The rain came without warning.
Not the soft, cleansing rain of planting season, but a sudden, violent curtain that turned the dust of Ọ̀rùn's Eye into a slick skin over the earth. The river swelled within minutes, its edges foaming white where the current clawed at the stones, reaching for anything in its path. The smell of wet earth mingled with the sharp tang of the river, rich and thick, like something alive.
Ola stood in the doorway of the hut, rain soaking the shoulders of his wrapper, his hair plastered to his forehead. The Names inside him had gone quiet — too quiet. That unnerving silence felt like a weight pressing against his chest, the kind that precedes a storm even before the sky cracks open.
He had not forgotten Iyagbẹ́kọ's warning the night before. "You cannot cross its river again without paying."
He had not crossed it, not yet. But the call was close, close enough that the river could almost taste his skin, feel the thrum of his pulse in the air. He could feel it drawing nearer, circling the edges of his thoughts like the current, waiting for him to slip.
By midday, the storm had thickened into a steady roar, the wind bending the palms low and snapping branches from the trees like twigs. Dùrójaiyé, silent as a shadow, shut the shutters of the hut with practiced ease, muttering prayers under her breath. Her silver braids clung damp to her neck, a sharp contrast to the darkness in the room.
"You've stirred it," Dùrójaiyé told him without looking up, her voice a quiet rasp.
"I didn't ask it to come," Ola replied, but the words felt hollow as soon as they left his mouth. He knew that he had called the river, even without intending to. The Names inside him were like threads pulling him deeper into the water, weaving him closer to the Watcher.
"No," she said, shaking her head, eyes narrowing. "But you spoke to it. And that's enough."
The silence between them grew, thick and uncomfortable. Echo moved through the hut like a restless shadow, glancing toward the door every few minutes as if she could sense the storm's weight on her own skin. Her sharp eyes flicked between them, reading the unspoken tension in the air.
"We should go," she said. "Put distance between us and the bend."
Ola could hear the desperation in her voice, the edge of fear. They'd all been running for too long. From one threat to the next. But Iyagbẹ́kọ's voice, flat and cold, cut through the air like a blade.
"Running will make it follow," she said. "And if it follows on land, we'll have no sanctuary."
"Then what?" Echo demanded, her impatience bleeding into her tone. "What are we supposed to do, just wait for it to come?"
Iyagbẹ́kọ's eyes flicked to Ola, and for a moment, he saw something shift in her gaze — something old, something dark. "He has to meet it. Before it names its own price."
The weight of her words settled in the room like a curse. Ola swallowed, knowing that the time had come to face the river. But the fear gnawing at his gut was not for himself. It was for what would happen to the others when the river claimed its due.
They left at dusk.
The rain had thinned, but the sky remained heavy, pressing down on them like an invisible weight. The air smelled of ozone and wet earth. The river was swollen, running fast, foam curling at the edges like fingers reaching for the bank. The bend at Ọ̀rùn's Eye had changed — sharper, hungrier. The land seemed to tremble beneath the pull of the current, as if the river itself was awakening, preparing for something that was long overdue.
Iyagbẹ́kọ led them to a place where the bank sloped low into the water, where the river's mouth gaped open like a maw, waiting. The stones along the shore were slick with the remnants of the storm, and the air shimmered with the raw energy of the earth.
"This is where it will rise for you," Iyagbẹ́kọ said, her voice calm, but there was a fire in her eyes that none of them dared question. "The Watcher answers only when called."
Ola glanced down at the water. His reflection was a broken smear, the surface swirling and rippling beneath the weight of the storm. He could feel the river's call now, deeper than the rustling of leaves or the wind's wail. It tugged at him, pulling at something inside his chest. It would not be denied.
"And if I don't call it?" he asked, the words sounding smaller than he'd intended.
Iyagbẹ́kọ's expression darkened. "Then it will call you. And that will be worse."
The wind shifted. Behind them, Echo's breath was shallow, her fingers tightening around the hilt of her knife. "We don't have much time," she said, the edge of panic creeping into her voice.
Ola stepped closer to the water. The stones beneath his feet were slick with rain and river-slick moss, and his legs felt heavy as if the current had already begun to pull at him. The river hissed against the stones, a sharp, hungry sound that made his heart race. He knelt, his fingertips just above the water, feeling the cold seeping into his skin.
"I'm here," he said, and the words felt too small to fill the emptiness that stretched before him. But there was no turning back.
The current shifted, swirling in a pattern that felt too deliberate to be natural. From the center of the bend, something rose, slow and deliberate, breaking the surface of the water without a splash. First, the dome of its head, smooth and white like clay, gleaming in the dying light of the storm. Then the long, jointless fingers, curling outward in the water, spreading wide like the roots of an ancient tree. Finally, the face.
The Watcher.
It had not changed since the night before. The hollow eyes, the long, curved mouth, all etched with the silence of something far older than the land itself. Watching.
Ola forced himself to meet its gaze, his breath caught in his chest like a stone lodged in his throat. "What do you want from me?" he asked, the words more desperate than he'd meant.
The voice came again — not through the air, but inside him, in the space between breaths.
The debt you owe.
Ola's heart skipped a beat. He could feel the cold fingers of dread creep up his spine. "What debt?"
You carry Names that do not belong to you.
Ola's jaw tightened. "They were given to me."
Given by the dead does not mean given by the river.
The fingers of the Watcher curled, flexing slightly, as if beckoning him closer. The current swirled around him, pulling at his feet, tugging at the edges of his mind.
Some of those Names were promised to me long ago. They drowned in my mouth. They belong here. Not in you.
Ola's pulse thudded in his ears, drowning out the sound of the river. "You want me to give them back."
The Watcher's face was unreadable, its hollow eyes glimmering in the dim light of dusk. Yes.
Behind him, Iyagbẹ́kọ's voice was sharp, warning. "Do not answer quickly. The Watcher never asks for what it cannot take."
Ola's thoughts scrambled, churning like the river's foam. His eyes flicked to her, but there was no time for hesitation. The Names inside him stirred, some pressing forward as if eager to be free, others recoiling in fear. His breath quickened.
He swallowed hard. "If I give them, what happens to them?"
The Watcher was calm. They rest. They sink where no dream can wake them. They will no longer burn in you.
Ola closed his eyes for a moment, feeling the weight of the decision hanging in the balance. He thought of the Names — some were like gifts, like family finding their way home after long years. But others… others were like stones in his chest, memories of lives that had been wronged, promises broken in the dark. Could he really give those away? Could he truly let them go?
The Watcher seemed to sense his hesitation, its fingers drifting closer, the ripples lapping at his shins. Give me what is mine, and you will walk light again.
Ola swallowed again, the lump in his throat heavy. "And if I give you only some?"
The Watcher's lips curved, slow and deliberate. I will take the rest later.
Iyagbẹ́kọ stepped forward, her staff planted firm in the wet earth. "You have no right to take anything without consent," she said, her voice ringing with power.
The Watcher turned its head toward her, a slow, eerie movement that made the air around them chill. And you have no right to hold what the river has claimed.
Ola's breath came faster now. The Names inside him pressed forward, rising like a tide, each one trying to make itself known. One voice, sharp and insistent, rose above the rest. Don't you dare. Don't you let it put us under.
His hands trembled. His body felt as if it were being pulled in two directions — one toward the river's cold depths, the other toward the warmth of the world he had known.
He closed his eyes, feeling the weight of the river's gaze on him, the water curling around his ankles like a serpent. The air tasted thick, like it was charged with the promise of something ancient, something unforgiving.
"I can't," he said finally, the words barely a whisper, but they hung in the air like a final decree.
The river stilled. The wind died down, the howling gusts retreating into the distance as if a sudden calm had swept through the world. Ola's heart pounded in his chest, his breath coming in ragged gasps. The Watcher didn't speak. The space between them felt vast now, the weight of the decision hanging like a shroud.
When he opened his eyes, the Watcher was gone. No ripple, no splash, no sign of its existence beyond the broken water at his feet. Just the rush of the swollen river, the steady roar of the current, as if nothing had happened.
Ola's body felt like stone. He was numb, like something had been ripped from him but left a hollowness that couldn't be filled. His hands shook, and for a moment, it felt as if the weight of the Names inside him was too much to bear.
"Is it over?" Echo's voice came from behind him, but her question was empty, brittle, like she already knew the answer. Her tone was tight with something like relief, but it was fractured.
Iyagbẹ́kọ didn't answer immediately. Instead, she stood still, her eyes fixed on the water, her staff gripped so tightly in her hands that her knuckles were pale, like she was holding on to something far heavier than the wood.
"No," she said at last, her voice steady but hard. "It has only changed the terms."
Ola's stomach twisted. It wasn't over. It had only begun.
That night, the air felt thick with the weight of unspoken things. The storm had passed, but the pressure in the air remained, like the world was holding its breath. The hut felt too small, too close. The flickering light of the fire only deepened the shadows, making the walls feel as if they were closing in.
Ola couldn't sleep. Every time his eyes drifted closed, he felt the weight of the water pressing against his skin, as though the river was still there, just beneath the surface of his thoughts. The Names inside him stirred uneasily, their whispers growing louder, but they didn't dare speak fully. They were waiting, like the Watcher, for something.
His thoughts kept returning to the decision he'd made. He hadn't given the Watcher what it asked for, but the river had accepted his refusal in silence. It had withdrawn, but it had not forgotten. That much was clear.
The night felt endless, but eventually, the edges of his consciousness began to fade. Sleep claimed him like the tide pulling him under.
He dreamed of drowning.
Not the panic of flailing for air, not the sharp sting of saltwater in his lungs, but the slow, dragging kind. The kind where the water is heavier than your own body, where every movement is sluggish, and your limbs feel like they've turned to stone. The world around him was dark — a suffocating kind of dark, the kind that presses against your chest until you forget what it's like to breathe.
In the dream, the Watcher floated just out of reach, its face the only clear thing in the dark. Its eyes, hollow and ancient, gleamed in the darkness, and its mouth curved upward, a cruel, slow smile. The water pressed against him, and he couldn't move. Every part of his body felt weighed down by the Names inside him, each one like a stone lodged deep in his chest, each one more suffocating than the last.
"You will pay," the Watcher's voice whispered, not in the air, but inside him, burrowing deep into his thoughts. "You will pay in water."
The words settled on him like an omen. It wasn't a question. It was a truth that had already been written.
Ola woke with a start. The sound of the river pounding against the bank filled his ears, a constant, rhythmic drumming that seemed to echo in his chest. His skin was clammy, his throat dry. For a moment, he thought he was still drowning, the water still rising around him, cold and relentless.
His heart pounded in his chest. He reached out, gripping the edge of his bedroll to steady himself, and his eyes darted around the dimly lit room. The hut was quiet, save for the low murmur of the rain against the thatched roof.
Then he heard it.
A soft, almost imperceptible sound. The kind of sound that could be mistaken for wind or the rustling of leaves. But it was neither. It was the sound of something moving just outside the hut, slow and deliberate. A soft scraping, like the touch of long fingers against stone.
His breath hitched, and he sat up. His eyes darted to the door. The shadows outside seemed to stretch unnaturally, as if the night itself was drawing closer.
Then, the sound came again. A soft scrape. The unmistakable noise of something heavy dragging across the stones.
He swallowed, his throat dry. For a moment, he thought he might be imagining it, that it was a remnant of the dream, but the pounding of the river outside was real. The pressure, the pulse of the water, was unmistakable. It was still there, still calling to him, still waiting.
Ola stood, his legs unsteady beneath him as he moved toward the door. His hand hovered over the latch, but something made him pause. The silence in the room felt too thick, too charged. His heart was beating too fast.
It's here.
A voice, not his own, whispered inside his head. One of the Names.
He opened the door, and there, on the stone threshold, lay a pale hand. A single, slender hand, its skin white as bone, resting against the wet stones outside the hut. The fingers were long, jointless, as they had been in the river. The palm faced upward, as if it were waiting.
Ola's stomach twisted. The hand was a silent, unmistakable message. The Watcher had come for him again. And this time, it would not leave until its debt was paid.
The next morning, the world felt different. The sky had cleared, and the sun shone weakly through the trees, but there was a strange stillness in the air, as if the land itself was holding its breath.
Ola stood by the riverbank, staring at the water, now calm and almost serene. The surface was smooth, reflecting the sky like a perfect mirror. But beneath that stillness, he could feel it — the weight of the river, the promise of what was to come.
He wasn't sure how much longer he could hold on.
He hadn't given the Watcher what it wanted, but the river had not let go. It would come for him again, just as it had come for the Names that lived within him. The debt would be paid, one way or another.
And the river would have its due.
Ola took a deep breath, and as he exhaled, he whispered the only thing he knew to be true:
"The water is never finished with you."
And he knew then that the Watcher's price would never truly be paid. It was only waiting, just beneath the surface, biding its time.