Bound by ancestry - Chapter 32: Chapter 32

The song was not loud. It did not rise with drums or chants or trumpet calls. It flowed quietly through the roots and leaves and soil beneath the memory house. It pulsed in the feet of those who walked the learning paths and whispered in the ears of those who had finally learned to listen. Every morning began with this song, and though no one truly remembered when it had started, everyone knew it would not stop as long as remembering continued.
Adaeze stood near the eastern ridge, staring out at the sunrise. The light spilled slowly over the grove, touching every leaf and every stone. She listened carefully. Somewhere in that morning song was something new. A variation. A signal. A message. She closed her eyes. Her staff leaned against her shoulder and her breath moved slowly in and out.
Behind her came the rustle of footsteps. It was Uche. She carried a bundle of fresh cloth soaked in river mint and moonflower, herbs now commonly used in memory bindings.
“It is shifting,” Uche said softly.
Adaeze nodded without opening her eyes. “Something is rising again. Not to fight. But to be found.”
Uche placed the bundle down. “We are reaching deeper now. Those who arrive are not just seeking memory. They are carrying pieces that want to connect.”
“Then we must prepare. This phase will be different.”
The day unfolded with quiet purpose. Chidubem returned from the western forest with two new initiates. They had completed a vision walk, a journey guided by symbols from the memory house. Each had carried a different token. One returned with a carved bowl bearing the face of a long-lost clan leader. The other came back with a handful of soil from a graveyard that no longer appeared on any map.
“These are not accidents,” Chidubem said during the midday gathering. “They are signs. The land is giving us what was hidden. We must accept it.”
The council formed beneath the sacred grove. The original members of the Circle now joined by twelve others who had proven their readiness through deeds and remembrance. The gathering was focused and solemn. Adaeze stood in the center and laid out a strip of bark. Upon it were strange symbols not from any known script.
“This was found by a young girl in the southern garden. She said it called her by name though it bore no words she understood.”
Ogbonna leaned forward and studied the markings. “This looks like elderroot code. It is how ancient shrines recorded the echoes of speech too powerful for plain writing.”
“Then we must listen another way,” Adaeze said.
A ritual was prepared that night. The Circle surrounded the central fire. The bark was placed in the flames, and as it burned, the smoke did not rise. It curled downward and slithered across the ground like a slow serpent. When it reached the edge of the shrine stone, it stopped.
Then it spoke.
Not with voice. With memory.
The Circle saw visions. A forest swallowed by silence. A child crying at the edge of a river that no longer flowed. A voice saying, “Do not forget me again.”
When the vision faded, Adaeze opened her eyes.
“There is a place that once held a living root. It was the source of many tribes. Before the splitting. Before the forgetting. It still exists. But it is wounded.”
Uche stood slowly. “Then we must go. Not all. A few. It must be found. It must be remembered.”
The next morning, a party was chosen. Chidubem. Uche. Two initiates trained in healing. And a new arrival named Awele who claimed to have dreamed of the root since childhood. They packed quietly. The journey would not be long in distance, but deep in memory. Before they left, Adaeze pressed a hand to each of their foreheads.
“You are not searching for what is lost. You are revealing what has waited.”
They traveled by river path, guided not by map but by instinct. The trees leaned slightly to show direction. Birds circled only when the group veered away from the true trail. After two days they came upon a wide plain of cracked soil. The grass was yellow and sparse. In the center stood a single twisted tree, leafless and half burned.
“This is it,” Awele whispered. “I know it.”
They approached slowly. The air around the tree felt dense. Every breath pulled like clay in the lungs. Uche placed a hand on the bark. Her fingers trembled.
“It is not dead,” she said. “It is waiting.”
Chidubem took his blade and cut a small circle into the ground. He placed three stones within it and whispered a name he did not understand but could not ignore.
The ground shook. The tree shuddered. And then it opened.
Not like a door. Like a memory.
Roots uncoiled. Not to threaten. To reveal. Beneath the tree was a chamber formed of living wood. They descended with care, torches lit and hearts steady. Inside they found walls covered in carvings. Stories etched in the wood itself. Awele touched one and gasped.
“I see them. I see the first ones. I see how we began.”
She fell to her knees.
The group fanned out. Each carving told a story. Of unity. Of the great weaving. Of a time when magic was simply memory given shape. Of how fear fractured it. How silence became a weapon.
They remained in the chamber for hours, studying and copying what they could. Before they left, Uche placed a seed wrapped in cloth into the center of the chamber. A gift of healing. A sign of return.
Back in Umuguma, Adaeze prepared the people. Something had shifted again. The air carried a hum beneath its stillness. Children began dreaming in symbols instead of words. Elders heard their own names spoken in the rustling of leaves. The shrine pulsed more frequently.
When the seekers returned, the village gathered. Awele held a small piece of the living root. It glowed faintly. The crowd parted as she walked toward the memory house and placed it at the base of the central pillar. The room brightened. Even the objects on the shelves vibrated slightly.
Adaeze stood and spoke to all present.
“This is the root of our beginning. It is not a relic. It is a reminder. Our story does not start with pain. It starts with connection.”
Applause was not given. Instead, everyone placed a hand over their heart and bowed their head. The message was felt more than heard.
Over the following weeks, the living root grew. Slowly. Silently. Not upward. Inward. It touched each object in the memory house, changing them. They did not shift in shape but in weight. They became fuller. Denser. More complete.
Those who touched them received fragments of forgotten songs. Names whispered from within. Even faces. The living root was not only alive. It was generous.
The school began teaching new lessons. Not of magic or power. Of restoration. How to repair broken altars. How to rewrite forgotten names. How to guide others without claiming authority. The Circle spread across regions, not as rulers, but as reminders. They carried seeds of the root and planted them in hidden places. Shrines reawakened. Forests that had withered slowly began to bloom again.
One evening Adaeze sat alone near the edge of the grove. The stars shimmered above. The night air was thick with promise. Chidubem joined her carrying a cup of palm wine.
“You feel it too,” he said.
“Yes,” she replied. “Something even deeper waits. But it is not urgent. It is patient.”
“It will come when we are ready.”
She nodded. “And when it does, we will not be afraid.”
And the land continued to sing.