke from our burning homes! The gods are not listening, Baba. Or they cannot help."
The debate spiraled, a vortex of futility. Strategies of brute force clashed with pleas for divine intervention, both sides armed with desperation but devoid of true hope. They were men trying to bail out a sinking canoe with their hands, too panicked to see the gaping hole in its hull.
Moremi listened, her heart a cold, heavy stone in her chest. Gbolahan's fire would only bring a different kind of destruction. Baba Ewe's rituals, while noble, were like offering a cup of water to a man dying of thirst in a desert—a gesture, not a solution. Adeyemi's frustration was the frustration of every soul in Ile-Ife.
This was the sum of her kingdom's wisdom. This was the limit of conventional thought. A profound and chilling clarity settled over her. The answer would not be found in the war chambers, nor in the grand temples. It would not be forged in iron or summoned by chant. The enemy came from a place outside their understanding, and so the understanding must be sought in a place outside themselves.
Her resolve, born on the balcony watching the smoke rise and solidified in the healing chambers listening to Idowu's terror, now became a definitive, unshakeable path. She had to look beyond. She had to go to the source of the mystery, to the ancient, untamed powers that predated kingdoms and crowns.
She slipped away from the frangipani's shadow, the voices of the men fading behind her, their arguments now as meaningless as the rustle of the ash-dusted leaves. She moved not back towards the royal chambers, but towards the oldest part of the palace grounds, a section rarely visited, where the clean lines of architecture gave way to the stubborn, ancient wildness of the land itself.
Here, tucked against the great laterite wall that surrounded Ile-Ife, was a small, humble compound. The walls were not of polished plaster but of woven reeds and dried mud, and the roof was a thick, living thatch of elephant grass that sagged with the weight of years. This was the home of Iya Agba, the Old Mother, a priestess so ancient that she was said to have sung the lullabies for Ọranyan's grandfather. She was a keeper of the old stories, the deep magic, the knowledge that flowed like underground rivers beneath the solid earth of daily life.
Moremi pushed aside the bead curtain that served as a door. The air inside was thick and still, smelling of dried herbs, dusty earth, and the faint, sweet scent of anointing oil. A single clay lamp filled with palm oil cast a wavering, orange light, painting dancing shadows on the walls. Bunches of feathers, strings of ancient cowrie shells, and bundles of roots hung from the rafters like forgotten memories.
Iya Agba sat on a low stool before the small fire pit, her back to the entrance. She was so still, so woven into the fabric of the shadows, that she seemed more a part of the hut than a person within it.
"The Queen comes to the old woman in the dead of night," the priestess said, her voice a dry rustle, like pages turning in a very old book. She did not turn around. "The city sleeps fitfully, and its heart walks on troubled feet."
Moremi knelt on the packed earth floor, the posture of a supplicant, not a queen. The gesture held no humiliation, only respect for the vast reservoir of time and knowledge seated before her.
"Iya," Moremi began, her voice soft. "The city is dying by inches. We are fighting a shadow with swords. The council debates, but their words are empty gourds. I need… I need a truth that is not found in their councils."
Iya Agba slowly turned. Her face was a beautiful, intricate mask of wrinkles, each line a story etched into her skin. Her eyes, clouded with age, seemed to look not at Moremi, but through her, into the swirling currents of fate and possibility.
"The Ará Ọ̀rùn," the old woman stated, it was not a question. "They have stepped from the realm of story into the world of flesh and raffia. The veil between worlds is thin here, in Ile-Ife, the cradle. It has always been thin. Sometimes, things slip through."
"How do we send them back?" Moremi asked, her plea naked in the quiet hut. "What is their weakness?"
Iya Agba was silent for a long time, her gnarled fingers tracing patterns in the dust on the floor. "To know a thing's weakness, you must first know its nature. To know its nature, you must go to the place where such knowledge is kept." She lifted her milky gaze to Moremi. "You have already decided this. I see the journey in your eyes. You seek not my permission, but a direction."
Moremi bowed her head in acknowledgment. "I must go to the source. I must speak to a power that can see into the spirit world."
A faint, grim smile touched Iya Agba's lips. "The wise do not 'speak' to such powers, child. They listen. And they bargain." She leaned forward, the firelight catching the deep intelligence in her aged eyes. "There is one who might help. But her price is as deep as her waters."
"Who?"
"The Spirit of the Esimirin," Iya Agba whispered, and the name seemed to suck the warmth from the hut. The flame in the lamp guttered. "The river that borders the forbidden grove to the east. She is ancient, older than the first Ooni. She is memory. She is truth. She has granted boons to the desperate before—healing for the sick, fertility for the barren, sight for the blind. But for each gift, she demands a sacrifice. A price chosen from the supplicant's soul, not their storehouse. She has taken a warrior's courage, leaving him a trembling shell. She has taken a singer's voice, leaving her in eternal silence. She has taken a mother's most cherished memory of her child. Her economy is one of essence."
The words hung in the close, herbal-scented air, each one a weight added to the scale upon which Moremi's fate was balanced.
"What must I do?" Moremi asked, her voice steady, though a cold dread was coiling in her stomach.
"Go to her at the first light, when the world is neither night nor day, when the veil is thinnest. Go alone. No royal escort, no weapon of iron. Iron offends the old ones. Go to the great bend in the river, where the iroko tree, older than time, leans over the water as if listening to its secrets. Make your plea. Speak from the truth of your heart, for she will taste a lie like poison. And be prepared, Daughter of Ife. Be prepared to pay. For a great truth… requires a great sacrifice."
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The journey to the Esimirin was a shedding of self. With the first tentative light of dawn staining the eastern sky a bruised purple, Moremi slipped from the palace, a solitary figure in a simple, brown cotton wrapper. She carried no food, no water, only a small, empty gourd tied to her waist. The weight of her crown, her title, her very identity as queen, seemed to fall away with each step that took her beyond the last compounds of the city and into the embrace of the untamed land.
The path was not a path at all, but a faint trace through dense undergrowth. Thorny vines tugged at her clothes like grasping fingers. The air, cleansed of smoke by the distance, was thick and humid, laden with the fecund smell of damp earth, rotting leaves, and the overwhelming, sweet perfume of unknown blossoms. Strange, colorful fungi grew on fallen logs, looking like scattered jewels in the semi-darkness. The chorus of the forest was a deafening cacophony—the chattering of monkeys, the screech of parrots, the deep, resonant hum of insects—a vibrant, teeming life that was utterly indifferent to the sorrows of a human queen.
She walked for what felt like hours, the palace and its troubles becoming a distant, painful dream. Here, the world was raw, primal, and alive. Sweat beaded on her brow and traced paths through the dust on her skin. Mosquitoes whined in her ears. Once, a snake, patterned in brilliant diamonds of black and yellow, slithered across her path, and she stood still, her heart hammering, until it disappeared into the ferns. This was a world that did not bow to kings.
Finally, she heard it—the sound of moving water, a low, constant murmur that grew to a soft roar as she pushed through a final curtain of hanging lianas. And there it was: the Esimirin River.
It was not what she had expected. It was breathtakingly beautiful, and in that beauty, there was a profound, unsettling eeriness. The river was wide, its waters not muddy brown, but a clear, deep green, like liquid emerald. It flowed not with a rush, but with a slow, powerful, serpentine grace, swirling around smooth, black rocks that glistened as if perpetually wet. Giant ferns and strange, flowering plants she had never seen before crowded its banks, their reflections perfect and unbroken in the glassy surface. The great iroko tree of Iya Agba's telling stood sentinel, its massive, buttressed roots digging into the bank like the legs of a primordial beast, its branches creating a cathedral-like canopy over a wide, calm pool at the bend.
The air here was different. Colder. The raucous sounds of the forest were hushed, replaced by the hypnotic whisper of the water and the soft, sighing rustle of the reeds that grew in thick stands along the shore. The light, filtering through the dense canopy, fell in shimmering, dappled shafts, illuminating motes of pollen that danced like gold dust. It was a place outside of time, a pocket of the world still being dreamed into existence.
Moremi's throat was parched, her body aching, but the sheer, silent power of the place held her in a thrall of awe and fear. She approached the water's edge, the soft, black mud cool between her toes. She knelt, the dampness seeping through her wrapper. For a long moment, she simply looked at her reflection in the green, profound depth. She saw a woman, not a queen. A woman with fear in her eyes, but with a resolve forged in the fires of desperation.
She filled her gourd with the cool, green water and drank. It was sweet and cold, with a faint, metallic aftertaste, like blood on the tongue. It seemed to sharpen her senses, making the green of the leaves more vibrant, the whisper of the reeds more distinct.
Setting the gourd aside, she bowed her head and began to speak, her voice low but clear, carried on the hushed air.
"Spirit of the Esimirin," she began, the words feeling both foolish and momentous. "Keeper of the deep truths. I am Moremi, of Ile-Ife. My city… my people… are dying."
She poured out the story. Not as a queen reporting to a subject, but as a heart spilling its grief to another heart. She spoke of the plumes of smoke, the scent of despair, the weight of the crown that felt like a sentence. She described the terror of her people, the faceless, rustling enemy, the brave warriors broken not by wounds, but by a terror they could not comprehend. She spoke of Ọranyan's helplessness, her own sleepless nights, the futile debates in the moonlit gardens. She held nothing back. The vulnerability was her offering.
"We have tried strength, and it has failed. We have tried prayer, and it has not been enough. We are lost. I come to you, not as a queen demanding a solution, but as a woman begging for wisdom. Show me the nature of this enemy. Reveal to me their secret. Tell me how to save my people."
Her words faded, absorbed by the thick air and the murmuring water. For a long, agonizing time, nothing happened. The river flowed. The reeds sighed. The dappled light shifted. Had she been a fool? Had Iya Agba's legend been just a story for a frightened old woman?
Then, a change. The surface of the water, which had been a perfect, glassy mirror, began to ripple, though there was no wind. The ripples did not start from the bank or a falling leaf, but from the center of the pool, swirling outwards in slow, deliberate circles. The light in the clearing seemed to dim, the gold dust of pollen vanishing. A deep chill emanated from the water, raising goosebumps on Moremi's arms.
The rustling of the reeds grew louder, no longer a random sound of nature, but a coalescing whisper. It was not one voice, but a chorus of thousands—the sigh of the ancient, the murmur of the drowned, the secrets of the deep earth given sound. It came from all around her, from the water, the air, the very soil beneath her knees.
"Moremi… of Ile-Ife."
The voice was the river itself. It was the cool green depth, the smooth black stone, the sighing reed. It held no gender, no age, only immense, patient power.
Moremi's heart seized. She kept her head bowed, her hands trembling in her lap. "I am here."
"Your sorrow has a taste… a flavor of truth. It is… refreshing." The whispers swirled around her, tasting her fear, her resolve. "You ask for a great thing. The truth behind a veil that separates your world from another. Such knowledge is not given lightly."
"I will pay any price," Moremi whispered, the words torn from her soul. "My life, if that is what you ask."
A sound like soft, water-logged laughter echoed through the clearing. "Life? Life is a currency of the fleeting. I deal in essences. In the indelible marks upon the spirit."
The water in the center of the pool began to swirl faster, a gentle vortex forming. In its heart, images flickered—not clear pictures, but impressions. Moremi saw a flash of Ọranyan's smile, the one he reserved only for her. She felt the warm, trusting weight of a child's hand in hers. She heard the joyous, unified song of her people during the New Yam festival, a sound of pure, unadulterated happiness. These were the anchors of her soul, the foundations of her joy.
"A great truth… for a great sacrifice," the chorus of whispers intoned, the voice now sharp, focused, and utterly merciless. "The price for the knowledge you seek is the thing you hold most dear. It is the light of your life, the core of your happiness. It is the love that binds you to your king, and the bond that ties you to your son. You will become a savior to your people, but a stranger in your own home. Your victory will be your everlasting sorrow. Are you prepared, Child of Ife?"
The words landed not as sound, but as a physical blow, ice-cold and final. They asked not for her death, but for a fate far worse. To save Ile-Ife, she would have to sever the very connections that gave her life meaning. To become a queen in truth, eternally separated from the woman who was a wife and a mother. It was a desolation more profound than any battlefield.
She saw Ọranyan's face, not as the frustrated king, but as the man she loved. She felt the phantom embrace of her young son, Ela. She saw the life they had built, a tapestry of shared laughter, quiet moments, and profound partnership. The spirit asked for the sun and the moon from her sky.
Tears she had not shed for the burning city, for the wounded soldier, now welled in her eyes, hot and sharp. They were tears of grief for a loss not yet occurred. She saw the two paths before her with terrifying clarity: one led back to Ile-Ife, to watch it slowly consumed by a terror she could not fight, her love ultimately meaningless in the face of total destruction. The other led to its salvation, but through a personal hell, a crown of smoke and sorrow indeed.
She lifted her head, her face wet, but her gaze steady. She looked into the swirling, green heart of the river, into the ancient, pitiless consciousness that resided there. The queen and the woman warred within her for one last, agonizing moment.
Then, the queen, the protector, the savior, spoke.
Her voice was a raw whisper, stripped of everything but resolve, carrying across the water to the waiting spirit.
"I am."