Smooth talking
Psalm 10:2–4 (AMP)
In pride and arrogance the wicked hotly pursue and persecute the afflicted;
Let them be caught in the plots which they have devised.
For the wicked boasts and sings the praises of his heart's desire,
And the greedy man curses and spurns the Lord.
The wicked, in the haughtiness of his face, will not seek nor inquire for Him;
All his thoughts are, "There is no God."
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The sun had risen swollen and red that morning, spilling over the eastern ridge like molten copper. Heat pressed down on Mahogany Village before noon, clinging to skin, thick in the lungs. Dust drifted from the narrow paths, settling on faces and hair until everyone seemed carved from the same pale clay.
Teuwa, the chief priest, stood before the temple gate, broad and sweating, his beard hanging like coarse rope over his round belly. The temple's wooden doors loomed behind him, shut tight. No one entered there unless he allowed it. And he would not. Behind those doors, hidden from sight, the unoffered animals bawled and kicked in the shade — the sacrifices meant for Uwa, now fattening for Teuwa's own table.
He ran a hand over his bald head, shining under the fierce light, and smirked. His stomach rumbled at the thought of the pork cooking at home, his first wife's favorite dish. She always knew how to season it with the bitter leaves from the mountain slope, the kind that made the meat taste like smoke and honey.
He could already smell it. His mouth watered. Then came the noise — feet shuffling, voices rising. The villagers again.
A crowd pressed at the foot of the hill, carrying their last goats and chickens, thin and terrified. The air reeked of sweat, feathers, and desperation.
"Teuwa, why hasn't God saved us?" cried an old woman, stumbling forward. Her knees struck the dirt as she clutched at his leg, tears cutting clean lines through the dust on her face.
He kicked her aside, anger flashing. "Stupid woman! Let go of me! I've tried my best. This isn't my fault!"
"We've sacrificed all our livestock," a bald man shouted. "Why hasn't anything happened?"
Another man, built like a warrior, stepped closer. His voice cut through the noise. "Teuwa, give us a reasonable explanation."
Teuwa sneered, eyes glinting like coals. "The witches are now humiliating us, even though they haven't destroyed or occupied the village."
"They don't even put us in their eyes," someone muttered.
"They treat us like dogs and cats to slaughter!" another cried. "They even said, can our God save us?"
A third man's voice rose, trembling. "They gave us ten days! What are we to do? We've given you all our fat goats, sheep, pigs, and chickens — nothing is left!"
Voices overlapped — "We have nothing left!" "Ah!" "Quickly, make a divination!" "The witches are at our doorstep!" "Save us!" "Help us!"
The words struck the walls of the temple and fell dead. The heat smothered even their desperation. Sweat rolled down their faces like rain that refused to cool.
Teuwa looked over them, disgust curling his lips. These people — thin, sunburned, weak. Their clothes hung like rags. Their eyes begged, not with faith, but fear. He turned away, pretending not to hear. What were their lives to him?
For two weeks, they had been bringing their livestock — every sheep, every chicken, every scrap of hope — to the foot of the mountain. The temple, once a place of prayer, had become Teuwa's pen of deceit.
How rich could such people be? Their hands were calloused from tilling stony soil, their stomachs hollow. The little grain they grew went to their children first. Yet they gave what little they had, because fear makes fools of the hungry.
Mahogany Village clung to the border of the Falcon Kingdom, where the roads ended and the forest began. The mountain rose behind it, dark with ancient trees, roots deep and twisted like the stories of old gods. To the north, the witches' Court spread its shadow, swallowing villages one by one — for blood, for bodies, for reasons no one dared to name aloud.
The villagers whispered that Uwa, their God, had turned His face away. Their prayers fell unanswered, their fields barren, their nights filled with dread. And still, Teuwa laughed.
His laughter broke through the thick air — sharp, greedy, almost joyful. Saliva glistened at the corner of his mouth. "Your God, the great and powerful Uwa, cannot save you," he said finally. "Your sacrifice is not enough. That's why—if you want to save yourselves, offer up your maiden daughters. Perhaps Uwa will take pity on your poor lives."
The words hung there like smoke. For a moment, no one spoke. Then the crowd erupted.
"How could you say that! That's human lives!" cried a woman. "I wouldn't offer my daughter!"
"Me too!"
"Never!" another shouted, voice cracking. Mothers pulled their daughters close, shielding them with shaking hands.
But then the old woman — the same one who had begged at his feet — straightened her back, eyes suddenly fierce. "Teuwa, didn't you have a few daughters who are still unmarried? Why don't you sacrifice them first?"
The crowd turned. For a heartbeat, silence. Then Teuwa's face darkened. Anger flared behind his eyes — a cold, dangerous flame. The woman shrank back under his gaze.
Before he could speak, the village chief stepped forward. His beard was unkempt, his robe damp with sweat. He looked more ghost than leader. "We will cast lots," he said hoarsely, "to choose which family's daughter to sacr—"
A voice from the back interrupted, hard as stone. "Why don't we start with your family, since you are the village chief?"
A ripple of agreement spread through the crowd. Heads nodded. A murmur rose like a tide. The chief's lips tightened. For a long moment, he said nothing. He looked over their faces — faces of men he'd known since childhood, women who had nursed one another's children. They were no longer a village but a storm, waiting for something to break.
The sun, low and merciless, turned everything gold — the dust, the fear, the silent accusation in every gaze. Teuwa stood apart, the corners of his mouth twitching. The moment his lies began to fray, he saw it. Power slipping through his fingers like sand.
The villagers shifted uneasily, glancing between the chief and the priest. Somewhere behind them, a goat bleated weakly, the sound oddly human. The air smelled of dung and sweat and smoke from the dying fires.
A wind rose suddenly from the mountain, stirring the leaves, scattering the dust. The people quieted. Even Teuwa's smirk faltered for a breath.
It felt — for that fleeting moment — as if the mountain itself had heard.