Asha approached the glowing tree, its branches like crystal etched against the grotto's darkness. The symbols pulsed softly, like heartbeats. Omari hung back, eyes wide.
"Asha, _hii ni moto_ – this is magic!"
Malkia's voice whispered, _"Touch the tree. The whindi will share."_
Asha hesitated, then pressed her palm to the trunk. The symbols flared, and visions flooded her mind –
_Ancient wali guardians weaving spells to protect the land_
_A drought-struck village, people praying to the whindi_
_A hidden valley, lush with life, guarded by the tree_
The visions swirled, then coalesced: a face. Her mother's.
_Asha, the wind carries your name. Protect what's precious._
The tree's light faded. Asha stumbled back, breathless.
Omari caught her. "Asha, what's wrong?"
Asha's eyes filled with tears. "My mother... she left a message."
Malkia's whindi whispered, _"The tree holds stories of the past. But the future is yours."_
Asha straightened. The path felt clearer now – she had a purpose.
Mama Kiti waited by the fire, face etched with knowing. "The whindi have spoken, Asha."
Asha told her about the tree, the message. Mama Kiti nodded.
"Your mother was a wali too. The wind carries her legacy."
Asha felt a weight settle – and lift. She knew what to do.
The village buzzed with dawn. Asha, Omari, and a few elders stood before the Langa River, its waters swollen with rains.
Malkia's voice echoed in the whindi: _"Asha, the land needs balance. The whindi await your call."_
Asha raised her hands, whindi swirling. She felt the tree's power, her mother's voice, the land's heartbeat.
_"Nipokee, whindi – hear me, winds,"_ she whispered.
The river's flow shifted, like the land itself exhaled. The villagers cheered, but Asha knew – this was just the start.
Malkia's final whisper: _"The whindi will carry your name, Asha. The path is yours."_