Dark clouds hung low over the swamps of the Niger Delta, their heavy mass swelling with the weight of an impending storm. The thick scent of damp earth and decaying foliage mixed with the pungent aroma of rare herbs, carried by the wind through the dense undergrowth. Somewhere deep within the heart of the forest, in a place where few dared to tread, an old herbalist prepared for the most dangerous task of his life.
Elder Onibakuro, the most revered healer in all the creeks, had spent decades mastering the art of medicine, his wisdom passed down through generations. His small hut, woven from palm fronds and clay, stood on the edge of a murky river, hidden by towering mangroves. Tonight, however, secrecy was no longer enough to keep danger away.
A knock came at his door, urgent, yet controlled. He did not startle; he had been expecting them. Slowly, he unlatched the door, revealing the desperate face of a young man whose eyes were filled with exhaustion and terror.
"Herbalist, you must help him," the youth pleaded, glancing nervously over his shoulder as if expecting death to leap from the shadows.
Behind him, carried on a crude stretcher made of woven bamboo, lay a man gasping for breath. His body, though once strong, now bore the marks of battle, deep slashes, bruises, and a festering wound on his shoulder. His chest rose and fell in shallow heaves, and his lips were cracked from dehydration.
Onibakuro's sharp gaze assessed the dying man. "Bring him inside. Quickly."
The youth and two other men lifted the stretcher and hurried inside, lowering the unconscious warrior onto a mat near the fire. Onibakuro bent over the man, his fingers expertly tracing the edges of the wound. The heat radiating from the infection confirmed his fears, the poison was working its way through the warrior's body, creeping towards his heart like a venomous snake.
"What happened?" he asked, already reaching for a bowl of water and a handful of crushed leaves.
"Seiowei's men," the youth whispered, his voice laced with anger and dread. "They hunt him still. If they find him here, none of us will live to see the dawn."
Onibakuro did not flinch. He had taken oaths, to heal, to protect, and to honor the spirits of the land. But aiding this man meant defying the wrath of a tyrant.
The fire crackled as he worked, grinding roots into a thick paste and smearing it over the wound. "If you stay, you die. If you leave, he dies." His words carried the weight of finality. "Choose."
The youth clenched his fists. "We will stay."
Onibakuro nodded and set to work, his gnarled hands moving with precision as he stitched the wound closed with threads made from raffia fibers. Sweat beaded on his brow, but he ignored it. He ignored the shadows shifting outside, the distant sounds of boots crushing leaves, the faint scent of burning torches carried on the wind.
Time was against them.
A sharp cry erupted from the warrior as his body convulsed, the poison fighting against the herbalist's remedy. The flames flickered wildly as though the spirits themselves were watching, testing the strength of Onibakuro's hands. The healer chanted an ancient incantation, calling upon the ancestors to grant the warrior strength, to keep his spirit tethered to the land of the living.
Outside, a twig snapped.
The youth drew his dagger, his grip tightening. "They are here."
Onibakuro did not pause. He poured a vial of bitter liquid between the warrior's lips. "Give it time. Protect this place until then."
The youth and his companions moved to the doorway, pressing their bodies against the walls, breath held. Shadows flitted between the trees, the light of torches breaking through the thick night. A voice, deep, commanding, cruel, cut through the air like a blade.
"Search every hut! He is here."
The sound of doors crashing open, of women crying out in fear, of men grunting as they were thrown to the ground, it all echoed through the night like the call of death itself. Onibakuro whispered a final prayer over the warrior before standing, his frail body a contrast to the power in his gaze.
He moved to the entrance and pushed open the door, stepping outside into the cold embrace of the night. The soldiers turned, their torches casting long shadows over his face.
"Where is he?" one of them demanded, stepping forward.
Onibakuro's expression was unreadable. "Who?"
The soldier gritted his teeth. "The one Seiowei hunts. Do not play games, old man."
The herbalist's hands were steady. "I tend to the sick. That is all."
The soldier sneered. "Then you will not mind if we look inside."
Onibakuro stepped aside, allowing them through. His heart pounded, but his face betrayed nothing. The youth and his companions had vanished into the shadows, hidden behind woven mats and the scent of burning herbs. The warrior lay motionless, his breath shallow, his life balanced on the edge of a knife.
A soldier stepped closer, his eyes narrowing as he surveyed the hut. The moment stretched, heavy and unbearable. Then, with a grunt, he turned away.
"Nothing here. Move on."
Relief washed over Onibakuro like a cool river, but he did not show it. The soldiers departed, their torches flickering into the distance, leaving behind only the sound of the forest breathing once more.
Inside, the warrior stirred. His eyes, clouded by pain, met Onibakuro's. A whisper escaped his lips, barely audible. "Thank you."
The herbalist nodded, his own breath unsteady. "Rest. The fight is not over."
It never was.