The Legend Of Seruma
The fire burned low, and the jungle beyond the hut sang with its endless chorus crickets chirring, frogs croaking, the distant cry of a night bird. Shadows danced across the woven walls, and to young Alira, they looked like spirits listening from the corners.
Her grandmother’s voice was low, carrying the weight of memory.
“Child, you must understand… the jungle is not merely trees and rivers. It is older than the mountains, older than the seas. It is a living being, with roots that drink not only water, but time itself.”
Alira’s eyes grew round.
“Time itself?” she whispered.
The old woman nodded, her silver hair glinting in the firelight.
“Yes. They say the roots of Seruma’s trees wind so deep into the earth, they touch the dreams of the world. The wind that stirs its leaves is the same breath that filled the lungs of the first creatures. The river’s song carries voices of those long turned to dust. And if you listen… truly listen… the jungle will speak to you. Not with words, but with whispers between heartbeats.”
She leaned closer, her gaze sharp.
“But beware, little one. The jungle gives only to those it trusts. To the greedy, it shows nothing but teeth. Seruma’s temple is not lost it is hidden. Hidden by will. The vines twist to mislead, the storms rise to drive men back. And those who push forward with arrogance?”
The flames crackled, and for a moment Alira thought she saw the flicker of a jaguar’s shape leaping in the fire.
“They are never seen again,” her grandmother finished softly.
Alira felt her chest tighten. Fear curled around her heart, but so did wonder. “Has anyone ever found it?” she asked.
Her grandmother’s wrinkled lips curved into a faint smile.
“Some have claimed to. Men with greedy hands, eyes full of gold. But the jungle knows lies. Their names are forgotten. The only stories that endure are those of guardians chosen ones who carried the whispers of Seruma in their blood. Some say our family once guarded its secrets, long, long ago.”
A hush fell. The fire popped. Outside, the jungle breathed.
The old woman closed her eyes, as if listening. Then, with a distant look, she whispered, almost too quietly for Alira to hear.
“One day, when the time is right, the jungle may choose again. And when it does, you must be ready to listen.”
Alira clutched her grandmother’s hand, her heart racing.
That night, when sleep finally claimed her, she dreamed not of her village or the stars but of endless green walls closing in, of rivers that glowed like veins of light, and of a stone doorway hidden beneath twisting roots. On the threshold, something waited watching her with eyes older than the sky.
