Chapter 4

The dawn came not as a gentle intrusion, but as a slow, persistent warmth that seeped into my bones, coaxing me from a sleep so deep it felt like a return from another world. I woke to the whisper of the savanna grass and the profound, hollow ache between my legs. But beneath that soreness, something else hummed. A new, soft thrumming deep in my belly, a fluttering pulse of life that was not my own.

My eyes fluttered open. I was alone. The grass where he had lain was still warm, imprinted with his shape, but the unicorn was gone. A pang of loss, sharp and sudden, clenched my heart. But as I sat up, my hands instinctively cradling my lower stomach, the feeling faded, replaced by a dawning, awe-struck certainty. My stomach, once flat and taut, held a gentle, undeniable firmness. A slight, rounded swell that hadn’t been there before. Not just from his seed, but from something taking root. My breath caught. Pregnant.

The walk back to the village was a blur. My body moved on its own, navigating familiar paths while my mind spun in dizzying circles. The secret knowledge bloomed inside me, a radiant, terrifying truth. I was barely through the outermost huts when the elder, Nne, emerged from her dwelling. Her wise, dark eyes, sharp as flint, saw everything.

She didn’t ask. She simply looked at my slow, careful gait, at the way my hands kept drifting to my belly, at the new, luminous quality she must have seen in my face. Her gnarled fingers reached out, not to my wrist, but to place her palm flat against my stomach. She held it there, her eyes closed. A long moment passed.

“The Dance called, and the Myth answered,” she said, her voice a dry rustle of leaves. “It is as the old stories said. Come, child. The village must honor what grows within you.”

There was no discussion, no questioning. This was a rhythm older than memory. I was led to the communal bathing pool, a spring-fed basin shaded by ancient, broad-leaved trees. The air was steamy, fragrant with crushed herbs—lemongrass, wild mint, something spicy and unfamiliar. And there, waiting, were the women: Zara, with her melodic voice and flowing curves; Efua, whose full, motherly presence radiated a confident warmth; and others, their faces kind and knowing.

In silence that was not uncomfortable, they helped me undress. Their eyes traced the faint, silvery stretch marks that hadn’t been there yesterday, the subtle rounding of my belly, the darkening line that now ran from my navel downwards. Their touches were reverent. Zara poured warm water over my shoulders. Efua’s strong hands began to knead the tension from my neck.

“This is a sacred vessel now,” Zara hummed, her fingers working fragrant soap into my scalp. “We wash away the night’s journey, but we honor its marks.”

I was led into the warm water. It embraced my sore muscles, a liquid sigh. The women joined me, their own naked bodies sleek and beautiful in the dappled light. This was not about shyness; it was a communion of flesh. Efua sat behind me, her lush breasts pressing against my back, her strong thighs framing mine. Her hands slid over my shoulders, down my arms.