The Silence Before Rain
Proverbs 28:13 (NIV)
Whoever conceals their sins does not prosper,
but the one who confesses and renounces them finds mercy.
(Psalm 7:9 – NIV)
Bring to an end the violence of the wicked and make the righteous secure—
you, the righteous God who probes minds and hearts.
---
The storm never came that night, but the sky held the weight of it. The air was thick and restless, like a lung half full of breath. Mahogany Village slept in fragments—light, uneasy sleep, broken by creaks and murmurs. Somewhere, a baby cried and was hushed. Somewhere else, a dog barked once and went silent.
By morning, no one spoke of the scene at the temple, yet it sat between every conversation like a ghost at the table. The people avoided one another's eyes. They kept to their chores, sweeping, fetching water, mending fences—anything to fill the day and not think. Even the children's laughter came out thin, as if they feared to wake something best left sleeping.
Mahogany Village wore its fear like a second skin.
Men lingered at their doorways, speaking little. Women ground their grain without song. The children, once noisy from dawn, stayed indoors.
The mountain had sent no answer, only silence and heat.
In the chief's compound, a council gathered: five men, old and gray about the temples, each more exhausted than angry. They sat in a half circle while the chief's granddaughter poured water into cracked clay cups. The liquid shimmered faintly in the afternoon light, clear and thin.
"The people murmur," said one man, voice low. "They say the priest has cheated us. They speak of revolt."
The chief rubbed his beard. "Against whom? Teuwa? Or against Uwa?"
"Both," the man answered.
A dry cough broke the quiet. "If the witches come before we find mercy, we're finished," said another.
"Our sons will be taken. Our daughters—"
He didn't finish. The air itself seemed to flinch.
The chief raised his hand. "Enough. Fear breeds madness faster than hunger."
He looked toward the doorway, where his granddaughter waited, eyes wide, listening. "Go, child. Fetch more water."
When she had gone, he sighed. "We need a sign, even a small one, to show that Uwa still sees us."
The others bowed their heads, but no one spoke.
---
At midday, clouds gathered above the mountain. The light dimmed, and the air cooled with the smell of rain. Children ran home, clutching their bowls. Old women covered the fires with pots to keep the ash dry.
Regbolo sat by the doorway sharpening his knife. The sound—metal on stone—echoed steady and calm. His mother watched him for a long time, then said, "You think the rain will cleanse us?"
He stopped sharpening, looked up. "Maybe not cleanse. But cover the noise for a while."
She sighed. "When people lose faith, they start searching for anything louder than silence."
Near the edge of the square, Ye stood talking with two other men. The anger that had carried him through the confrontation now felt heavy, almost shameful. He had spoken the truth, yes—but truth did not fill a stomach or calm a frightened child. His wife hadn't slept. His daughter, barely fifteen, had nightmares about being "offered" like Teuwa once demanded.
He looked toward the temple.
"We should burn it," one of the men said.
Ye shook his head. "No. Let it stand and rot. Let it remind us what we allowed."
They fell quiet again. The clouds pressed lower, and a fine drizzle began to fall, slow and steady.
Teuwa did not appear in the square for three days.
When at last he came down from the temple, he wore his old robe—torn at the hem, but clean. His eyes were sunken, his mouth dry. Some said he'd been fasting. Others whispered that he'd been arguing with unseen spirits.
He stood before the empty altar and raised his hands. "The god will answer," he told them. "But first we must prove our loyalty."
No one asked how. No one dared. They only watched as he lit incense from his own hearth and bowed until his forehead touched the dirt.
The smoke curled upward in thin gray fingers, breaking apart in the heavy air.
It smelled of bitterness and burnt grain.
A boy watching from the edge of the crowd whispered, "Does the smoke reach heaven?"
His mother hushed him. "Don't speak of heaven. It might hear."
---
By evening, the wind changed.
Clouds gathered over the ridge, purple and swollen. Lightning flashed far away, too far to bring rain, but close enough to paint the treetops in ghostly light. Dogs barked and then fell silent, tails tucked low.
Teuwa sat alone beside the temple wall, chewing a strip of dried meat. His hands trembled, though he would not admit it.
He remembered the old woman's voice—sharp, unafraid. Sacrifice your own daughters first.
The words haunted him more than any prayer.
"Blasphemer," he muttered, though he could not shake the image of her face.
Above him, a single drop of water fell from the roof beam, splattering against his arm. He looked up—no rain, no cloud directly overhead. Just the slow drip from the mountain's unseen spring, finding its way down through cracks of stone.
He wiped it away, but the chill stayed.
---
The next dawn, a faint mist clung to the fields. The villagers woke to find the air strangely still, heavy with the scent of iron. A goat lay dead near the footpath, its eyes open, its blood already dark. No claw marks, no wounds. Just… emptied.
By midday, the news had reached every house. Mothers called their children inside. Men carried torches though it was daylight.
The chief ordered the body burned, not buried.
When the smoke rose, the flames hissed green.
That night, no one slept.
Ye stood alone at his doorway, staring toward the dark outline of the temple. His daughter stirred behind him, half-asleep. "Father," she whispered, "will God ever speak again?"
He didn't answer. He only stepped outside, letting the wind caressed his face until dust and guilt ran off together.
---
Far above the village, on the mountain trail, a traveler stopped to rest—an old man with a walking stick and a pack of herbs. He gazed down at the dim glow of Mahogany's fires, flickering like dying stars.
"They have forgotten mercy," he murmured. "And mercy forgotten breeds ruin."
Then he turned, disappearing into the forest's mouth as quietly as he'd come.
---
By the fourth day, Teuwa's voice had gone hoarse from his own prayers. He shouted them now, not to the heavens, but to drown out the murmurs creeping through the village like rot.
The chief's granddaughter passed him once on her way to fetch water. He didn't notice her. His eyes were fixed on the mountain, and his mouth moved as though arguing with it.
When she reached the stream, she saw the reflection of storm clouds gathering again over the ridge—dark, layered, waiting.
A crow flew low across the water, its cry echoing like broken laughter.
She filled her jar, heart hammering, and turned back toward the village.
In her chest, a thought rose she could not name.
Something was coming.
---
By nightfall the air was thick and silent.
The fires burned low, the wind died, and even the insects held their breath.
It was not peace that settled on Mahogany Village, but the pause before rain—the kind that breaks things open.