They were not expected.
No message had been sent.
No emissary dispatched.
And yet, as dawn broke on the second day of the listening, they arrived—barefoot, cloaked in dust and shadow, each carrying a calabash tied with seven strands of river reed.
They did not speak.
They did not need to.
The earth knew who they were.
The Forgotten Enclaves
Long ago, before the First Archive claimed dominion over language and belief, there were those who walked the river in silence—not because they feared, but because they listened.
They were the Gourd-Bearers—descendants of the first midwives of the river myths.
Each bore a gourd not filled with water, but memory.
Spoken. Unspoken. Buried.
They had kept the true names of the river queens hidden in rhythm, passed down through blood and breath.
And now, the gourds were shaking.
Not from travel.
But from awakening.
Their Arrival
They came from the east.
From where the river split and coiled like a serpent beneath mountain roots.
They walked into the city without explanation.
The drums hushed.
The people parted.
Even Rerẹ́ stepped aside—for she felt it too.
The air around them was thick with something older than fire.
They stopped before the Listening Circle and knelt.
One stepped forward.
A woman, tall and narrow-eyed, bearing a black gourd engraved with crimson script.
She placed the gourd gently on the stone.
"The river has opened," she said.
"And we bring the third warning."
Rerẹ́'s Question
She stepped forward, voice calm.
"We've heard two names returned—Ẹ̀nítàn and Ẹ̀jìrẹ́."
"What remains?"
The woman bowed her head.
"The Third Path was not sealed.
It was fed."
Rerẹ́ frowned. "Fed?"
"Buried beneath forgetting, yes.
But also nurtured by silence.
Every injustice ignored.
Every truth softened into myth.
Every girl told her dreams were dangerous.
These did not disappear.
They became the Third."
The Gourd Opens
At once, the gourd on the stone began to glow.
Not brightly—but with a dull, red pulse, like breath beneath soil.
The gathered crowd leaned in.
From inside the gourd came a sound.
Not words.
Not rhythm.
But humming.
Soft. Low. Dissonant.
The hum of buried grief that never found voice.
The woman whispered:
"She is waking."
The Third Name
It was not said aloud.
It could not be.
But those who stood near the gourd felt it.
It curled behind the ear.
Pressed against the ribcage.
It was not a queen.
Not a twin.
It was a wound made flesh.
Rerẹ́ stepped closer.
"What do we do?" she asked.
The woman looked at her—and for the first time, fear crossed her face.
"We listen, yes.
But now… we must also guard."
Iyagbẹ́kọ Speaks
The elder emerged from the crowd.
Her eyes locked onto the gourd, and her voice cut clean:
"I feared this name my whole life.
Because it lives not in the river—but in the shadow the river casts."
"She was not given a song.
She was given silence turned inward."
Iyagbẹ́kọ knelt.
"The Third is not a queen.
She is a reckoning."
The Fire Beneath
The ground shook.
Not violently.
But with a steady, rising rhythm.
From the gourd's mouth, smoke poured upward.
Not choking. Not flame.
A signal.
It formed a symbol in the air—three interwoven spirals, the center one spinning in reverse.
Èkóyé whispered:
"It's a counter-rhythm."
Rerẹ́'s eyes widened.
"A reverse myth."
The Decision
The Gourd-Bearers rose.
One by one, they placed their gourds on the ground.
Each began to hum.
The same note.
The same tone.
A call—not for awakening.
But for containment.
The woman who spoke first turned to Rerẹ́:
"You carry the bridge between the twins."
"Now you must ask—can that bridge hold a third?"
Rerẹ́ did not answer.
She simply knelt before the humming gourd.
Placed her palm upon its lid.
And listened.
Final Lines
No explosion came.
No light.
No wind.
Only a whisper.
So faint, only the heart could hear:
"You remembered them…
But will you remember me?"