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4:32pm
Eleven years. The number echoed in Eshan's mind, a stark marker of time's relentless passage. Eleven years since Christopher, her son, had returned to Europe with Henry. She had told herself, had forced herself to believe, that finally, everything was good and fine. The ache of separation had dulled, replaced by a fragile peace, a hard-won acceptance. She had built a life, a quiet life, around the void he'd left.But lately, that fragile peace was crumbling. A disquiet, subtle yet persistent, had begun to gnaw at her. Sleep offered no escape; her nights were a restless dance of half-formed fears and unsettling dreams. A strange fog seemed to cling to her days, blurring the edges of reality, making her feel disconnected, adrift. She couldn't shake the feeling that something was…off.Then, the voice. A voice she had both yearned for and dreaded hearing again. A voice that shattered the carefully constructed silence of her life. "Eshan! Eshan!" Henry's shout, raw with urgency, tore through the stillness of the morning.Her heart leaped, a wild, frantic bird trapped in her chest. She stumbled, her hand flying to her throat as if to contain the sudden, suffocating fear. What could have happened? What could bring Henry back, his voice laced with such desperate need?Before she could even form the question, he was there, a dark silhouette against the bright doorway, his face a mask of anguish. And in his arms, he carried a burden that stole the breath from her lungs.Christopher.He looked so much older, a young man of sixteen, not the boy of five she remembered. Eleven years. Eleven years since she had last held him, kissed him, whispered goodnight. His features, once soft and round, were now sharper, more defined, a stranger's face and yet, undeniably, her son. But it was his stillness, the unnatural pallor of his skin, the way his head lolled against Henry's shoulder, that sent a jolt of ice-cold terror through her veins."It's our boy," Henry gasped, his voice cracking with a pain that mirrored her own. "Something is wrong with him, Eshan. Something terrible."
Henry, with a strength born of desperation, gently lifted Christopher, he laid him on a thick, woven mat on the floor, positioning him carefully as if the very act might somehow ease his suffering.Eshan watched, her heart a knot of fear and a growing, dreadful certainty. She had seen this before, or something like it, in the stories whispered in hushed tones, the legends she had almost forgotten."What happened?" she asked again, her voice firmer now, urgency sharpening her tone.Henry straightened, running a hand through his disheveled hair. He looked at her, his gaze haunted. "He was fine," he said, his voice strained. "Running and playing with his cousins, full of life. Then, all of a sudden, he just fainted. No warning, no sign. Just... collapsed."He paused, drawing a shaky breath. "I called the best physicians," he continued, "the most renowned healers. They examined him, ran tests, everything they could think of. But they found nothing. Nothing physically wrong, that is."He hesitated, then his voice dropped, his eyes filled with a dark, unsettling knowledge. "Then I noticed the mark. On his chest. A black mark, spreading like... like a stain. And I knew. I knew this was beyond the physical. This... this has something to do with magic. Dark magic." He looked at Eshan, his expression pleading. "So I brought him here, as quickly as I could. Do you know what's wrong with him?"Eshan moved closer, her eyes fixed on the mark on Christopher's chest. It was a dark, jagged shape, like a twisted, barbed arrow, radiating a faint, unnatural coldness. She knelt beside him, her fingers trembling as she gently touched the edges of the mark. A wave of darkness washed over her, a malevolent energy that made her recoil.Her face grew grim, her lips tightening into a thin line. She knew what it was. She had hoped never to see it again."It's Ọkhọ Ẹzimu," she said, the words heavy with dread.
"What?" Henry asked, his brow furrowed with confusion and a growing sense of dread." Ọkhọ Ẹzimu," Eshan replied, her voice barely a whisper. "Evil arrow." She looked up at him, her eyes filled with a sorrow that went beyond mere grief. "It's a spiritual attack. Sent from afar, from a different place, to a specific person. Somebody did this to Christopher. On purpose."A wave of power washed over Eshan, her eyes glowing with an intense, otherworldly orange light. She moved her hand over Christopher's body, her movements precise and deliberate. An orange light swirled around him, a protective aura, a desperate attempt to heal. But then, the light began to dim, to flicker, and finally, to be consumed. Something darker, something malevolent, seemed to feed on the orange magic, like a living entity, a parasite of shadow.Henry recoiled, stepping back as Eshan gasped, a sharp, ragged sound that spoke of utter horror. She covered her mouth with her hand, her shoulders shaking, tears streaming down her face. The sight of her, the normally strong, resolute Eshan, reduced to such raw grief, terrified him more than anything he had ever seen.She looked at Henry, her eyes wide with a pain that transcended words, and then she collapsed into his arms, sobbing uncontrollably.Henry held her, his own heart breaking. He immediately understood. This was more serious than he had imagined. Eshan, who was known for her ability to heal any disease, to mend any broken body, to cure even the most potent magical curses, was powerless. This was beyond her.He gently wiped her tears, his voice hoarse with emotion. "We can't give up," he said, his voice firm despite the tremor in his hands. "I have to go back to Europe. Maybe there... maybe there I can find some answers, some way to fight this. I can't just stand here and watch our son die."Eshan pulled away, her face streaked with tears, but her eyes filled with a desperate resolve. She nodded slowly. "Yes," she said. "You're right. I'll stay with Christopher, see what I can do here, try to hold it back. But you... you need to find help."She gave him a list, a collection of names and places, a desperate hope cobbled together from ancient lore and whispered legends. "These are the witches," she said, her voice low and urgent. "The ones who might know something, who might have the power to help. You have to find them, Henry. You have to."
Eshan moved with a grim determination, her earlier grief replaced by a focused intensity. She retrieved a beautifully carved calabash from a hidden alcove, its surface etched with ancient symbols. From a small pouch, she took a selection of dried herbs, their scents both familiar and potent, and carefully mixed them within the calabash. She added water, pure and clear.Then, with a steady hand, she took a small, obsidian knife, its edge gleaming in the dim light. She made a shallow incision on Christopher's arm, the blood welling up dark and vital. With a deep breath, she let a single drop fall into the herbal mixture within the calabash.Eshan closed her eyes, her lips moving in a silent incantation, her voice a low hum that vibrated with power. Then, she spoke aloud, her words ancient and resonant, " Hẹn mii onye ọni ọwanan ọnọ." (Show me who did this).Immediately, the mixture within the calabash began to swirl, the herbs and water churning violently. The surface became opaque, then cloudy, and finally, with a sudden stillness, it cleared, becoming as transparent as the purest water.A face appeared.Eshan's breath hitched in her throat. Her heart stopped, then began to pound with a fury that threatened to consume her. It couldn't be. It was impossible. But it was there, undeniable, staring back at her from the depths of the calabash.Esse.Her own daughter.