A Village Becoming
The morning mist curled gently through the woven homes of Nouvo Lakay, bringing the scent of damp earth and sweet smoke from morning cookfires. Once a place defined by loss and silence, the village had begun to hum with a quiet rhythm—not loud, but alive.
People no longer simply endured.
They belonged.
They believed.
They dreamed.
Children of the New Dawn
Children were the first to adapt. They played beneath the hanging vines, using sticks to draw the glowing sigils they had seen on the bodies of the priestesses. They shouted mock blessings at one another, declaring who was chosen by which Lwa in their make-believe games.
One little girl claimed she had dreamed of Baron Samedi, dancing in the graveyard with her grandmother.
A boy insisted that the river whispered secrets only he could hear.
Whether or not these dreams were real, no one laughed at them anymore.
Elders Who Remembered
The old ones watched all this with mixed hearts. Some were comforted.
"This is how our ancestors lived," one whispered, "when the world still sang."
Others were cautious.
"Too much spirit can burn a village to ash."
They sat together in shaded corners, weaving stories with calloused hands—some passed down, others new. They spoke of gods walking, of visions, of the three girls who had become something more than mortal.
And always, beneath their words, was a question unspoken:
Will it last?
The Three Pillars
The chosen priestesses became pillars of the village, each in their own way.
Ayomi, chosen by Papa Legba, now spoke rarely, her gaze distant as if always listening to some voice behind the veil. She walked the borders of the village barefoot, her staff tapping the earth in patterns even she didn't fully understand.
Sael, fierce and proud, chosen by Erzulie Freda, wore her sigil like a crown. Her laughter came quickly, but so did her anger. The older women now brought her their daughters quietly, seeking blessings on their futures.
Ayola, priestess of Baron Samedi, had grown serene. Where once she moved with fire, she now carried silence like a cloak. When she walked past the graveyard, even the birds stilled their wings.
People watched them with awe—but not without wariness. Power, after all, demanded balance. And balance required vigilance.
The Work of Living
Life, for all its mystery, continued.
Fishermen mended nets.
Healers ground roots into bitter pastes.
Young lovers carved initials into the bark of sacred trees, half-hoping the Lwa would bless them—or at least not curse them.
Food was more plentiful than before. Rain fell more regularly. Dreams grew strange and vivid. But crops still needed harvesting. Wood still needed chopping. Babies still cried in the night.
And this was the miracle: the sacred and the mundane now walked hand in hand.
What They Hoped For
Some villagers hoped to be chosen next.
Others hoped never to be.
Some whispered dreams of leaving the village, seeking other tribes, other gods.
Others refused to set foot outside the borders.
But all of them—every child, elder, hunter, and mother—shared one hope beneath it all:
That they would not be forgotten.
That the gods who had blessed them would not grow distant.
That the priestesses would not become unreachable.
That their village, once shattered, would stay whole.
Nightfall in Nouvo Lakay
That night, as stars shimmered over the jungle canopy, a soft wind stirred the leaves—not strong, not magical, just… present.
In a quiet corner, an elder placed a carved mask on the shrine.
A mother sang an old lullaby, her voice steady and slow.
Children fell asleep murmuring names of gods.
The people of Nouvo Lakay did not need Zion tonight.
They had found something else:
Belonging.
Purpose.
A sky that finally felt like home