The Royalty Drum

A pale dawn crept over the River of Echoes, its early light soft as breath through thin cloth. Ìrètí sat by the shore, legs crossed, hands folded in her lap. The cloak of silence gifted by the Whisper Keepers lay beside her, woven from midnight threads and faint memories. She no longer carried a drum—but she carried the weight of rhythm her heart refused to speak.

The ripples of the river swelled, luminous in the dawn sun. And beneath their shimmer, something moved. A presence. Subtle. Nature already held its breath.

She sensed it before she saw it.

A child—barefoot, face serene—emerging from the shallows.

They wore no clothing, only silver-gray skin that glowed like moonlit stone. Eyes closed. Head tilted slightly, listening.

As the child stepped onto the bank, the forest leaned in. Bamboo groves snapped their leaves; cedar trunks hummed in greeting.

Their lips parted.

No breath. No sound.

Only presence.

And in that beingness, the world — living and spirit — sighed.

Arrival of the Child

Ìrètí rose slowly, heart heavy with prophecy.

"You... did not speak," she said softly.

The child lifted their eyes—pale as dawn—and smiled.

The forest responded. Leaf moths rose in spirals. Frogs croaked across the surface of the water. Even the Listening Trees quivered.

Rotimi appeared over a ridge, bowing low.

"She is... it," he whispered to Ìrètí as he approached. "From the Whisper Keepers' prediction... the child born without rhythm."

The words hung charged in the air.

The child—who would come to be called Zuberi, meaning Strong One—took three silent steps toward Ìrètí. Each step stirred a tremor in the ground. Even the drumless canopy of silence hummed in resonance.

Zuberi reached the cloak.

Touched it.

And the cloak responded.

It heated, then pulsed once—like a great heartbeat in silence.

Ìrètí watched.

Because beneath that silent pulse, she heard a rhythm.

Not rhythm.

Recognition.

Sanctuary at the Listening Grove

Later, within the Grove of Listening, the Council Trees sheltered them in a circle of roots and soft light. Ìrètí and Rotimi seated themselves before the Council of Green. Others—spirit folk, leaf-born wanderers, elders—gathered. Even the Living Drums nestled within listening trees hummed low.

Zuberi sat beneath the central Elder tree, their stillness commanding attention.

A leaf-born spirit stepped forward—eyes like dew—bowed and spoke but only to Ìrètí:

"You have brought the child who hears—without voice. Is this burden or blessing?"

Ìrètí answered not in words but by placing a hand on the child's shoulder. Zuberi tilted their head and blinked once.

And the forest sighed again.

The Council Trees rustled.

The Eldest—Ọ̀kàǹgbá—spoke through his bark-rustle:

"The Tenth returns the bridge. The Eleventh awakens the gate. But this child... will listen through shadows."

A silent murmur moved like wind through the throngs.

No drum sounded.

But between hum and hush, a covenant formed.

The Symbol of Breath

In that Grove, Zuberi received a mark—etched in luminous sap on their forearm: a spiral broken by the line of unspoken sound—the symbol of the Child of Silence. It glowed weakly at first, then stronger as Zuberi inhaled, exhaled—in sync with the Eternal Listening Tree.

The sap-mark turned silver-blue, then faded.

At its heart lay a seed—tiny, cocooned in living wood.

The Council placed their palm against Zuberi's forehead. Each rhythm-born being contributed their own note—but not by drumming. Breath. Pulse. Being.

And the seed pulsed.

They handed Ìrètí a leaf-carved vial containing the seed.

"Plant it in the Grove of the New World," the Eldest said. "Let memory grow where silence reigns."

The Unfolding of Internal Conflict

That night, by the fire of fallen drums, Ayanwale and Ìrètí convened in their compound.

Ayanwale's palms rested on the Royalty Drum. His eyes glowed with curiosity and concern.

"You didn't bring a drum with her," he said.

Ìrètí shook her head. "This child speaks without it."

He exhaled slowly.

"How do we teach someone who doesn't carry sound?"

She touched his arm silently.

"The Lesson of Silence is not absence," she said. "It is presence without imprint."

They watched as embers burned slow.

Rotimi leaned close.

"She isn't the Twelfth," he murmured. "But she carries its burden. A rhythm no drum can beat."

Ayanwale looked down at the drum.

They would need voices—but not instruments.

First Trial: The Murmuring Roots

At dawn, they led Zuberi to the Basin of Broken Songs. The stones were still etched with the names of those who had fallen to unbidden rhythms. The Earth trembled in quiet memory beneath Zuberi's footfall.

They gathered around a cracked drum stump. A soft wind hissed.

Rotimi bowed.

"You must ask the roots," he whispered.

Zuberi knelt, palms flat on moss. No breath came. No word.

And yet.

The earth vibrated.

A tremulous murmur—like distant drums buried.

A pattern emerged:

tap… pause… tap-tap…

Not the Ninth. Not the Eleventh.

A new rhythm. A seed.

Zuberi's eyes opened. But no sound.

Ìrètí swallowed.

"The Child hears beyond beat."

The roots parted to reveal a small black seed—like obsidian stone.

Zuberi lifted it.

Threat from the Shadows

Before they could stand, the air chilled.

The trees warped.

A voice cracked through the silence.

"That seed belongs to me."

A figure burst into the caldera.

Bathed in warlike crimson.

Cloaked in old blood-marks.

The Ajalu. Not his uncle—but a scarred drummer twisted into spirit. A past follower of Baba Oro's dark legacy.

They bore bones strung like beads.

They swung an iron sickle—a scythe-shaped drumstick.

Their voice echoed:

"You touched the seed of Truth. That breaks the pact. Now you pay."

Ayanwale grabbed the Royalty Drum.

But Zuberi stayed still.

The spirit advanced.

Moment of Reckoning

The spirit struck the air. A shockwave—silence overpowered by sound.

The Listening Trees shuddered. Even the Basin trembled.

But Zuberi did not move.

They closed their eyes.

And from their chest came a pulse.

Not breath.

Not song.

But resonance.

The seed glowed.

A ripple through the roots.

Tap—tap…

Just two taps.

Yet the spirit stopped.

Its scythe rattled.

And stilled.

It twisted its head like a marionette unsure.

Then… vanished.

No screech.

No collapse.

Only quiet retreat.

New Covenant of Memory

The caldera grew still.

The Listening Trees whispered again.

The seed pulsed faintly in Zuberi's palm.

Rotimi exhaled.

"You did it."

Ayanwale knelt beside Zuberi.

"You have sung without rhythm — and altered the course of memory."

Zuberi looked up.

No words.

Only truth.

The Eldest Tree's rustle echoed:

"The seed you carry… is the companion of the unheard. Plant it at the New Grove."

And beneath voices and silence alike, a new rhythm began.

That night, back in the compound, Ayanwale placed the Royalty Drum beneath his bed. But he could not sleep.

He wandered to the rooftop under the star-pierced sky.

That silent child was a whisper in his bones.

Below in the courtyard, the Listening Trees trembled—leaves quivered.

From their branches drifted a faint echo—three notes.

But it wasn't a rhythm.

It was a name.

A name he recognized.

The Eleventh had named him.

Heard him.

And the echo of that name hummed in his blood.

The world had remembered.