A Child with Purpose
Amos 3:7 (NIV)
"Surely the Sovereign Lord does nothing without revealing his plan to his servants the prophets."
Morning came pale and cold—the kind of cold that seeps into the marrow and lingers there. Mist crawled low through Mahogany's narrow paths, wrapping itself around rooftops and bare trees like a second skin. The few chickens that still lived scratched halfheartedly at the damp ground. A thin scent of boiled roots and smoke drifted through the air, mingling with the slow awakening of the village.
Inside the chief's house, the travelers were already stirring. Julia knelt by the hearth, coaxing life from a reluctant flame as she stirred a pot of porridge. Ernest sat nearby, mending the frayed leather of a wagon harness, his hands steady and practiced. Their children whispered near the window, drawing crooked shapes into the fogged glass and giggling softly, their laughter too light for such a heavy morning.
Elena stood at the doorway, half hidden by the curtain. She was the chief's granddaughter, child of his first daughter, and though her presence carried his blood, her spirit felt like something apart. In her hands, she held a small basket of dried meat and a clay flask of water—gifts for the travelers, sent by her grandfather. But she lingered instead of speaking, watching the family with quiet fascination.
Something about them unsettled her—not fear, exactly, but brightness. The kind that revealed what had long been hidden.
Julia noticed her and smiled. "You've come early. Would you share breakfast with us?"
Elena hesitated, her fingers tightening around the basket. "I… should help my grandfather."
"Then take a bowl for him," Ernest said, ladling warm porridge into a small clay cup. "It will warm him better than worry."
She accepted it, murmuring her thanks, yet she didn't leave. She stood still as the family bowed their heads. Their words were soft, almost like a song—simple gratitude offered not to Uwa, but to a name she had never heard before the night prior. The tone carried peace, not fear.
When they finished, Julia lifted her gaze again. "Do your people always live in such fear?"
Elena frowned. "It's not fear—it's caution. The witches are real. They've taken whole villages. Our god no longer answers."
Julia stirred her porridge thoughtfully. "Maybe He's waiting for you to look for Him where you never have."
The words hung heavy in the air between them, quiet but piercing. Elena had no reply. She turned away, clutching the cup tightly to her chest as if warmth could guard her from the question itself.
By noon, the village buzzed with whispers. The travelers had drawn eyes—curious, suspicious, reverent all at once. A few villagers lingered near the courtyard, pretending to fetch water or mend tools while they stared from a distance. They whispered that the outsiders carried strange power, that perhaps they had angered the witches simply by stepping into Mahogany.
The chief silenced them with a glare, but even he could not hide the unease in his eyes.
That evening, after the sun bled red behind the mountains, Ernest and Julia sat again with the old man by the hearth. The fire burned low, its light flickering like a tired heartbeat.
"We will stay only two more days," Ernest said quietly. "But before we go, we'd like to pray for your village."
The chief's lips pressed together. "Your prayers may anger our gods."
"They might wake the true one," Julia said softly. "He does not need sacrifices—only hearts willing to listen."
For a long while, the only sound was the wind threading through the gaps in the wooden walls. It carried a strange scent—something faintly rotten, sour with decay. The chief's son went to the door and stared into the night. "The wind comes from the mountain," he murmured.
No one answered.
That night, Elena dreamed.
She stood on the familiar mountain path, the one that led to the river and the whispering pines. But now, the forest burned. Trees became torches; smoke coiled like serpents through the sky. Faces twisted in the fire—men, women, children—crying out as the ground devoured their homes. And above the roar, a voice thundered through the smoke:
"When the night swallows the moon, I will send light through a child of ashes.
Her words will break chains. Her tears will call My mercy to the barren ground."
Elena woke with a gasp. Her clothes clung to her, drenched in sweat. The air felt thick, heavy with silence. Outside her window, the moon was indeed fading behind a veil of cloud.
At dawn, she found Julia sitting near the hearth, reading from a worn, leather-bound book. Elena fell to her knees beside her, trembling.
"I saw it again," she whispered. "The fire, the people… and a voice."
Julia closed the book, her eyes calm but knowing. "Not all dreams are born of fear. Some are invitations."
Elena's breath hitched. "It spoke of mercy—but how can mercy find us now?"
Julia reached out, her hand warm and steady. "Because it already has. You heard it."
So they prayed—Elena's first prayer not bound by ritual or fear. Her words stumbled, small and uncertain, but something within her loosened. It felt like hard earth softening beneath rain.
By midday, the air thickened with unease. Crows circled low over the treetops, their cries harsh and endless. The dogs barked without pause, hackles raised toward the ridge.
By evening, the scouts returned—breathless, pale, shaking. "They're close," one stammered. "We saw them—black shapes, moving like smoke."
Panic spread through Mahogany like fire in dry grass. Mothers gathered children, pulling them indoors. Men reached for spears that had long rusted in corners. The old muttered prayers to gods that had fallen silent.
The chief summoned a meeting. "We have little time," he said, voice rough. "We must decide what to do."
Fear filled the room, thick as fog. Some spoke of fleeing; others of surrender. The air trembled with despair.
But apart from them all, Elena stood very still. Her heart beat calm and strange, as though it no longer belonged entirely to fear.
"The voice said light would come," she murmured.
Her grandfather turned to her sharply. "Child, now is not the time for riddles."
Across the firelight, Ernest's eyes met hers. "Sometimes faith sounds like madness before it becomes a miracle."
The moment hung—fragile, uncertain. Then the ground itself shuddered.
A low rumble rose from the mountains—not thunder, but something deeper, older. Dishes rattled. Dust fell from the rafters. People cried out and clutched the walls.
Outside, rain began to fall. At first it seemed ordinary—then darker. The drops struck the earth heavy and red beneath the glow of distant fires burning beyond the ridge.
Julia stood, her face turned toward the mountains, eyes wide with something that was not fear. "It has begun," she said quietly. "The Lord is speaking again."
Elena clutched her cloak around her shoulders, her heart hammering so hard she could taste it in her throat. Yet within that storm of dread, a spark had awakened—small, trembling, but real.
The prophecy had woken.