-------------
They decided to cleanse him before dawn.
Because whatever walked freely at night in Umu-Ọchịchịrị was never human.
---
The village square was silent, but it was not peaceful.
A ring of fire surrounded the ancient ọfọ staff planted into the earth. Ashes and chalk symbols were drawn in tight spirals—sigils meant to bind, to weaken, to command. The air smelled of bitter herbs, palm wine, and fear.
Chukwudi stood barefoot at the center.
His hands were tied with white cloth.
Not rope.
Rope could snap.
White cloth carried prayers.
The elders watched from a distance, their faces hard but their eyes shaking. Mothers clutched their children. Men held machetes they knew would be useless.
The dibia, Eze-Mmụọ, emerged from the shrine dressed in ritual skins, his body marked with sacred chalk. Cowrie shells rattled at his ankles. His voice, when he spoke, was no longer entirely his own.
"Ala nne anyi, gee nti!
Mother Earth, listen!"
The ground trembled faintly.
Chukwudi felt it like a heartbeat beneath his feet.
---
They brought the snakes next.
Three of them.
A black cobra.
A green tree viper.
A thick brown python.
Each was known. Each was deadly.
The villagers gasped.
"Chukwu biko…" someone whispered.
"May God have mercy."
Eze-Mmụọ raised his staff.
"If he is human," the dibia declared, "the venom will claim him. If he is what we fear—ala ga-aza—the earth will answer."
The first snake struck.
Fast.
Precise.
Its fangs sank into Chukwudi's ankle.
Nothing happened.
No scream.
No swelling.
No blood.
The snake recoiled violently, convulsed, then went limp—dead before it hit the ground.
A wave of terror rolled through the crowd.
"Ewo!"
"Did you see that?"
"Agwọ jụrụ ya! The snake rejected him!"
The second snake bit his wrist.
Its head exploded like crushed fruit.
The third did not even try.
It slithered forward, lowered its massive head, and bowed.
The fire went out.
---
Eze-Mmụọ staggered backward, sweat pouring down his face.
"This is beyond cleansing," he whispered. "This is inheritance."
The wind rose suddenly, spiraling inward. The chalk symbols cracked. The earth hissed.
Then—
Applause.
Slow.
Deliberate.
Clap… clap… clap…
A woman stepped out from between the trees.
She wore a wrapper of faded indigo. Her hair was braided simply. Her feet were bare.
She looked… ordinary.
Too ordinary.
"Nwanyị-Agwọ," Eze-Mmụọ breathed.
The village erupted.
"Ọ lọtala! She has returned!"
"Burn her!"
"Run!"
But no one could move.
Her shadow moved differently.
It dragged.
It coiled.
She smiled softly at Chukwudi.
"My son," she said gently. "Look how much you've grown."
Chukwudi's heart slammed against his ribs.
"Mother?" he whispered.
The word tasted ancient.
She nodded.
"I left you to choose," she said, eyes glowing faintly. "They chose fear."
Eze-Mmụọ screamed and raised his staff, chanting violently:
"Laghachi n'ala mmụọ! Return to the spirit world!"
She turned to him.
And for a moment, her face… shed.
Scales rippled beneath her skin. Her eyes became vertical slits. Her mouth stretched wider than human jaws.
"You speak of worlds you do not understand," she hissed.
She slammed her foot into the ground.
The shrine cracked open.
Something screamed from beneath the earth.
---
The villagers ran.
Some fell.
Some were dragged screaming into the forest by things with no names.
Chukwudi stood frozen as his mother knelt before him, placing a hand over his serpent mark.
"You are the bridge," she said softly. "Human enough to walk among them. Old enough to command what sleeps beneath."
"Do I have to go?" he asked, tears burning his eyes.
She smiled sadly.
"No," she said. "But they will never let you stay."
Behind them, the forest leaned closer.
The earth opened.
And the night swallowed Umu-Ọchịchịrị whole.