Caught at 6PM: Part 4

The dust in the market square didn’t just settle; it seemed to freeze. KON! KON! KON! The Town Crier, a man whose voice was said to be seasoned with the salt of the ancestors, stood atop the ceremonial stone. He didn’t look at the crowd. He looked toward the palace, his eyes reflecting the orange glow of the dying sun.

“People of Itenwa! The moon has seen what the sun ignored! The Obaro has spoken. The threads of the three have been woven!”

The crowd rushed forward. Iyema clutched her wrapper, her breath hitching in her throat.

“Three were taken by the shadow of 6 PM,” the Crier continued, his voice vibrating in the chests of everyone present. “Two were found lacking. They have been cast to the Great Boundary to guard it. Their names are erased from the book of the living. May the wild things be kind to their spirits.”

A collective gasp went up, all turning to look at each other in fear, some had started wailing; friends and family of the two men. To be sent to the Boundary was a death sentence, a  slow, terrifying march into the jaws of the forest.

“But the third!” the Crier shouted, raising his staff. “The weaver of silk, Obolo of the House of Amam. The Obaro has found a use for her hands. She is no longer a daughter of the market. She is now the Sacred Weaver of the Gray Shrouds. By the third sunrise, she shall be consecrated. Any who speak her name in gossip shall answer to the palace steel!”

The square erupted. Iyema fell to her knees, torn between relief that Obolo was alive and horror at the “Sacred” title. In Itenwa, “Sacred” usually meant “Property.”

readmore: Caught at 6pm Part Three

Inside the palace, the “Sacred Weaver” was huddled on the cold floor of a stone chamber. Obolo wasn’t thinking of crowns; she was thinking of the life she had just lost.

“Iyema…” she whispered, her voice breaking. “Who will watch the stall? Who will tell you the jokes that make the long afternoons pass?”

She looked at her hands. The hands that used to create joy for brides and elders, the hands that had woven love into homes and lives. Now, they were just tools for a man she didn’t know. She would never again hear the haggle of a fair price or the laughter of her friends. She was a bird in a gilded cage, and the bars were made of her own silk.

A shadow flickered past the small gap beneath her door. Obolo stiffened. She heard a soft rustle, like cloth dragging on stone, followed by a faint, metallic click. She assumed it was just the palace guards or a maid preparing the evening fires. She went back to her tears, the weight of her new reality suffocating her.

Read Also Caught at 6pm Part Three

An hour later, the heavy iron bolts groaned. Two guards, faces obscured by bronze masks, entered.

“The Obaro expects a masterpiece,” one grumbled. “Move, Weaver.”

They led her through winding, torch-lit corridors to the Weaving Room. It was a vast, cold hall filled with towering looms and mountains of gray, unspun wool. There were no bright dyes here. No gold threads. Just the dull, heavy gray of the palace.

“Work,” the guard commanded, slamming the door behind her.

Obolo stood alone in the center of the massive room. She felt a surge of defiance. She walked toward the nearest loom, intending to shred the fabric in a fit of rage. She began pushing aside the heavy, dusty drapes of gray cloth, looking for a way to break the mechanism.

She pulled back a final, thick curtain of wool and froze.

Standing there, hidden in the recess behind the loom, was the stranger from the market. Iseye. He wasn’t crying. He wasn’t afraid. He looked at her with an expression so calm it was terrifying.

Obolo’s lungs filled with a scream. “YOU!” she shrieked, her voice echoing off the high stone ceiling. “You did.this You…..!”

Before the second word could leave her lips, Iseye lunged forward with the speed of a striking cobra. His hand, calloused and strong, clamped firmly over her mouth, pinning her head against the wooden frame.

“Be silent, Obolo,” he hissed.