The hand did not move.
It lay on the stones as though it belonged to someone who had merely decided to rest beside the hut. But Ola knew better. The pale skin was too smooth, too strange. The fingers were long, unnaturally even, and they ended in tips that resembled the worn edges of river stones — polished, patient, and eternal. There was no mistaking it. This hand belonged to something that was not of this world.
Iyagbẹ́kọ had warned him, the gravity of her words still hanging like an unseen weight between them: If it touches the earth where you stand, the bargain is no longer yours to make.
And now the hand was here.
Ola stood frozen at the door of the hut, his breath shallow, caught somewhere between fear and something darker. The rain had stopped, but the air was thick with its damp scent. The earth was heavy with the river's weight, the familiar but unnerving pull of its endless flow. Inside, the others slept — Echo curled beneath her blanket, her breathing deep and even, and Iyagbẹ́kọ sitting in the corner with her staff leaning against her shoulder, eyes closed in deep meditation. But Ola knew the quiet wouldn't last. This moment was his, and it could be his last.
For a moment, he felt the pull to wake them, to draw them into this final moment of reckoning. But something inside him whispered a warning. His feet felt leaden as though the weight of his decision was already too much for anyone to bear. This moment, whatever it was, would be his to face alone.
The hand — so cold, so still — seemed to beckon.
He stepped forward cautiously, his heartbeat thundering in his ears. His body protested the movement, as if everything inside him was trying to turn back, to flee, to run from what was coming. But he couldn't.
Slowly, cautiously, he crouched, bringing himself close to the stones, his fingers inches from the hand's unnaturally smooth surface.
"You've come for me," he whispered into the night. His voice was shaky, but the words were his truth.
The river answered without words.
The hand slid backward into the shadows, disappearing between the thick reeds that lined the bank. For a moment, Ola simply stared at the empty ground where the hand had lain, his heart pounding against his ribs.
And then, as if it were a question he could not ignore, his body moved of its own accord. He stepped toward the water, towards the river's edge, where the current still raged beneath the moonlit sky. The bend at Ọ̀rùn's Eye lay before him, the water a deep, swirling black. The moonlight kissed its surface, but the light only made it look hungrier, darker. The bend itself looked as if it were waiting for him.
And then, rising from the depths, the Watcher appeared again. Taller, even more imposing in the moonlight, its form breaking free from the water like an ancient creature stretching its long limbs after a long rest. The creature's neck was impossibly long, its head lowering towards him like a serpent's, and its hollow, unblinking eyes fixed on him.
You had your chance to give freely, it spoke inside his mind, its voice deep and heavy.
Ola swallowed, his throat dry. "I told you," he said, trying to steady his voice, "I can't give them all."
Then the river will take.
It wasn't a threat. It was a statement — simple, inevitable.
The Watcher's hand, impossibly long, reached toward him, hovering just before his chest, the fingers outstretched, as though waiting for permission.
Ola's breath caught. The Names inside him — the ancient, burning weight of those voices — stirred violently. Some screamed to flee, to turn back to the safety of the hut. But others whispered something else, something quieter but far more insistent. Go forward.
He glanced down at his feet, feeling the rush of the water tugging at his ankles. The river was pulling him, beckoning, but his body was frozen. He couldn't move, not yet.
The Watcher's fingers hovered closer, its presence pressing into him like the unbearable weight of years that had passed too quickly. For a moment, Ola thought of the past — of the years he had spent running, of the mistakes he had buried deep inside. The faces that haunted him.
Then the current surged.
Before he could brace himself, the ground beneath his feet vanished.
Ola's world tilted as the river's cold mouth swallowed him whole. The water was a shock, and before he could even think to gasp, the current seized him. His arms flailed, but the pull was too strong. It dragged him down, deeper, further into the depths. The water seemed to embrace him, pulling at his skin, at his very soul, like the teeth of the river itself.
His vision went black.
The silence came slowly.
The river's roar faded to a dull hum in his ears, replaced by the unnerving stillness of the deep. For a moment, he couldn't feel his limbs. He couldn't feel anything. It was as though he were floating in the space between worlds. His chest ached, his breath caught, but the river held him in place, its dark current swirling lazily around him.
And then, the Watcher's face appeared, pale and distant, floating just before him in the water's depths. Its hollow eyes stared into him, piercing through to his very soul. It was weightless, untouchable, but its presence filled the space around him like the crush of time itself.
You carry what is not yours, it spoke again, its voice soft, but unmistakably final.
Ola's chest tightened. His mind raced.
They're part of me now, he responded, though the words tasted bitter. They are my burden to bear.
The Watcher's hand stretched out again, slowly, deliberately, until it touched his sternum.
The Names erupted.
Ola gasped, his chest tightening as memories — old, forgotten memories — flooded his mind. He was back in Obade, standing in the crowded marketplace. The smells of smoked fish and palm oil thick in the air. And then, the old man — the one who had been beaten for selling charms the elders had forbidden. He remembered the look on the man's face as he was dragged through the streets, the weight of shame clinging to his every step. Ola had walked past him that day, pretending not to see.
The scene shifted.
The reed fields at dusk. The girl, kneeling by the water, carving symbols into her own skin. Her face was pale, desperate. The elders had dragged her away, and Ola had turned his face to the ground, unable to meet her eyes.
Another twist.
The Hollowed child. A body left outside the village boundary. Flies gathering around the shallow, labored breath. And Ola had turned his back, walking away without a second thought, feeling the sun hot on his back, ignoring the gnawing discomfort deep in his chest.
You buried their Names in the earth of your silence, the Watcher's voice came again, weaving through the visions. And then you wore them as if they were given freely.
Tears burned at the corners of Ola's eyes, but he couldn't speak. His throat was tight with regret. I can't change what I did.
But you can give them truth, the Watcher whispered. Let them rest where truth is deep enough to hold them.
The river began to glow.
It was faint at first, just a pale shimmer, but then it spread. The darkness around him seemed to dissipate, replaced by an ethereal light, cold and bright as the moon itself. Slowly, the shapes of the dead emerged, like ghosts caught between the currents, their faces drifting past him in slow circles. The old man. The girl. The Hollowed child.
Each face he had buried deep inside himself, each one now staring back at him with hollow eyes.
Give them, the Watcher said, its voice gentle but firm.
Ola felt the heat in his chest — the Names pushing against him. He was a vessel now, the river's chosen vessel, and the Names inside him pressed, churning, as if they were ready to explode from his chest.
Give them.
Ola trembled, his fingers twitching as he loosened his grip on the Names. One by one, the memories — those faces, those voices — slid from his chest like something slipping away. The old man. The reed-field girl. The Hollowed child.
Each one dimmed, fading into the river's light, until the glow faded with them. The heat inside him dissipated, leaving him feeling both lighter and emptier than he had ever felt before.
Some will stay with you, the Watcher said, its voice softer now. Not because you choose, but because they choose.
Ola's throat was tight. And the rest?
They belong to the river now. They will not burn you again.
With that, the Watcher turned, sinking slowly into the river's depths. The current around Ola shifted, no longer pulling him downward, but lifting him toward the surface.
His body floated to the top, breaking the surface of the water with a sharp gasp.
The moon was higher now. The rain clouds had gone, leaving only the remnants of their dark weight in the air. Ola lay on the edge of the bank, shivering, his limbs numb from the cold. Echo was there, kneeling in the mud beside him, her eyes wide with fear.
"Ola!" she cried, grabbing his arm and pulling him toward the shore. Her grip was tight, desperate. "Ola, what happened?"
Ola didn't have the strength to answer. His body felt hollow, emptied, and yet the weight of something remained.
Behind her, Iyagbẹ́kọ stood, her staff in hand, her gaze unreadable. "You've given some of them," she said softly.
Ola nodded weakly. "It took what I couldn't carry."
Her eyes narrowed, and he could feel her judgment, heavy and unspoken. "Or what you didn't want to."
He didn't answer. There was no answer that would make sense.
Later, inside the hut, Echo sat across from him, her gaze intense as she studied his face. "You're different," she said quietly, her voice filled with uncertainty. "Lighter."
"No," he replied slowly, his voice hoarse. "More hollow."
She frowned, her brow furrowing in confusion. "What do you mean?"
Ola stared at the small flame between them, the crackling embers offering little warmth against the chill that lingered deep in his bones. "Maybe that's what it feels like to make space."
Echo didn't look convinced, but she didn't argue.
Outside, the river whispered in its sleep, its murmur soft, distant, as if the land itself was waiting for something.
And far downstream, under the bend at Ọ̀rùn's Eye, something pale shifted in the water.
The Watcher had not left.
It was only waiting for the rest of its due.