The village had known peace for forty days.
No blood on the stones. No ash on the wind. No strangers bearing drums that wept.
But peace, Ayanwale was learning, could be deceptive—like a calm river hiding a whirlpool beneath its reflection.
He stood beneath the twin kolanut trees at the edge of the village square, his new drum—the one born from light and water—resting quietly on his back. The old Royalty Drum had shattered in the final battle. In its place was something no hand had carved, no spirit had given a name to. A drum without wood. Without hide. A drum that responded not to touch—but to truth.
And yet… it hadn't sounded in weeks.
He could feel it. Hear it humming softly in his spirit. But it refused to sing.
As though it was waiting for something.
Or someone.
"Ayanwale," Amoke called from the path leading from the healer's hut. "You need to see this."
He turned and followed her without question.
The hut was small, reed-thatched, and heavy with the scent of ground herbs and old fear. Inside, a woman rocked a baby in her arms—no older than a few weeks. Her name was Enitan, a weaver's daughter. Her husband had died during Baba Oro's last uprising. She had given birth in silence, surrounded only by midwives and shadows.
The child was healthy. Strong. Bright-eyed.
But had not made a single sound since the day it was born.
No cries. No laughter. Not even a cough.
At first, they thought it was illness. Then a curse. Now… something else.
"Watch," Amoke whispered.
Ayanwale crouched beside the child.
Enitan, exhausted, handed the baby to him. "He won't eat unless there's a drum nearby," she said, her voice breaking. "We tried everything. But only rhythm soothes him."
Ayanwale held the child close. For a moment—nothing.
Then the baby blinked, raised its tiny hand—and tapped Ayanwale's chest. Once. Twice. A perfect rhythm.
Ayanwale froze.
"That's… the same pattern I played the night the Ninth Rhythm was born."
The baby smiled.
Then reached up, placed both palms against Ayanwale's drum—and pulsed.
Not sound.
Energy.
A beat that came not from the drum, but from him.
Ayanwale gasped. His knees buckled. He sat down hard, the child still resting calmly in his arms.
"I've seen three others," Amoke said softly. "Two in this village. One in Abẹ́fẹ̀. All born after the storm. None of them speak. But they feel rhythm. Deeply. And not just from drums—from everything. Wind. Water. Footsteps. Emotion."
"Do they… understand it?" Ayanwale asked.
"They are it."
He looked down at the baby, whose tiny fingers now tapped the air in a rhythm he hadn't taught—but knew.
The Rhythm of Beginning.
Not even he had played that one.
"I think…" Ayanwale whispered, "I think the Ninth Rhythm didn't end with me. I think it began with them."
By evening, he had visited the other two children.
One, a girl named Ṣadé, could trace the outline of a drum rhythm in the dirt before her feet, even though no one had ever taught her. The other, a boy named Okiki, refused to be held—until Ayanwale entered the room. Then he reached toward him, pressing a hand to Ayanwale's throat.
Not to silence him.
To feel the vibration of his voice.
"These are not accidents," Amoke said as they walked back through the grove. "Something changed after the Ninth Rhythm was born. These children… they're not broken. They're bridges."
"To what?"
Amoke looked up at the sky, where stars had begun to dance in slow spirals.
"To a world that no longer speaks only with tongues."
That night, Ayanwale dreamt.
He stood in a clearing. The moon was full and low, so bright it cast shadows backward. Around him, dozens of children sat cross-legged in a wide circle. All were silent. All were watching.
A figure emerged from the mist.
She was neither young nor old. Her skin shimmered like water beneath firelight. Her mouth was sewn shut—not with thread, but with light. And on her back, she carried no drum—only a single white shell that glowed softly.
The children stood as she passed.
When she reached Ayanwale, she knelt.
And whispered—not with voice, but with rhythm:
"They are mine. And yours. Teach them. But never speak for them."
Ayanwale tried to respond. But his voice would not come.
He reached for his drum. It had vanished.
The only sound was the echo of his heartbeat.
And then—silence so deep it cracked the sky.
He awoke gasping.
And realized the dream was not a vision.
It was a summoning.
At dawn, he packed.
The new drum—lightweight, pulsing—rested against his spine like a memory he could not forget.
Amoke met him by the old well, her face pale.
"You felt it too," she said.
"She's real," Ayanwale replied. "The woman in white. The one with the shell. She's the one they call the Echo Queen."
"Where will you find her?"
"I won't."
He looked out at the horizon, where the forest curled like a sleeping serpent.
"She'll find us."
They began the journey to Odo-Ayè, a forest known for its muteness. No birds. No crickets. No song. Even the wind refused to whistle.
The Children of Silence followed them—Ṣadé, Okiki, and the infant Enitan carried on her mother's back. Along the way, other children joined. Some from neighboring villages. Others whose parents had hidden them out of fear.
Some were blind.
Others mute.
All had one thing in common:
They moved to rhythm not yet heard.
And each of them recognized Ayanwale—not as a hero, or a drummer.
But as a mirror.
On the seventh day, the forest opened.
And the Grove of Shells appeared.
It was not a building.
It was a memory etched into earth.
Hundreds of white shells hung from the trees, clicking faintly—not in the wind, but in response to footsteps.
Amoke stopped.
"So this is where she waits?"
Ayanwale nodded.
And then she came.
Not from the sky. Not from shadow.
But from between the shells.
The Echo Queen.
No mouth.
No feet touching the earth.
She hovered slightly above the ground, her arms wrapped in long white cloth, her face veiled in mist.
The children knelt.
Ayanwale stepped forward.
And placed his drum at her feet.
She did not speak.
But her silence filled the grove.
Then she lifted one hand—and pointed at Ṣadé.
The little girl stood.
The Queen held out the shell from her back and placed it against the child's chest.
It glowed.
Then pulsed.
Once.
Twice.
A rhythm neither drum nor hand had ever played.
Then the Queen pointed at Ayanwale.
And the sound struck him.
It wasn't loud. It wasn't soft.
It was truth.
"She will lead them. You will protect them. But none of you will command them."
The words weren't spoken.
They were felt—etched into spirit like fire into bark.
Ayanwale bowed.
"I understand."
The Queen touched his head.
And for a moment, he remembered everything.
Every rhythm. Every loss. Every truth buried by his ancestors.
And one final vision:
A city.
Not yet built.
Where drums floated through the air and children taught the spirits how to listen again.
When he rose, the Queen was gone.
So were the shells.
But the rhythm remained.
Ṣadé stepped beside him.
She tapped her chest.
Then tapped his drum.
A perfect beat.
The First of the New Rhythms.
Not old.
Not corrupted.
Not given by spirits or gods.
But born of children who could not speak, but who had always been listening.