Long before the stone surfaced in Kinamis, before the whispers filled the town's narrow streets and made people sleep with their eyes open, there was Iboro, the boy who never truly cried as a baby. His grandmother, Mrs. Adian, often told the story with a quiver in her voice, never looking the listener fully in the eye. He did not come with pain or blood or water. He came with wind and thunder.
That night, the air had changed. It had been dry for weeks, the weather scratching against the skin, but then a warm, howling breeze tore through the compound. The midwife had not arrived, his mother, alone and heavy with child, staggered to the mat in her house, prepared to bring forth life by sheer will. But what happened next had no name.
She said the light flickered, though there was no flame. The earth beneath her shook gently, like a beast stretching in its sleep. And then, he was there. Not from beneath her, but beside her.
He was not wet. He did not cry. His eyes were wide open. And there was a mark, a small, black, jagged circle, beneath his collarbone. It pulsed faintly for weeks after his arrival, as if it were alive.
In the memory of Kinamis, there were three births that had turned the air still and caused silence to weigh heavy on the land. First, the birth of King Maelor. Second, the arrival of Harlem, the now revered spiritual guide. And third, the one not spoken of aloud until the world began to unravel: the boy Iboro.
The day Iboro was born, the wind came first.
It wasn't an ordinary breeze. It moved like a presence, threading its way through the tall palms and lean plantain trees, pressing against doors and windows as if trying to enter every home in Kinamis at once. But no dust stirred. No leaf dared fall. It was a wind that whistled without sound, and all who felt it paused and looked to the sky, their mouths parting, unsure why their skin had turned to gooseflesh.
Then, the silence came. Birds froze mid-flight, their songs unfinished. A stray dog collapsed, whimpering. Market sounds vanished; metal stilled in mid-strike. No baby cried, no voice rose. Even the breeze halted. It was a heavy, sacred hush, as if the world itself held its breath, waiting for revelation.
And in the small, unevenly built house at the edge of Kinamis where Mrs. Adian lived, something beyond the natural unfolded.
Iboro did not cry when he was born. He did not flail his limbs or gasp for air. He simply opened his eyes, wide, dark, still, and stared into the mid-morning sky that peeked through the open window. The midwife, a woman of many years and no-nonsense hands, staggered back.
"He's not crying," she whispered.
Mrs Adian said that the mother's face was wet thoroughly in sweat, weak from labor, and she lifted her head slightly. "Then he has nothing to fear."
The midwife wanted to wrap the baby in cloth, but her hands trembled. The child's skin was warm but not from fever. Warm like something lit from within. He blinked slowly, as if waking not from sleep but from waiting.
In that hour, every drum in Kinamis, though untouched, gave a low thud, like a single heartbeat. From the tallest dwelling to the oldest sacred space, the sound echoed. Witnesses said they felt the beat in their chests.
This was not the first time Kinamis had known such a thing.
When Harlem was born, decades ago, his mother's labor began beneath a pale, watchful sky. It was said the light above dimmed, like a fading ember. A strange shadow crossed it, though nothing visible moved overhead. That night, glowing specks of blue light gathered in swarms, drifting through the open spaces. The wind reversed its usual path, breathing outward from the unseen edges of the land, as if something ancient had stirred and exhaled.
The councilman of the time knew it was not a normal birth. Harlem too did not cry. He merely clutched his mother's finger and opened his eyes before she had even finished pushing. They named him child of stillness, the one who would speak to gods before men.
Then came the tale of King Maelor.
Born during an eclipse, Maelor's entry into the world hushed not only Kinamis but the distant heights beyond. Those nearby claimed that all movement ceased, nothing stirred for hours. Flowing waters paused midcourse, resuming only after he drew his first breath. Lightning flashed across the darkened sky, followed by thunder that shook the air. Then came a whisper, a single word in an ancient tongue, carried far and wide, riding the breath of the wind.
That word was later revealed by the monks of Kinamis to mean: "Return."
And when Maelor grew, he took the Silent Throne, named so because even in times of war, his presence calmed rage. His decrees were often given not with shouts but with a look, and the people obeyed.
Now, Iboro, born in silence, wrapped in wind, showed signs of that same lineage of enigma. Mrs. Adian said he never babbled as a baby. When he was hungry, he stared until she knew. He never wept for pain. He once touched a feverish man's arm, and the man's sweat dried within moments. No one could explain it.
As he grew older, strange creatures drawn from brush and shadow began to linger near him, even those that typically vanished at the sound of footsteps. The silent old beast that never stirred behind the smith's shed would lift its head only when he passed. Once, a winged figure settled on the rooftop and remained there for three full days, still and watchful, departing only when he lifted his hand.
Iboro never played with other children, not because he was rude, but because he always seemed to be somewhere else, even when present. Watching clouds. Listening to soil. Smelling the wind.
When Mrs. Adian once asked him what he heard, he replied, "Things that talk slow. Trees. Stones. The sky."
No one laughed.
When Harlem the spiritual guide, heard of the child, he visited in secret. He brought no offering. He did not wear his red robes. He entered barefoot, stood over the sleeping boy, and remained still for what felt like an hour. Then he whispered one sentence:
"Another has come."
He left without another word.
Whispers grew over the years, but Mrs. Adian silenced them. She knew, as did the wise few, that a time would come when Kinamis would need its quiet boy, born on a wind, cradled by silence, eyed by fate.
And now, with the stone stirring and the god Osungho whispering to men in dreams and children in fevered sleep, those who remembered the omens began to watch Iboro more closely.
Just as Maelor once rose to lead and Harlem once stood between realms, perhaps Iboro too was born not simply of woman, but of purpose.
For in Kinamis, silence was not absence. It was the sound of destiny drawing breath.
Then came the seventh night after the king's return from the sorcerer.
That night, Iboro did not sleep easily. His body trembled. His brow furrowed. Mrs. Adian, watching closely, noted the faint trembling of his fingers. A soft hum escaped his lips, like a chant in a language no ear had taught him. She wrapped him in a cloth and remained by his side.
But sometime past midnight, he sat bolt upright, gasping. His eyes were open, but they were not seeing the world.
In the dream, fire danced across the sky. Not red, but green, emerald flames flickering in silence. Trees bowed toward the fire. Stones floated. The river turned black and boiled.
Then he saw the face. Or what might have been a face.
It was shrouded in smoke, yet firm in outline. A crown of jagged stone sat upon its head, and its eyes, if they were eyes, burned with no flame, just raw light, like the core of the earth. Its mouth opened, and though no sound emerged, Iboro felt it.
The god did not speak in words. It spoke in knowing.
And he knew then what the stone was. He knew its name. He knew its hunger. He knew that the return of the stone meant the undoing of everything.
And he saw himself, standing at the edge of a cliff, the stone in his hands, a storm behind him. He did not look scared. He looked decided.
He woke with a jolt. Mrs. Adian caught him, but he looked past her.
"He's awake," he whispered.
"Who, my son?" He looked her in the eye.
"Osungho." The name chilled her bones.
The next morning, Iboro sat in the center of the compound, drawing circles in the dust. The lines twisted into ancient shapes that the wind could not erase.
The town had not yet seen the storm to come, but the boy had. He had been shown. And in that knowing, Iboro was no longer just a child.
He was chosen. He was burdened. And soon, he would be called.