Twa Milhoms

Morning came quietly in Ikanbi, not with birdsong, but with a hush that felt like the forest itself was holding its breath. The mist that clung to the leaves was thick enough to drink, and for a while, no one spoke—just movement, gentle and purposeful, as the tribe stirred to life.

Sema was already crouched beside the fire, grinding dried roots with a smooth black stone, her hands quick and sure. Across the camp, Mala stood atop a flat boulder, scanning the tree line, watching the way the birds moved. Their absence in one section made her frown. She made a note to investigate after breakfast.

Ben walked between them, silently, nodding as he passed. He didn't interrupt. Everyone had started to take on small duties of their own. It wasn't law. It was habit forming—quiet structure rising from shared survival.

By midday, the rhythm of the camp was broken.

"You'll flood the stone basin, Boji!" Druel snapped, wiping sweat from his brow as he pointed toward a groove carved in the earth.

Boji leaned over the shallow trench he'd dug, bamboo rods in hand. "Not if I angle it properly. It'll flow just enough—direct to the shelters."

"And wear down the stone beneath!" Druel barked back. "That's our foundation. You want to wash it away with a glorified ditch?"

"It's water, not a landslide!"

Ben stepped between them.

"Enough," he said.

Both men froze.

Ben squatted beside the trench, studying the angle. "Boji, build your channel—but do it uphill from Druel's lowest foundation lines. Let the water pass, not collect. We need both of you building, not arguing."

Boji nodded reluctantly. Druel grumbled but didn't protest further.

Ben stood. "We're not fighting for land. We're shaping it."

That afternoon, the scent of roasted fruit drifted through the air—smoky, sweet, and oddly unfamiliar. Boji followed it and stopped short.

Twa Milhom sat inside the frame of a half-built hut—someone else's shelter, not his own. He was barefoot, shirtless, and lounging on a smooth stone like a lord in his court, watching a fat squirrel turn over the fire on a stick it hadn't been impaled with minutes before.

Ben approached with quiet steps.

"You always sit in things half-done?" he asked.

Twa Milhom didn't look up. "Only when the builder thinks it's finished."

Ben crossed his arms. "You came for something."

"I came for nothing," the god said. "But I found something worth watching. That's rare."

He gestured toward the camp with a sweep of his hand. "You've started to shape them. The question is—if you build a perfect house, and no one wants to live in it… was it worth building?"

Ben didn't reply.

Twa Milhom smiled faintly. "Good. You're not ready to lie to yourself yet."

He plucked a pebble from the dirt and flicked it toward Boji, who ducked as it bounced off his foot.

"Move the water," he said lazily. "But don't let it forget where it came from."

Then he vanished—not in flame, not in light—but in silence.

By late afternoon, progress surged again.

Druel and his makeshift crew dragged more stone slabs into the basin and began shaping a large rain trap. He muttered to himself about slope, angles, and drainage with a fervor that surprised even him.

Boji tested different angles for his bamboo channel, cutting and fitting joints until water ran smooth and clean down toward the communal shelters.

Sema packed leftover root paste into clay jars, layering it with dried leaves she had baked near the fire to slow spoilage. "Lasts three more days this way," she told Mala, who took careful note.

And Mala, ever watchful, marked the treetops with bits of white ash. "Birds are talkative this way," she muttered. "And silent there." She pointed beyond the ridgeline. "Means something moved. Something big."

Ben walked among them all, silent and observant. He didn't correct. Didn't command. Just listened—and watched.

That night, as the fires dwindled and the scent of bamboo smoke lingered in the air, Ben sat beside Mala, looking toward the forest.

"Twa Milhom hasn't spoken to me since midday," he said quietly.

"Maybe he's listening instead," Mala replied.

Ben exhaled. "I don't know if he approves of what I'm building, or if I'm just keeping him entertained."

Mala shrugged. "He's still here, isn't he?"

Ben said nothing.

That night, his dreams were strange.

A tree stood before him—massive, ancient, with blood-red leaves that shimmered like glass. Its roots reached up, not down, curling into the sky like skeletal arms. Fire licked its base, but the tree didn't burn. Instead, it grew. The flames became roots. The roots became veins. And something whispered his name from inside the bark.

He woke in a cold sweat.

And the air…

The air was wrong.

It smelled sharp. Metallic. Like rust and stone and old blood.

Far off, beyond the edge of Ikanbi, a beast screamed into the night.

Not a howl.

Not a roar.

Something new.

Something that didn't belong.

Ben sat up straight, eyes wide.

Twa Milhom didn't appear.

But his absence felt like thunder waiting just beneath the skin of the world.

Ben didn't sleep again after that sound.

The strange metallic scent still clung to the air as he stood outside, watching the stars disappear behind a thick gray veil. The jungle had gone quiet. Too quiet. Not even the distant chirp of insects dared interrupt the silence.

He didn't know how long he stood there, shirt damp with sweat, when a sound finally broke through.

A splash—deep and heavy—echoed from the direction of the river.

Ben turned toward it, already walking before he knew why. The others were still asleep, scattered around the camp. Even Mala hadn't stirred.

The river glistened like black glass under the starlight, slow and deceptively calm. And rising from it, like a nightmare born of shadow and muscle, came Twa Milhom.

He dragged behind him a massive river beast—a fish the size of a canoe, with jagged fangs, gnarled fins, and eyes as blank as the dead moon.

Ben stopped a few paces away as Twa Milhom heaved the carcass onto the riverbank with one hand, water dripping down his bare chest like oil.

"What… is that?" Ben asked, breath tight in his throat.

Twa Milhom grinned. "Your river's true owner. It wouldn't stop screaming last night, so I took its tongue."

With a wave of his hand, a circle of stones burst from the earth, forming a pit. Dry vines and roots slithered into place, catching fire without spark. In seconds, flames danced.

The god took a bone knife from nowhere and carved into the beast, removing a slab of white, firm meat. With the same flick of a wrist, leaves crushed themselves, salts poured from thin air, and a pungent orange paste spread across the fillet.

Ben watched in disbelief. "What are you doing?"

"Would you eat raw river horror?" Twa Milhom asked, raising a brow. "Even gods need taste."

The fillet sizzled over the flames, curling at the edges.

The scent made Ben's mouth water in ways he didn't understand. Salty. Spiced. Smoky.

Twa Milhom tore off a piece and held it out.

Ben hesitated, then took it.

The moment it touched his tongue—flavor bloomed in his mouth. Salt, sharp and electric. Seasonings he couldn't name—earthy, hot, and fragrant—danced over his tongue.

He froze.

Then chewed.

And then stared at the piece in his hand like he'd never eaten food before.

"This…" he whispered.

Twa Milhom chuckled, sitting on the rocks like he'd been doing it forever. "Welcome to your first real bite. Everything before this was just surviving."

Ben said nothing, chewing slowly, savoring each bit.

"You're building something," the god said. "One day, you'll teach them to season, too."

He tossed another piece to the flames and let it roast.

And for a while, they said nothing more—just a boy, a god, and the conquered monster of a river, crackling beneath stars that didn't blink.