Chapter One: THE WOMAN THE HILLS
CHAPTER ONE:
THE WOMAN ON THE HILLS
The village of Kambola lay quietly beneath the evening sky, wrapped in the warm breath of the Sierra Leonean forest. By day, it looked like any other village—mud houses, red dust paths, laughter of children, and the distant sound of pestles pounding grain. But when the sun slipped behind the hills, the village changed its face.
At night, Kambola remembered its fears.
No one dared walk toward the hills after sunset. Not even the hunters. Not even the elders. The hills belonged to her.
They called her Tania.
Some whispered her name with trembling lips. Others refused to speak it at all, fearing that even saying it might invite her attention. To the village, she was not a woman anymore. She was a shadow. A curse. A wound that never healed.
They called her the Wizard Woman.
Long ago, before the fear hardened into legend, Tania had lived among them. She had been a healer, a storyteller, a grandmother with strong hands and watchful eyes. But when sickness came that no herb could cure, when crops failed and children cried through the night, the villagers needed someone to blame.
And they chose her.
They accused her of witchcraft. They said she spoke to unseen beings. That her dreams were too powerful. That her knowledge was not human. One night, fire swallowed her home. Flames rose like angry spirits, and the villagers stood watching as if they were witnessing justice.
But Tania did not scream.
She disappeared.
After that night, strange things happened. Animals were found dead without wounds. Shadows moved where no bodies stood. And sometimes, from the hills, a voice echoed—low, calm, and patient.
The village elders said she was gone forever.
They lied.
That same evening, Aya and Jacob walked home from school together, their shoes coated in dust and their voices filled with the careless joy of youth.
Aya was sixteen—sharp-eyed, thoughtful, with braided hair tied back neatly. Jacob, seventeen, walked beside her, taller, quieter, always watching the world as if it might surprise him. They had grown up together, shared stories, secrets, and laughter. But lately, something had changed.
They were growing.
Their thoughts drifted beyond homework and chores—toward love, toward the future, toward things their parents never spoke of.
“You’re quiet,” Aya said, adjusting her bag on her shoulder.
Jacob shrugged. “Just tired.”
They took the shorter path home—the one their parents warned them never to use. It curved toward the hills.
Aya slowed. “Jacob… maybe we should turn back.”
He smiled. “Scared?”
She frowned. “I just don’t like this place.”
The air felt heavier here. The forest thickened, and the wind whispered through twisted branches. Then they saw her.
An old woman stood beside the path.
She was tall, wrapped in dark cloth, leaning on a carved wooden staff. Her eyes glowed faintly, not with madness—but with knowing. She did not look surprised to see them. It was as if she had been waiting.
Aya froze.
Jacob swallowed. “Good evening, Grandmother,” he said politely, his voice unsteady.
The old woman smiled.
“My grandchildren,” she said softly.
Aya’s heart pounded. “We—we don’t know you.”
The woman stepped closer. The air shifted, like the forest itself had leaned in to listen.
“You know me,” she said. “You just don’t remember.”
She reached into her cloak and brought out two boxes.
One was gold, glowing warmly, engraved with symbols that seemed to move when stared at too long. The other was silver, cool and pale, humming with a quiet energy.
“These are my favorite gifts,” the woman said. “I give them to you because I love you.”
Jacob stared. “Why us?”
“Because blood remembers,” she replied.
Aya felt drawn to the golden box, as if it called her name. Jacob felt the same pull toward the silver one. Without understanding why, they reached out.
“Listen carefully,” the old woman said. “These boxes must only be given to someone you truly love. A lover. A family member. Someone your heart trusts completely.”
She paused, her smile deepening.
