As dusk surrendered to night, Tabo's silhouette emerged at the hut's entrance, a day's burden etched into his young frame. "Mother, the bread," he murmured, the loaves' warmth contesting the evening chill.
Mansa's gaze lifted from the embers, her voice strained like the smoke rising to the thatched roof. "Tabo, the sun has nearly set. What delayed you?"
"The baker's line stretched like the Limpopo," he said, offering the bread, its crusts whispering tales of the oven's heat.
"Two loaves, Tabo. We agreed on two," Mansa's brow creased like the folds of the earth.
"One... I consumed my share en route," Tabo admitted, his stomach punctuating his confession with a grumble.
Zaza, with eyes mirroring the moon's curiosity, studied her brother. "Was it the Tindu children again?" she asked, her voice a gentle breeze.
Their eyes locked, a storm of defiance and remorse brewing in Tabo's. "They hungered, Mother. And I... tonight, my belly can wait for dawn's grace," he stammered.
"You'll feast on my portion, won't you?" Zaza teased, her smirk a crescent in the dim light.
"No!" Tabo's protest was futile against the chorus of his hunger.
Laughter soon cascaded through the hut, a river of joy. Mansa's embrace gathered her brood, her pride a beacon in the twilight. "Tabo, your heart need not seek forgiveness for its bounty," she whispered.
"Come now, let us break bread and embrace dreams," Mansa beckoned, guiding them to the humble table.
"Together, Mother," the children's voices twined like the roots of the baobab. Zaza's eyes, alight with the day's last embers, danced with eagerness. "Mother, the story Grandfather cherished, share it with us," she implored, her voice a tender melody.
Tabo, his spirit as bright as a harvest moon, joined in harmony. "Yes, Mother, the tale of old," he urged.
Mansa, her sigh a soft echo of ancestral whispers, acquiesced. "At bedtime, my loves," she promised, her words a quilt of remembrance.
As the night wrapped its cloak around them, Zaza surrendered to dreams, her breaths a gentle rhythm. Tabo, wide-eyed with wonder, nestled in anticipation, his heart drumming a lively beat.
"Mansa, why can't you be like your sister, embracing sleep's embrace?" his mother chided with a playful lilt.
But Tabo, steadfast in his yearning, pleaded, "The story, Mother—the one of the golden stool."
Mansa's resolve, like the river's flow, yielded. "Very well, my child," she consented, her voice a bridge to lands of lore.
In a world parched by famine and drought, a band of people embarked on a quest for salvation. Their journey, barren of civilization and moisture, forced them to ration their meager provisions. As they traversed endless plains of desolation, despair gnawed at their spirits, and their numbers dwindled from thousands to a mere sixty souls.
Hope flickered anew when they stumbled upon a mountain cradling a slender stream. With joyous hearts, they drank and feasted on fish, yet they knew this trickle of life would not suffice. Two brave souls ascended the mountain, a journey of 342 arduous days, to seek the stream's source. They returned with tales of an immense forest, its trees towering like guardians of ancient secrets, its edges beyond sight.
The people ventured toward this verdant promise, but as they neared, an ominous aura halted their advance. They settled by the stream, dubbing the forest 'Evil' and vowing never to breach its shadowed depths.
A decade of prosperity passed until a plague ravaged them, its poison traced to the very waters that had sustained them. Desperate, they sent four into the heart of darkness to find a cure. Years waned, and none returned.
Then, one fateful night, three men emerged from the forest, bearing the visage of humanity yet exuding an otherworldly grace. Each accompanied by a Bond, creatures of enigma, they were hailed as saviors. The men spoke not of their odyssey, save for a golden stool of wish-granting power, lost when the fourth sacrificed himself for their deliverance. His blood, now contained within a jar, was their panacea.
The stool's allure beckoned, and the three declared their intent to return to the forest, each taking separate paths. Some followed, drawn by the promise of wishes fulfilled, while others remained, wary of the forest's malevolent whispers.
As time unfurled, children born under this new covenant bore unique gifts, echoes of the three who had ventured into the unknown.
"Mansa, let's continue tomorrow, it's late," Mansa suggested, the flicker of the fire casting shadows on the walls.
Tabo, his curiosity unsated, persisted. "But what of the men in the evil forest?" he asked, his eyes wide with wonder.
"They search still, for the stool of gold," Mansa replied, her voice a lullaby against the night's silence.
"I'll be ten with the morrow's sun," Tabo murmured, his voice trailing off into dreams. "When I receive my bond, I'll brave the forest's heart, find the stool, and wish away hunger."
As sleep claimed him, Mansa's smile was a silent prayer, her whisper barely audible. "Good night, my brave little warrior."