The travelers
Romans 10:9–10 (NIV)
9 If you declare with your mouth, "Jesus is Lord," and believe in your heart that God raised him from the dead, you will be saved.
10 For it is with your heart that you believe and are justified, and it is with your mouth that you profess your faith and are saved.
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A few days passed, after the temple's incident, yet nothing shifted in Mahogany Village. The sky hung low, swollen with gray weight, as though the heavens themselves were tired of watching people bow to fear. Even the chickens had grown quiet, scratching half-heartedly in the dust. Smoke curled lazily from kitchen fires, smelling of damp wood and hunger.
The people no longer gathered in the temple yard. No drums, no songs. Only whispers behind closed doors—names spoken like curses, prayers spoken like secrets. A hush had settled over the land so complete that even the trees seemed to listen.
Then one cold morning, a sound broke the stillness. Faint at first, like memory—then clearer: the creak of a carriage wheel on frozen dirt. A horse's slow, weary steps. It came down the road from the hills, a thread of motion against the endless gray.
Inside the carriage sat a family of four, wrapped in wool and patience. The father, Ernest, held the reins, his hands rough from months on the road. His wife, Julia, sat beside him, scarf drawn up to her chin, eyes scanning the horizon with quiet endurance. In the back, their children dozed against each other, lulled by the rhythm of travel.
"The journey has been long and tiring," Julia murmured, wiping the dirt from her gloves. "I hope we can refresh our supplies before we leave again."
"Certainly, honey," Ernest answered, the corners of his mouth barely lifting. "And we also need to share the Good News."
Julia smiled faintly. "We will. But first—some rest."
The horse snorted, breath turning to white vapor. The road narrowed as they entered the village. Old fences leaned at awkward angles, patched with rope and hope. The scent of smoke mixed with the sour tang of wet earth. A few dogs barked and then fell silent, unsure whether to trust what they smelled.
When the villagers noticed the strangers, they froze mid-task. A woman stopped beating grain. A man paused with a bucket half lifted from the well. Eyes peeked through shutters and cracks in walls. The strangers' coats, their carriage, their calm—none of it belonged here.
Ernest raised his hand in greeting. "Good day! We are travelers from the Black Stone Country. We've been on the road for weeks and hope to restock some supplies before continuing our journey."
His voice carried across the empty street, met only by the whisper of wind through dry grass. A few villagers exchanged glances, uncertain. One man, slightly bald and hollow-eyed, stepped forward but said nothing. His gaze flicked toward the forest edge, then to the sky, as though checking for approval from something unseen.
Without a word, he turned away. The others followed, leaving only the echo of their footsteps behind.
Julia pulled her shawl tighter. "They're afraid of us," she said quietly.
Ernest nodded, reins slack in his hands. "They think we're part of the Court."
Silence followed. Even the children stopped fidgeting. The word Court seemed to hang in the air like a dark banner, heavy with things unsaid.
"We'll find someone willing to talk," Ernest said after a moment. "God always leaves one heart open."
They moved on, the wheels crunching on the gravel, every sound magnified by the hush of the place. They passed shuttered stalls, an empty well, and a line of broken idols half buried in dust. The wind smelled faintly of ash.
Then—movement. A girl walking down the narrow path, holding a basket against her chest. Seventeen, maybe eighteen. Her dress was plain and faded, her braid loose, but her eyes—brown, wide, curious—caught the light. She stopped when she saw them, instinct tightening her shoulders.
Ernest slowed the horse. "Good morning," he said gently. "We mean no harm. We're travelers, passing through. We only need food and rest. Can you help us?"
The girl's lips parted as though to speak, then closed again. She looked over her shoulder, toward the mountain that loomed above the village like a sleeping beast. Her fingers gripped the basket tighter.
Still—something about the man's voice, the woman's calm beside him, softened the edge of her fear. There was no cold power clinging to them, no shadow like the ones that haunted the Court.
"I… I can take you to my grandfather," she said finally. "He's the village chief. He might help."
Julia's face brightened. "Thank you, dear. That's very kind."
The maiden turned and led them through winding paths lined with sagging huts. Chickens scattered from underfoot. Children peeked through doorways, whispering behind dirty fingers. A few old women watched from their stools, eyes narrowed not in malice but in weary caution.
At the far end stood a larger compound. Its clay walls were cracked but neat, the gate worn smooth by many hands. The girl pushed it open. "Grandfather," she called. "Strangers have come to the village!"
An old man appeared from the doorway, leaning on a carved wooden cane. His beard was white, his eyes sharp despite the sag in his shoulders. For a long moment he said nothing, simply studying the family—Ernest with his steady calm, Julia with her quiet resolve, the two children blinking at him from the carriage.
Ernest bowed slightly. "Peace to you, elder. We're from the Black Stone Country. We've traveled long and would like to rest and buy supplies if possible."
The old man's gaze flicked to the carriage, the horse, the road beyond. "Are you staying for the night, or leaving after you restock?" he asked, voice low and cautious.
"We would like to rest for a few days," Ernest said. "If that's permitted."
A long breath escaped the elder, as though releasing years of guarded air. "You are welcome," he said at last. "But you should know—our village has not known peace for some time."
He gestured toward the wooden chairs inside. "Come. Sit, and I will tell you."
Inside, the house smelled of smoke, dried herbs, and time. Strings of corn hung from the beams, and the walls glowed faintly with reflected firelight. It was a humble place but warm. The young maiden poured water for them, her hands trembling so slightly it was almost invisible.
Ernest accepted the cup with a nod. "You mentioned trouble," he said quietly. "Is it the witches we've heard about?"
The chief's eyes darkened, their light dimming like embers under ash. "Yes. They have destroyed the villages around us. We are next. We have prayed to Uwa, our god, but he does not answer. The priests say our sins are too many. Others say he sleeps." He stared into the fire, its light dancing in his eyes. "Some have stopped praying altogether. And some…" He hesitated, jaw tightening. "Some have turned to darker things."
Julia set down her cup. Her voice, when it came, was soft but certain. "Fear makes men forget who they are, elder. But there is a God—one who listens even when the world is silent."
The chief turned his gaze to her. There was something unsettling in her calm, a peace that seemed out of place here. It was not arrogance but assurance, like someone who had already walked through storm and flame and come out knowing who held her hand.
He said nothing. But the line between his brows eased.
Outside, twilight thickened. The sun sank behind the hills, smearing the sky in bruised oranges and purple smoke. The cold crept in with the dark. Ernest unpacked a few things from the carriage while the children chased each other in the courtyard, their laughter thin but real. For the first time in many evenings, it did not sound like a ghost's echo.
When Julia looked toward the sky, the first star had already appeared. She whispered a prayer under her breath—quiet enough that only heaven could hear it.
Somewhere beyond the mountain, a wolf howled. The sound rolled through the valley like a warning and faded into silence. The elder lifted his head at the sound but said nothing.
That night, as the villagers barred their doors and banked their fires, a strange thing lingered in the air—faint as dawnlight, fragile as faith. It was not yet hope. But it was the tremor before hope.