THE JOURNEY BEGINS

The sun had set by the time they emerged from the forest’s edge, and Hlaneki Village was already settling into night. Smoke rose from cooking fires in every courtyard, and the sound of drums echoed from the central gathering place where the elders often met. But as Rixile, Ntila, Sungu and Mrs Shongotelo walked through the narrow paths between huts, they saw villagers stopping to stare at them – their faces filled with concern and something else, something that looked like fear. Rixile’s grandmother was waiting at his hut, sitting on the wooden stool outside with her hands wrapped around a cup of hot tea. When she saw them approaching, she stood slowly, her eyes scanning each of their faces until they came to rest on Mrs Shongotelo. The two women looked at each other for a long moment, and Rixile could feel the weight of years between them – years of shared grief, shared secrets, and shared determination to protect their village. “You’ve been back,” his grandmother said simply, not a question but a statement. Mrs Shongotelo nodded. “They’ve awakened. The children saw them – just as we did, all those years ago.” Without another word, Rixile’s grandmother turned and led them into her hut. Inside, the small space was warm and filled with the scent of dried herbs, smoked meat, and beeswax candles that cast dancing shadows on walls covered with woven mats and painted symbols. She motioned for them to sit on the floor around the central fire pit, where a pot of stew bubbled gently over the flames. “Eat,” she said, ladling stew into wooden bowls and handing them around. “You’ll need your strength for what comes next. I know you plan to go to Babangu – Mrs Shongotelo told me in her dream, even before she woke to tell me herself.” Sungu looked up from his bowl, surprised. “You knew about her dream?” “I’ve been having dreams too,” Rixile’s grandmother said, sitting down across from them and wrapping a blanket around her shoulders against the evening chill. “The mountain speaks to those who have faced its guardians and lived. It tells us when change is coming – when the time has come to end the terror that has held our village captive for too long.” She reached behind her and pulled out a wooden box, worn smooth by age and use. When she opened it, inside lay three things: a small leather pouch filled with what looked like polished stones, a pair of boots made from thick animal hide, and a necklace strung with teeth from various animals, each one carved with tiny symbols. “These belonged to your parents, Ntila,” she said, pushing the box toward him. “They were preparing for a journey of their own before… before they went into the forest. Your mother made the necklace – she believed it would protect those who wore it from evil spirits. Your father carved the stones – each one is meant to guide you when the path ahead is dark.” Ntila reached out and touched the necklace gently, his fingers tracing the carved teeth. Tears welled in his eyes again, but this time they were mixed with determination. “I’ll wear it,” he said quietly. “I’ll take them with me on this journey.” Rixile’s grandmother turned to Sungu next. “Your family has wealth, child, and that will help you on the road to Babangu. But wealth alone won’t protect you from the dangers you’ll face – mountains that can swallow travelers whole, rivers that run fast and cold, and creatures that are not confined to Xindewula’s forest. Take these boots – they were made by my own hands, from the hide of a mountain goat that lived to be older than any should. They’ll carry you over rough ground and keep your feet dry in the wettest places.” Sungu accepted the boots with gratitude, running his fingers over the thick leather. “My father will want to help – he’ll provide whatever supplies we need. Horses, food, tents – anything.” “Good,” she said, then turned to Rixile. “And you, my grandson – you who have inherited the fire that burns in our family’s blood. Take this pouch of stones. When you hold one in your hand, it will show you what you need to see – even things that are hidden from ordinary sight. Your mother gave them to me before she died, saying they would be needed one day by someone brave enough to face what lives in the forbidden forest.” She looked at Mrs Shongotelo then, and the two women shared another long look. “We’ll go with you as far as the mountain pass,” his grandmother said. “We know the way through the first part of the journey – the paths that are safe, and the ones that lead only to danger. But once you cross into Babangu’s lands, you’ll be on your own – guided only by Mrs Shongotelo’s dream and the gifts you carry.” The next morning, the village was abuzz with news of their planned journey. Sungu’s father had indeed offered his full support – providing four strong horses, enough food to last for weeks, tents and blankets, and even weapons for protection against wild animals. The village elders gathered to bless their journey, laying hands on each of them and speaking words in the old language that Rixile didn’t fully understand but felt deep in his heart. As they prepared to leave, villagers came forward with gifts of their own – dried fruit, healing salves, woven blankets, and good luck charms. Even those who had once scoffed at the old stories now understood that the safety of their village rested on the success of this journey. Ntila stood at the edge of the village, looking back at Mrs Shongotelo’s hut – the only home he’d ever known. She came to stand beside him, placing a hand on his shoulder. “I wish I could go with you all the way,” she said quietly. “But someone must stay here to protect the village while you’re gone. The creatures may try to attack while we’re weakened, and I need to be here to defend those who can’t defend themselves.” “I know,” Ntila said, turning to look at her. “Thank you – for everything. For raising me, for loving me as your own.” Mrs Shongotelo pulled him into a tight embrace. “You are my own, Ntila. Always have been, always will be. Bring back the crystal – not just for your parents, but for all of us who have lost someone to the forest’s darkness.” As they mounted their horses and turned toward the northern road that led to Xindewula Mountain’s higher passes, Rixile looked back at the village one last time. He saw his grandmother standing at the edge of her hut, watching them go, and he saw Mrs Shongotelo standing beside her, her face set with determination. Then he looked ahead at the mountain rising in the distance – its peaks hidden in clouds, its slopes covered in forest that looked dark and forbidding even from this distance. The journey to Babangu would take at least two weeks, maybe longer if the weather turned against them. Along the way, they would have to cross the fast-moving Mzimba River, climb the treacherous slopes of Mount Kwenzi, and pass through the Valley of Whispers – a place where travelers were said to be lured off the path by voices calling their names. But none of that mattered now. They had a purpose, a mission that was bigger than any of them individually. They were going to find the crystal, bring it back to Hlaneki Village, and end the reign of terror that the Lord of Birds and the Guardian of Shadows had held over Xindewula Mountain for thousands of years. As they rode into the morning mist that clung to the mountain slopes, Rixile pulled out the stone his grandmother had given him. It was cool in his hand at first, but as he held it up to the rising sun, he felt it grow warm again, and the silver streaks within began to glow with a soft, steady light – guiding them forward into the unknown.