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Creda stood at Calla's doorstep, listening to the lilting voice of the elder as she spun her stories, punctuated by the lively chatter of children gathered at her feet. In a moment, she felt the thought of her sister, burdening her mind being magically lifted. The lantern hanging from the wooden beam above had dimmed, its fuel nearly spent. Long, flickering shadows stretched across the room, giving it an otherworldly atmosphere. Yet neither Calla nor the children seemed to mind. Calla, as always, was lost in the world of her tales, and the children hung on her every word.

Creda smiled despite herself. Calla’s storytelling had an almost magical quality. It wasn’t just the tales she wove but the passion with which she told them—still vibrant even after more than a hundred years.

Creda recalled an old rumor about Calla, a fable whispered in the village. It was said that Calla had struck a bargain with Death itself, vowing to continue her storytelling forever in exchange for her life. As long as she kept telling her tales, Death could not touch her. But should she ever stop, even for a moment, Death would claim her on the spot.

Creda chuckled softly at the thought, shaking her head. It was a fanciful story, no doubt, but it spoke to the awe Calla inspired in the villagers. Despite the absurdity of the rumor, Creda couldn’t help but admire Calla’s resilience.

Lost in her musings, Creda had nearly forgotten why she’d come here, the cruelty happening just outside that litte hut, the way her family and her loved ones were tangled in it in the worst way possible. Calla's hut was a world of its own. The warmth of Calla’s stories had drawn her in, as it always did.

Calla sat on the cot, her frail, twig-like limbs stretched out before her. The children sat cross-legged on the floor, their eager eyes fixed on her, soaking in every word like sponges. Calla blinked suddenly, glancing at the children and then around the room, in mild confusion.

“What were we talking about?” she asked, her voice thin and wavering.

The children let out a collective groan. They were used to this now. Calla’s age had begun to show in her faltering memory. It had become a routine: her stories would flow effortlessly until, without warning, her mind would lose its place, leaving her adrift in her own narrative. Someone would have to remind her before she could pick up the thread.

Leaning against the doorframe, Creda couldn’t help but marvel at how Calla’s mind, though prone to these lapses, always managed to remember the stories themselves. It was as though the tales were etched deeper than memory, embedded in her very soul.

Sisi let out a dramatic sigh, her shoulders slumping as though the excitement had drained out of her all at once. Beside her, Baabi pressed her palms to her forehead and groaned, “Again!”

Koko rolled his eyes at their exasperation. “Calla, you were telling us about the evils The Great Hero was fighting,” he said, his voice filled with a patience and pride. “You told us about…” He paused, looking down at his clenched fists. Stretching one finger at a time, he began counting, “Greed, gluttony, and…”

He scrunched his forehead, struggling to recall the next word. The effort was endearing, and Creda couldn’t help but smile at the sight.

"Injustice,” Baabi said sharply, punctuating her words with a slap to the back of Koko’s head.

Koko flinched, his lips trembling in a pout as pain and indignation welled up in his eyes. He wiped them hastily with the back of his hand, sniffing as he caught the look of recognition spreading across Calla’s face. She was about to continue. The children held their breath in anticipation.

“Greed,” Calla repeated, her voice rasping with age. “Gluttony, and Injustice. Yes.” She nodded slowly, as if reaffirming her own words. “Then there’s the trickiest evil. Not the most dangerous, no, but the trickiest.”

Her gnarled finger rose, pointing at the children. She squinted into the dim light of the nearly extinguished lantern, her gaze scanning the eager faces before her. “Ignorance.”

“Ig… Ig… no—” Koko struggled to piece together the unfamiliar word.

“Ignorance,” Calla corrected him gently, cutting off his stammering. “It’s a camouflage, a trick of the eye and the mind. Like magic. A smokescreen. It’s when you fail to see what’s right in front of you. It’s when you don’t know what the truth is; what your reality is.”

“But Calla,” Sisi’s voice was timid, her brow furrowed in confusion. “How can not knowing be evil?”

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Calla’s eyes wandered, drifting toward the shadowed corners of the room as though searching for something—or someone—hidden there. Her throat bobbed as she swallowed hard. “It’s not the not knowing, little one. It’s the choosing not to know. Ignorance isn’t born; it’s fed. The more you choose to stay in the dark, the deeper it drags you into its shadow.” Her voice dropped, low and conspiratorial. “It’s like a wish-granting fairy, in a sense.”

“A fairy?” Baabi’s eyes sparkled with excitement. Koko clapped his hands in delight.

“Yes, a fairy,” Calla said with a faint smile. “It grants you exactly what you wish for. But you must be careful what you ask. If you seek knowledge, it will give you that. But if you wish for ignorance, it will grant you that as well—and it will consume you. Not just you, but those closest to you, those who rely on you.”

The children gasped, their small bodies inching closer together in the gathering darkness.

“But,” Calla continued, “ignorance isn’t the most dangerous of evils. Not unless you’re too careless.” She paused, her trembling hands reaching for the pot of water on the nearby table. With a sip to moisten her throat, she pressed on.

“Not as dangerous as corruption and pain.”

The children listened, their wide eyes reflecting the dim light of the dying lantern.

What’s corruption?”

“Pain’s an evil too?”

The children’s voices overlapped as they bombarded Calla with questions, their faces scrunched in confusion.

Calla’s lips curled in thought. “Corruption…” She paused, considering her words. “Ah… decay. You know what decay is, right?” She looked around, gauging their understanding.

“Rot!” Sisi’s hand shot up, her eyes bright with recognition. “I’ve seen it in the tubers Mama brings home sometimes.”

Calla nodded approvingly. “Yes, rot. And how does your mama treat it?”

Sisi’s excitement faltered. “Mama said there’s no way to fix rot. She just cuts the bad part off and saves the rest.”

“Exactly.” Calla’s voice grew somber. “There’s no way to heal a rot. Corruption is like that—a rot of the soul. It’s when you trade what’s right for what’s easy. When you stop caring about the difference between good and evil because it’s too hard to fight, your soul begins to decay. And just like the tubers, once the soul starts to rot, there’s no cure. That’s why it’s so important to never let our souls…” She let the sentence hang, posing it as a question.

“Rot,” the children chorused, their voices bouncing off the damp wooden walls.

Creda shifted her weight, her body leaning against the sturdy doorframe. She didn’t want to interrupt the spell Calla had cast over the children. They were too engrossed to be sent back to bed now. Lowering herself quietly onto the floor, she pressed one palm against the wooden planks and rested her cheek on her other hand, settling in to listen.

“And then, there’s pain,” Calla continued. Her voice softened, almost mournful. “You may wonder how pain can be an evil.”

Baabi nodded, her small face a picture of curiosity.

“It’s not the pain you feel when you fall and scrape your knee,” Calla explained gently. “This pain is different. It’s the kind that twists your heart, makes it ache so badly that you want others to hurt too—just because you are hurting. It’s when your own suffering blinds you to everything else, and you lash out, breaking what’s whole because you can’t bear to see it.”

The children shrank into themselves, hugging their knees as though shielding themselves from her words. Their tiny bodies trembled slightly in the flickering lantern light.

Creda’s chest tightened with sorrow. They were too young to truly understand the depths of the pain Calla described, yet the old woman spoke with a certainty that suggested she had lived it. Calla’s gaze seemed far away now, as though she no longer saw the innocent faces before her but instead the shadows of a darker, more painful memory.

“But Calla,” Sisi asked hesitantly, “how do we know what these evils look like? Are they monsters?”

Calla’s eyes glinted with knowledge. “Monsters? Oh, yes. But not the kind you can see. These evils live inside us, waiting. They don’t all come at once. No, they’re clever. They wait for the first one to take root, until it’s strong enough to invite the next.”

The children exchanged nervous glances, their wide eyes darting to the dark corners of the hut as though expecting shadows to take shape.

Creda scanned the exterior of the hut. The rain had stopped, but the night stretched late. The children had lingered far past their bedtime, and she knew their mothers would soon come searching for them. Her mother, Bouma, must have already spread Chief Marnoell’s instructions throughout the village. Besides, the conversation was getting far darker than their fragile minds could handle. It was time to break up the gathering.

Stepping fully into the threshold, Creda clapped her hands sharply, drawing their attention. “Chop, chop! Time for bed. Your mothers are waiting for you. Run along now!”

The children’s faces fell in unison. “But it’s not over yet,” Sisi protested, her bottom lip jutting out in defiance.

Creda softened, crouching on the floor to meet their gazes. “Why don’t you come back in the morning? Calla will tell you the rest then. Right, Calla?”

Calla, already shifting into a more comfortable sleeping position, waved a frail hand. “Yes, yes. Morning. Morning.”

The children groaned in disappointment but obeyed. One by one, they scrambled to their feet and shuffled out of the cramped hut, their small forms disappearing into the night.

Creda waited until the last child had gone before turning back to Calla. The elder woman had settled on her side, her twig-like limbs curled in repose.

“Calla,” Creda began hesitantly, as though seeking permission to continue.

“What is it, my precious?” Calla murmured, her voice a soft rasp.

Creda stepped closer, her shadow dancing in the faint glow of the flickering lantern. “Those evils you were talking about earlier. You said they were clever, that they don’t all come at once.” She paused, unsure how to phrase her question.

Calla opened her eyes, motioning for her to settle on the floor beside her bed. Creda obeyed.

“Aren’t they all the same?” Creda asked finally. “Evil is evil, isn’t it? Why would the rest wait for the first one to take hold?”

Calla gave a low chuckle, like dry leaves brushing against one another. “Because they have to, my dear. They don’t have a choice.”