To step into the River of Echoes is to step into yourself.
The journey to the River of Echoes was a descent into silence. Not just the absence of sound—but a stillness so profound that even thoughts seemed to whisper.
Uzoaru and Nwanne arrived at dusk. The river flowed like black glass, motionless but deep, reflecting a sky heavy with dusk's dying light. No birds sang. No wind stirred. And yet, the river pulsed with unseen life.
"It doesn't look real," Nwanne whispered.
Uzoaru nodded. "The Oracle said it remembers everything."
They stood at the edge, where the ground was soft with moss and ancient footprints. A stone altar, cracked with age, bore the carving of a tree with no leaves and a mouth open in song. The silent tree, the Oracle had said, could only be found beyond the river's veil.
They stepped in.
Instantly, the water rippled—not outward, but inward, as if pulling their very presence into itself. The moment their ankles were submerged, they both gasped. Not from cold. From memory.
Uzoaru saw flashes—her mother's voice, her first dance with Nwabueze beneath the market lanterns, the night she stayed at his side when others fled.
Nwanne stumbled, clutching her head. Visions came like fire—her secret longing, her moment of betrayal, her night with the merchant's son when she thought Nwabueze was lost forever.
The river forced them to see themselves. All of themselves.
"It's showing me… things," Nwanne said through clenched teeth.
"It wants us to be clean before we pass," Uzoaru replied, pushing forward.
As they waded deeper, the water climbed their waists, their chests, until only their heads remained above. Then a low hum echoed through the valley.
It was not the wind.
It was the voice of the river.
"Speak the name of the First Ancestor," it sang.
Both girls looked at each other. They had been taught the old names in childhood—but which was first?
Uzoaru closed her eyes, remembering the stories her grandmother used to tell by moonlight.
She raised her voice: "Okorie!"
The river paused. A pulse shot through the water. Then a tree—tall, white-barked, with no leaves—rose from the center of the river.
The silent tree.
It had no branches low enough to reach. But its bark gleamed under the moonlight like silver.
Without hesitation, Uzoaru dove beneath the water.
"Nwanne!" she cried as she resurfaced near the tree. "Help me reach it!"
Nwanne hesitated. Pride stirred. She could let Uzoaru struggle—take the bark herself, claim the glory.
But something in the river shifted again.
She heard her own voice echo from the water: "I want to help."
And this time, she meant it.
She swam forward, cupped her hands to boost Uzoaru upward. With a grunt, Uzoaru clung to the trunk and scraped a piece of bark from its side.
As she dropped back into the water, both girls held onto each other, panting.
The river began to glow.
Then, it whispered: "One truth has been revealed. One more remains."
The water receded. Their clothes dried instantly. The bark pulsed with life in Uzoaru's hand.
But the final test was yet to come.
And the river had shown them—one of them still hides a secret.