Twa Milhoms

The air over Ikanbi shimmered with heat from the afternoon sun, drying out the moisture that clung to the leaves and pooling on the bamboo stalks. Ben stood near the riverbed, his shirt tied at his waist, bare chest streaked with salt and dust. Before him, a flat slab of stone had been carefully placed over a bed of hot coals. Spread atop the slab, thin layers of damp salt were beginning to crust and crack, forming snow-like flakes.

"Looks like it's working," he murmured.

Druel crouched beside him, adjusting a tilted bamboo pipe that let water drain away from the stones. "It would work faster if we rerouted the heat underneath with vented slits. I can dig them. By tomorrow."

Ben grinned. "Do it."

To the side, Boji hoisted a woven basket filled with mud-coated gourds. "Storage problem's solved," he said proudly. "Hollowed, cleaned, and sealed with clay. Salt won't spoil. Neither will our food."

It was happening. Slowly, Ikanbi was becoming more than a place of survival. It was becoming a home.

Behind the salt flats, Mala walked the field perimeter with Sema and three volunteers. They carried sharpened sticks and dug rough furrows into the soil—guided by crude markers made from bamboo slats and fishbone string.

"Here," Sema said, squatting near a patch of darker soil. "Twa Milhom said this type of root will grow best here. We can transplant the wild ones."

Mala raised an eyebrow. "And if they don't grow?"

"Then we try again."

Ben arrived moments later, watching them from the ridge. "Try near the stream bend too," he called down. "He said some of the better herbs like moist soil and shade."

Sema waved in acknowledgment.

As the women dug and planted, Ben pulled Mala aside. "Assign two from the unmarked group to work this field daily. If they show heart, we watch them."

Mala nodded. "Understood."

Boji stood waist-deep in the river, fashioning his latest trap with sharpened stakes and a curved bamboo gate. Nearby, two youths struggled to mimic his movements.

"No! The water's dragging it—brace the back with stones," Boji said, pointing.

One of them groaned, "You're not the boss of the river."

Boji laughed. "Not yet. But I've made it listen a few times."

He looked up to see Ben approaching, arms crossed.

"Fishing methods?"

"Improving daily. I'm teaching them. Fish are better than beasts."

"Keep going," Ben said. "We'll need more ways to feed ourselves when the rains come."

That evening, the campfire crackled as the tribe gathered.

Ben stood before them, his expression calm but focused.

"Today we begin refining salt. We've mapped where to plant. We're developing fishing systems. But none of this means anything unless we act like a people—not just scattered survivors."

He motioned toward the salt gourds and drying racks.

"No more reckless hunting unless needed. No more lazy hands. Everyone has a role. If you don't have one yet, come see me. But don't ask for a mark or a ring. They're earned—when you do something that changes us."

The unmarked sat quiet, some ashamed, others defiant. But they listened.

"Jaron, Kael—you lead the hunting paths."

"Sema—you'll organize nutrition and planting. Mala, you're still our blade."

"Boji—fishing and water gathering. Druel—construction."

He paused. "As for the rest… prove you belong here."

Later that night, after the fire had burned low, Ben walked the bamboo trail toward his home. He paused near the edge of the new field.

The ground shimmered.

There, sprouting in the dark under the stars, was a tight cluster of wild rice—growing where there had been nothing.

Etched in the dirt beside it, written in no hand he recognized, were two words:

"Good thinking."

Ben knelt, fingers brushing the soft grain shoots.

He smiled to himself and whispered, "I hope this place earns your respect."

Behind him, bamboo rustled softly—but there was no wind.

As the firelight dimmed and the night breeze cooled the sweat on his skin, Ben rose from his resting place and wandered along the narrow bamboo path that curved toward Twa Milhom's dwelling. The grove here was quiet—always quiet. The kind of quiet that didn't feel empty, but watchful.

He didn't speak. He rarely did here.

But as he turned a bend and approached the edge of the grove, something new caught his eye.

Behind a woven barrier of reinforced cane and thick vine, nestled in the shadow of a gently sloped wall, were cages—low and wide. Inside each, nestled in bedding made of shredded leaves and moss, were young beasts.

They were not ordinary creatures. Each looked strange and almost majestic in its own way. One had fur so pale it glowed faintly in the moonlight. Another had scales like black glass, its tiny snout flaring with each breath. They were wild animals—yes—but they weren't chained or restrained. Their water troughs were full. Their food was fresh. They were clean.

Ben crouched, silent, watching. Not a single one snarled or trembled.

From somewhere in the shadows, Twa Milhom's voice murmured—not in words, but in presence. A weight in the air. A reminder.

"Observe, don't ask."

Ben stood. No questions passed his lips. Only thoughts.

We hunt monsters to survive… but what if we raised something instead?

He would not ask Jaron or Kael to risk their lives every day. Not forever. A future required more than bravery—it required wisdom.

He turned away and walked back toward the river, the soft echo of beasts breathing behind him.

The next morning, Druel and Boji stood knee-deep in the mud near the river's edge, their hands coated with clay and sweat.

"We dig this trench here—connect it to the flow line," Boji muttered, driving a sharpened stake into the dirt. "Fish come in but can't swim out. Water stays fresh, no rot."

Druel nodded. "We'll need a feeder section. And shade to keep the heat down."

It wasn't a perfect system, but it was theirs.

By noon, the basic frame of the tribe's first fish farm was complete—interconnected pools lined with bamboo, rocks, and natural filters. A start.

"We can't do this alone," Boji muttered, wiping his brow.

"I know the right one," Druel said, eyes flicking toward the field.

Jano was a quiet soul. He didn't speak unless spoken to. He hadn't earned a mark. Not yet. But he had watched the others. Helped when needed. And asked for nothing.

When Boji and Druel approached him and explained the task—caring for the fish, feeding them daily, watching their growth—he didn't hesitate.

"I'll do it," Jano said softly. "If it's for us."

That night, he knelt beside the fish pools, adjusting the reeds and whispering to the fish as he scattered crushed insects and fruit skins.

Above him, the moon passed behind clouds.

His skin tingled.

A warmth crept across his face, rising to a sharp sting just above his left brow. He touched it—and felt a brand there, glowing faintly before fading into skin.

The others saw it and whispered.

Ben did not speak, but he smiled.

The next morning, Ben stood before the tribe and pointed toward the new pools.

"Jano is marked. Not for killing. Not for war. For caring. For building."

Then, with his voice steady and clear, he said,

"From this day, we do not just hunt to survive. We grow. We raise. We feed ourselves with patience and mind. That is how we will endure."

In the grove behind him, a shadow shifted. And though Twa Milhom said nothing, the bamboo near his home rustled once—like a nod.