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    "Tell us, Calla—how did it really end?" Koko''s voice broke the silence.


    The flicker of the lamp cast a creepy glow on Calla''s weathered face, her eye sockets sunken and her skin wrinkled. She sat on a wooden cot, covered with soft beaver fur blanket that smelled faintly of age and earth. The walls of the hut were made of ancient, thick logs—the spaces between them filled with mud that had dried to a dark brown over the years. The floor was packed dirt, swept clean of any debris. Yet a few stray twigs and leaves had found their way in through the cracked wooden planks that served as a door. The only other piece of furniture was a small table carved by hand from a single piece of wood. On it sat a few weathered wooden bowls, a palm-sized cup and a small clay pot filled with water.


    The lamp itself hung from a wooden beam that stretched across the ceiling, swaying gently as the rainy wind that slipped in through the cracks in the roof. It was a simple contraption, a metal frame holding a lotus stem wick dipped in virgin palm oil extracted from the Oil Palms that were found abundant near the lake beds. The light it cast was dim, but it was enough to throw scary shadows on the walls of the small space.


    The children sat in a semi-circle around Calla, their eyes wide and their breaths held as if they could inhale the story.


    Normally, the room could house no more than a couple of adults comfortably. But children, as tiny as they were, could squeeze into spaces where adults couldn’t. They sat there, cross-legged, huddled and leaned forward, eagerly waiting for Calla to continue her story.


    Baabi slapped Koko right on the back of his neck, causing him to yelp. "Shush, Koko!" she mumbled. "You know, Calla never finishes her stories."


    "But why? How could you tell a story and not finish it?" Koko whined, rubbing his stinging neck.


    Calla took a deep, shaky breath, the skin around her mouth folding into dangerously saggy creases as she did so. "Because it didn''t end. Not yet."


    Koko scorned at Calla''s words. "But Calla," he protested, "Stories should have endings!"


    Calla pointed a boney finger at Koko. "Right," she nodded, her aged arms trembling. "Stories have endings. But this isn''t a story. It''s…" she trailed off, her sunken eyes narrowing as she searched for the right word. "It''s… history."


    The children looked at each other, a scowl etched in their faces. Sisi summoned the courage to speak up. "But Calla, what''s his… his… histy?"


    Baabi slapped Sisi''s thigh, making her jump. "Don''t you know? It means something that''s not a story."


    Sisi pushed Baabi''s hand away with a squeal. "Would you stop slapping people?"


    "What? I''m just happy." Baabi pouted.


    "But I''m not. Ah… it hurts!" Sisi rubbed her thigh, glaring at Baabi.


    "Sorry, I didn''t mean to hurt you." Baabi''s cheeks reddened. "I''m always happy whenever Calla starts a story, even if she never finishes them."


    Koko rolled his eyes, annoyed with their banter. "But Calla, what happened to The Great Hero? Did he ever come back from his journey?"


    Calla''s gaze drifted to the flickering shadows on the wall. "The Great Hero," she murmured.


    That evening, several years ago, before Chief Nelius Tuscan left, his wife Rosa had said with tear filled eyes. "I''ll spend every second of the rest of my life, praying for your well being, awaiting your return."


    "And I will find a way to undo the curse, to defeat the witches, and restore peace to our land," Chief Nelius Tuscan had vowed. "And then I will return to you, my love."Find this and other great novels on the author''s preferred platform. Support original creators!


    When Chief Nelius Tuscan left Tuscanvalle that evening, after the ritual, after the feast, after he and his twenty eight men had bonded with their wives and children, the people had watched him go.


    Days, months and years went by. But Chief Nelius Tuscan had never returned from his journey. The years had stretched into decades, and the hope for his return had morphed into legends, and then… then the legends had evolved, evoking a strong, widespread dread of the outside world.


    "The Great Hero never returned," Calla said finally, her voice solemn. The children''s face shrunk in disappointment, some of them pouting, some of them moaning. But Calla wasn''t done. "But the story isn''t over." She cheered them.


    The children leaned in closer, their breaths bated with renewed interest. Calla stretched her stiff twig-like limbs, lifting them onto the cot with a painful groan. She took a sip of water from the clay pot with her shaking hands. Lightning flashed outside, briefly illuminating the room. Rain picked up, turning the gentle patter into a deafening downpour.


    "You see," she began, her voice weaker than before, "The Great Hero is not someone who gives up on his people. He''s out there, fighting battles you can never imagine, facing dangers you won''t dare to dream of."


    The children listened, their mouths open like fish gulping for air.


    "He must be…" Calla''s memory drifted back to that fateful day when Chief Nelius Tuscan had left. She was a child when it happened. She had seen him off with her mother and her aunt, Hasana as did all the people of Tuscanvalle. Everything had changed after he left. The new Chief was such an arrogant prick in the ass. He didn''t care about them. He didn''t care about the curse or the witches. All he cared about was his dominance and masculine ego. By the time Calla attained marriage age, she had understood what her mother and her aunt had meant when they said that their daughters and granddaughters would see a different Tuscanvalle. Under Ibarius’s rule, the village had grown rigid and colourless. "…out there," Calla continued. "For he''s the only one who knew how to contain the evil." She remembered her mother, Rumana, wondering if Chief Nelius Tuscan had known something they hadn''t. Why else would he be so persistent in continuing his journey even after finding this paradise of a land?


    "Evil?" Sisi cocked her head, eyes wide with fear. "What evil, Calla?"


    Calla took another deep, rattling breath. The children these days seemed more intellectual than she remembered being at their age. She remembered her children and their children and their children''s children, all of them asking less and playing more. But these little ones, they had so many questions. "The evil," she began, "Is something that…"


    She stopped abruptly. Should she tell them about the witches? The way her childhood friend, Poppy had burst into a soup of blood and bones, right before her eyes? Do they deserve that kind of gore staining their innocent minds?


    Calla had seen so much. Yet the memories weren''t that haunting when she was still young. But the trauma had grown stronger as she had gotten older. At times, when she closed her eyes at night, and she could see the scene replaying in her mind, she had wondered if children have some kind of defense mechanism that protected them from the horrors of the world until they were ready to face them.


    "Calla," Koko prodded, shifting and squirming in his spot on the floor, "what kind of evil is it?"


    Calla''s gaze remained fixed on the shadows. "The kind that lives within us. Like when you want something so badly, it makes you do things that aren''t nice. That''s greed," she said, looking at each of the children in turn. "Or when you''re so jealous of someone else''s toys, you''d rather break them than share."


    Koko''s cheeks reddened as he remembered the time he had snuck into Sisi''s hut and snapped her favorite wooden horse in two because she wouldn''t let him play with it.


    "But Calla," he stuttered, "is that all?"


    Calla''s eyes searched the room, her gaze lingering on each child''s face. "No, my precious" she said with a sigh. "There''s more."


    "Imagine," she began, her voice dropping to a whisper, "someone so hungry, they would eat until there''s no food left for anyone else."


    The children nodded, some of them remembering the last winter when food had been scarce.


    "That''s gluttony," Calla said, her eyes drifting to the flickering light. "It''s when you want so much, you forget about everyone else."


    The children stared at her unblinking. Calla knew she had their attention, so she took a moment to gather her thoughts before continuing. "Then there''s injustice. Now tell me, little ones! Have you ever seen someone treat others unfairly, just because they think they''re not as worthy?"


    The kids looked at each other, and then at Calla. Slowly, their heads bobbed in unison. "Yes, Calla," Sisi said, her tiny eyebrows furrowed in thought. "Mama always chases Samora away when she stands too close to our house, asking for food. She says Samora is evil." The little girl looked down at her clenched fingers. "But I don''t think she''s evil, just hungry."


    "Isn''t there a li…ttle baby in her stomach?" Baabi squealed. "Will it come out before we go to sleep? Will it be a boy or a girl?"


    "But DaDa said they''re going to hurt Samora and the baby," Koko murmured, his voice wavering with uncertainity. "Is that true, Calla?"


    Calla took a deep breath, realising something suddenly. Sometimes, what might be injustice to some, might be survival to others. And sometimes, its important to weed out the evil lurking silently among us.