Twa Milhoms

The morning mist rolled low and heavy over Ikanbi, casting long, silvery shadows between the shelter posts and across the still-damp dirt paths. The scent of smoke still lingered in the air—faint and spicy, like a memory too distant to grasp fully.

Ben rose early. He moved without his usual urgency, but with a steady purpose. The taste from the night before still danced in his mouth—salt and fire, richness and depth. He couldn't shake it. Wouldn't want to. It wasn't just food. It was knowledge. A taste of something more.

He gathered the tribe near the central fire pit, where the coals still glowed faintly red beneath the ash. A few chunks of the cooked river beast remained, carefully preserved under the god-warmed black stone.

Without fanfare, Ben passed it around—one bite for each of them.

They didn't ask questions at first.

But when they tasted it, no one spoke for several heartbeats. Sema's eyes widened. Druel grunted and chewed slower than usual. Kael and Boji exchanged glances like they'd seen lightning strike dry wood.

"What is this?" Sema asked finally, licking her fingers. "It tastes like the river, and yet… not."

"Salt," Ben said. "Seasoning. Fire. It's from him."

No name. No explanation. Just him. And everyone knew who he meant.

They finished eating in silence. But after that moment, something shifted.

A hunger took root—not in their bellies, but in their minds.

By midday, the tribe was in motion. Boji scavenged fallen bamboo and thick reeds, attempting to build smokehouses using dried moss as kindling. Druel experimented with stones he had sun-dried the day before, testing which could retain heat without cracking when placed in the fire.

Mala expanded their patrol radius, using tree carvings to mark fresh trails and safe zones. She and Kael returned with warnings of clawed carcasses and bloodless kill sites—predators eaten by something far worse.

But Ben's focus remained on taste.

And Sema… hers narrowed to replication.

She spent hours over a fire pit with dried herbs, ground roots, and mashed fruits. She burned. She over-boiled. She undercooked. She tried everything.

But no matter what she mixed, it didn't taste like that first bite. Not even close.

Frustrated, she walked away from the cooking pit and wandered toward the edge of the bamboo grove, where the stalks grew taller and twisted like old bones under green skin.

She didn't call his name.

She just walked… knowing he was there.

And there he was—sitting on the bamboo steps of his house as if he'd been waiting the whole time.

Sema stopped several paces away, uncertain. The god's bare arms rested on his knees, his eyes closed, a faint smile on his lips.

"I want to learn," she said quietly.

Twa Milhom's eyes opened. One was black, the other a flickering orange, like embers beneath smoke.

"You already know how to cook," he said without moving. "What you're asking for is something else."

"I tried," she said. "But nothing I made tasted like what you gave Ben. There was depth in it. Memory. Even anger."

Twa Milhom let the silence stretch before answering.

"Salt and ash teach more than fire and fear," he murmured. "But not everything can be learned from a pot."

She stepped forward, bold. "Then teach me. Tell me."

He tilted his head. "Tell you what? That your hands are skilled but impatient? That flavor is not just in the mouth, but in the breath, in the history behind what you kill and what you thank?"

"I'm willing to learn."

"You're not ready to be taught."

Sema clenched her fists. "How will I know when I am?"

Twa Milhom stood slowly. He walked toward her, and though she didn't move, the air seemed to lean back from him.

"When you can taste a lie in your own tongue… then you'll be ready."

He waved his hand once—and the vines above her curled slightly, casting a shadow like a lid closing over a boiling pot.

Sema turned, defeated but thoughtful. She didn't look back as she walked away.

Behind her, Twa Milhom whispered to the wind, "But you will come again. And I will feed you truth when you stop seasoning it with pride."

That evening, Ben sat by the fire alone.

The others were scattered, tired from a day of strange activity. Boji's first smokehouse was already catching fish scent. Druel's clay oven had collapsed, but he'd taken notes. Kael nursed a scratch from a wild branch. Mala sketched their new borderlines into the dirt with a sharp stick.

And Ben… he simply waited.

Twa Milhom appeared without warning, walking from the river again, but this time empty-handed.

He sat beside the fire and stared into the coals.

"You fed them," Ben said.

"I lit the flame," Twa Milhom corrected. "They chose to eat."

"Will you keep feeding us?"

"No. But I'll keep watching." He flicked a small stone into the flames. "Fire is not just heat, boy. It's choice. What you cook changes how people dream."

From within his palm, he revealed three items:

A smooth black stone, warm even in the cool air.

A pouch of white sand that shimmered faintly.

A seed, round and veined, pulsing softly with a glow like the heart of a coal.

Ben stared at them. "What are they for?"

Twa Milhom smirked. "You'll know… when you're hungry enough."

He stood, disappearing into the darkness beyond the firelight, the forest parting around him like smoke.

Ben remained still for a long while.

Not out of fear.

But because for the first time, he understood…

They were no longer surviving.

They were becoming.

The moon had long dipped beneath the horizon by the time Ben found sleep. But the moment his eyes shut, he awoke again—not from fear or noise, but from a pull. Something invisible, but undeniably real.

Ben rose and walked to the edge of the bamboo grove, guided by instinct more than thought. There, seated on a low stone beside the glowing roots, was Twa Milhom—arms resting on his knees, a long-stemmed reed clamped between his teeth.

"You keep strange hours," Ben said, voice hushed.

Twa Milhom smirked without looking up. "The stars speak louder when mortals sleep."

Ben sat across from him, knees brushing soil. "You knew I'd come."

"I'm not a prophet," the god said. "You're just predictable. You want more."

Ben didn't deny it. He just nodded.

Twa Milhom reached into the earth with one hand, and when he pulled it free, five images of plants bloomed in a soft red glow above his open palm.

"These," he said, "are what feed more than stomachs. They feed roots, memory, fire."

He motioned toward each image.

"Fireleaf—for flavor and fever. Grows best in sunlight but dies in standing water."

"Shalla Root—starchy and sweet. Feed a family for a week. Plant it deep and wide."

"Thimblebark—a wrapper, a healer, a wound-sealer. Boil it to draw out its truth."

"Nula Pods—sharp to the tongue, wake the body from sleep."

"Black Fronds—bitter, yes, but strong. Boil them, grind them, live longer."

Ben stared at the images until they dissolved into fireflies, vanishing in the darkness.

"These plants grow wild in Ikanbi," Twa Milhom said. "But only a fool hopes the wild feeds them forever. Cultivate. Guide. Don't tame—it offends the land."

Ben nodded slowly. "We need more than meat and chance."

"Now you speak like someone who plans to remain alive."

Twa Milhom stood, brushing dirt from his palm. Then he pointed north.

"Past the second ridgeline, where the moss turns blue and the birds go quiet—there's salt."

Ben's eyebrows lifted. "Salt?"

The god's voice turned sharper, less playful. "Salt is more than flavor. It preserves. It protects. It buys time. Empires rose over less."

Ben leaned in, hungry to know more.

Twa Milhom's words came like steps in the dark:

"Scrape the salt from stone. Wash it with clean water."

"Boil it. Let the sun dry it in shallow dishes."

"Store it dry, sealed. If it gets wet again, it's lost."

Ben blinked. "That simple?"

The god laughed. "Everything simple takes patience."

He paced a slow circle in the clearing, drawing marks with his bare foot.

"You'll need land. Not just clearing… structure. Rows. Raised beds. Water flow. Diversity of crops."

He pointed toward the river. "Too close to water and roots rot. Too far, and they starve."

Ben nodded, absorbing every word.

"Let them plant together," Twa Milhom said. "Teach them to grow what they want to eat, not just what they're told."

Ben looked down at his own calloused hands. "You think we're ready for that?"

"No," the god said, walking past him, "but you're willing to become."

Then, with a wave of his hand, the bamboo parted behind them. A circle of freshly tilled soil spread outward, soft and black, perfect and unnatural. In the center, a stone basin emerged, already trickling with clear water fed from deep within the land.

Ben stood and turned, staring at it in awe.

Twa Milhom paused at the edge of the bamboo.

"Now sow what you wish to reap—not just with your hands, but with the kind of people you lead."

And with that, he was gone—swallowed by the grove.

Ben stood in the silence that followed, heart steady, eyes sharp.

This wasn't just survival anymore.

It was the beginning of a world.