The wilderness had a way of teaching you patience—or humility. Jabari felt it with every step, the uneven ground pressing back against his soles, the brush scratching at his legs as if testing him. Every so often, he paused, listening to the hollow wind curl through the broken ridges, and felt a cold certainty that he was being watched. Not by animals. Not by eyes he could see. But by something far older, far quieter, and far more deliberate.
The stone lay close to his heart, wrapped in a scrap of cloth he had fashioned into a pouch. It had been silent for hours, almost serene, and that stillness terrified him more than the whispers ever had. Silence, he had learned, was never empty. It waited. It listened.
Jabari's steps slowed as he descended a ridge that led into a shallow ravine. The dry earth had shifted beneath his weight, leaving no clear trail, but his instincts—stubbornly honed over the past days—kept him moving forward. He was tired. Exhausted in every way that mattered. Yet he could not stop. To stop was to invite doubt, and doubt had teeth.
Somewhere in the silence, he murmured a verse, barely audible: "The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want" (Ps 23:1). The words felt brittle on his lips, almost too small for the vastness around him, but they anchored him.
Why me? he asked quietly. Why am I carrying this? What am I meant to do with it? The stone pressed closer to him as though urging him to speak, but no answer came. Only the wind, only the earth, only the long, stretching shadows of the late afternoon.
By the time he rounded a bend, the faint curl of smoke rose ahead, almost imperceptible against the golden haze of evening. Someone had been here. Someone careful. Someone who did not want to be found. Jabari froze. The stone warmed slightly against his chest, a living heartbeat beneath the cloth.
He approached cautiously, staying low. The ravine formed a natural shelter: rocks clustered together like sentinels, brush thick enough to hide movement, and in the center, a fire burned low, almost hidden. He stepped closer, keeping to the shadows, and then he saw them.
Three figures.
The first, a man, stood beside the fire. His posture was loose, but the way his eyes flicked to Jabari's chest made clear he understood without words. The second, a woman, sharp-eyed and lean, held herself as if tension were second skin. The third, a boy no older than fifteen, crouched with knees to chest, arms wrapped tightly around himself.
Jabari did not move. He did not speak.
"You hear it," the man said quietly, his voice low, certain. Not a question.
Jabari nodded once, letting the weight of acknowledgment settle between them. The man exhaled, slow and deliberate, relief washing over his face before it was replaced by something darker—fear, perhaps, or recognition of what was coming.
"I hoped I was wrong," the man said.
The woman's eyes swept over Jabari, sharp and cautious. She did not speak, but her presence radiated a warning: any sudden movement could be fatal. The boy, still half-hidden in the shadows, watched silently.
Jabari sank onto a stone opposite the fire, careful not to let his hands brush the pouch at his chest. The stone pulsed faintly, impatient, alive. He swallowed.
"I didn't know there were others," he said quietly.
"Neither did we," the boy whispered, his voice thin but unbroken.
They ate together in silence, sharing what little food they had: hard bread, dried roots, water drawn from a hidden stream. Movements were slow, careful, deliberate. Every action felt measured, like a dance with unseen eyes. Jabari noticed the tremor in the boy's hands as he lifted food to his mouth. He noticed how the woman's gaze constantly swept the tree line. He noticed the man's subtle shifts, eyes darting toward shadows with the habit of long survival.
"How long?" Jabari asked at last, the words trembling slightly in the chill of approaching night.
"Long enough to know it doesn't end," the man replied, stirring the embers with a stick. He didn't meet Jabari's eyes. The fire popped, and a faint warmth reached the boy's hands, causing them to shake again.
Jabari closed his eyes briefly, whispering another verse under his breath: "Be strong and courageous; do not be afraid… for the Lord your God goes with you" (Deut 31:6). The words were small comfort, but he repeated them, letting them form a shield around his chest where the stone rested.
The woman shifted slightly and pulled back her sleeve. Jabari saw a mark burned into her skin, etched too deeply to be merely a scar. The boy pressed his palms together, faint lines glowing under his skin. Even in the firelight, it was clear that these were not ordinary children or ordinary survivors. They had been chosen, marked, like him.
The boy's whisper broke the quiet. "It told me I mattered. That I was chosen."
The woman nodded, voice low. "It told me I could save someone I loved. But it never tells what it costs."
The words pressed into Jabari's chest like stones themselves. The stone beneath the cloth pulsed again, heavy, expectant, alive.
Night began to creep fully into the ravine. Shadows lengthened, folded, and swallowed the edges of the firelight. The wind shifted. A sound came from far off—slow, deliberate, unhurried. The three of them stiffened.
Jabari felt the stone burn faintly against him, heavier now. He whispered again, almost silently, "God… what am I supposed to do? Why have You chosen me for this burden?" The question had no answer. Only the wind, only the dark, only the presence of others who had survived and suffered before him.
He understood then. The wilderness was no longer empty. The stone had never intended him to be alone.
It had intended him to listen.
And to learn.
The sound did not return.
And that was what terrified Jabari most. The wind whispered through the ravine, brushing the tall grass, but there were no footsteps, no rustle of leaves that suggested a pursuer. Whatever had moved in the distance before, whatever had observed him from the shadows, had paused. It lingered, patient and waiting, as if it knew he could feel it even without seeing it.
He shifted slightly on the stone, keeping the pouch tight against his chest. The stone's pulse had slowed, but the warmth had intensified, spreading through him like a quiet fire. His mind spun with questions. How many had carried this burden before him? How many had fallen?
Jabari's lips parted in a whisper, repeating the verse that had given him some small courage before: "The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want" (Ps 23:1). This time he added more, speaking aloud despite the emptiness of the ravine:
"Lord, I do not understand why this has come to me. I do not know why You have chosen this path. If You are with me, let me hear Your guidance. Let me see clearly what I must do, for I am afraid."
The stone throbbed against him, almost impatiently, but silent. There was no answer, not in words. Only the pressure of its presence, a reminder of the power he carried—and the cost he would pay if he failed.
The man beside the fire finally spoke. "We don't stay in one place for long," he said. His voice was low, steady, but carrying a weight of history Jabari could not yet measure. "Not after it begins listening. Not after it finds patterns."
"The Keeper," Jabari said quietly, testing the name. "Is that… who hunts the stone?"
"Yes," the man answered. "But not for the stone itself. He hunts what the stone opens."
Jabari frowned. "What does that mean?"
The woman, who had been silent until now, glanced at him sharply. "It's not meant for you to know yet. Only that he comes. Only that he waits." Her voice trembled slightly, betraying fear she did not allow herself to show fully. "He has survived what the stone gives, and worse. And he will not stop."
The boy shifted, his hands trembling in the firelight. "If he finds us…" His voice broke, small and brittle. "If he finds us, we may not survive."
Jabari felt the weight of their words settle over him. The stone throbbed in agreement—or warning; he could not tell which.
He closed his eyes and prayed again, longer this time. Kneeling beside the low fire, he pressed the stone to his chest and let the wind carry his words:
"God, I am afraid. I see the faces of those I could lose, and I feel the weight of what I do not yet understand. Protect me from what I cannot see, and teach me courage for what is coming. Do not let the darkness take hold of me or those I love. Show me the way."
He opened his eyes. The fire flickered, shadows dancing across the rocks, and the forest around them felt alive in a new way. He could almost hear the earth itself shifting, listening, waiting for his next step.
"Why us?" Jabari asked the man after a long pause. "Why choose people like us?"
The man stared into the fire. "It doesn't choose the best," he said slowly. "It chooses the ones who will hear it. Who will carry it. Who will listen."
"And what happens when it chooses us?" Jabari whispered.
The woman finally answered. Her voice was almost a hiss, eyes fixed on the far edge of the ravine. "It tests you. It shows you things you weren't meant to carry alone. And if you fail… it draws the Keeper."
"The Keeper doesn't chase you for the stone," the man added. "He comes for what you reveal. The knowledge, the fear, the moments you cannot forget. And he takes it. Or you."
Jabari's heart hammered in his chest. He hugged the stone closer, whispering again:
"Lord, what do I do when the weight is too much? What do I do when I do not know the path, but the darkness waits?"
The boy shivered. "It shows you visions. Fragments. Things you cannot understand. And it never stops. Even when you try to bury it, even when you run…" His voice faded into a whisper. "…it comes back."
Jabari swallowed. He had known this instinctively, but hearing it confirmed by another made the stone feel heavier, almost sentient. He traced the edge of the pouch, feeling its warmth, its pulse, its undeniable insistence.
Night fell fully over the ravine. The fire was small, a circle of trembling light in the vast darkness. The forest beyond stretched into shadows, and Jabari felt the presence of unseen eyes, waiting, patient, deliberate.
He whispered a final prayer before sleep, kneeling beside the fire and clutching the stone close to his chest:
"God, if You are here, guide me. Let me carry this burden as You intend, not as fear demands. Give me strength for the path ahead, wisdom for the choices I do not yet understand, and courage for what I must face. Do not let my fear decide the fate of those I love."
The fire crackled once, a small gust of wind stirred the ravine, and the shadows seemed to lean closer. Jabari did not sleep. He could not.
He understood, at last, that the wilderness had never been empty. It had been waiting for him—and for all who had heard the call before him.
The stone pulsed one last time that night, as if acknowledging his prayer, before fading into a quiet thrum.
Outside, something moved. Not close enough to see, not loud enough to hear clearly, but deliberate, patient, and inevitable.
The Keeper had begun listening.
And Jabari knew, deep in his chest, that the hunt had only just begun.