As he walked towards the entrance to the village, he caught the eye of a woman in a patterned green dress leading a group of four small children. He guessed their ages from two to twelve years old, dressed very much like the other children he had spotted before. The woman stopped cold and eyed him suspiciously. She then turned to her children and hurried them into a nearby hut and the door quickly closed behind them.

He could have forced the door open; it was nothing more than a bundle of sticks. The images of the Big Bad Wolf came to mind. He shook his head at the thought. He could be a wolf in more ways than one. This was a situation where force would only turn the people against him and he needed answers. He walked past the barred door of the hut and continued deeper into the village.

He met similar reactions from other women and men. As soon as they made eye contact with him, they hurried inside their huts and small houses and closed and barred the door against him.

He made his way into the heart of the village. He now stood in front of one of the adobe brick buildings, about the size of a large family house back in the States. There, one old man sat quietly in a chair in front of the building door. He rested a wooden staff against his shoulder as he quietly studied the man standing before him.

He was wearing a Fulani style hat that was sun-bleached but still very study looking and serviceable for not only sunlight but also rain. He wore a brown and green shirt and loose-fitting brown pants that flared around his thighs. The man had on only straw sandals for his feet and a pipe was held loosely in his left hand. The old man looked up at him from under his Fulani, his brown eyes were sharp and Aiman could see the intelligence behind them.

Aiman bowed formally in greeting. “A Salaam Alaikum” Aiman began formally.

“Wa-Alaikum-Salaam,” The old man replied. “What do you want, traveler?” The old man continued in Arabic. “We are a simple village and have nothing for tribute except our meager stores and the people who tend to them.” The old man must have realized what he said and its meaning, but he kept an even gaze on the newcomer.

Aiman replied in Arabic, “We have no wish to ask you or your village for physical tribute. I do however ask for the gift of knowledge, once freely given in this region.”

“You know of our ways and customs,” the old man said with a small wry smile. “Who are you stranger and what knowledge do you seek, so that we may part as friends, instead of as enemies.”

Aiman pointedly paused and looked around at the small gathering of people that the two men had attracted. “Might I humbly ask for a cup of tea, perhaps? Better, so that we may speak at our leisure?”

Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.

The old man did not smile, instead he nodded and rose from his chair, gesturing into the adobe brick building, “Please, this way stranger.”

Aiman preceded the old man into the building. The temperature dropped at least five degrees from the hot air outside. He was careful to step aside for the old man and see if he removed his shoes or not. The old man did not and Aiman followed him into his house proper.

The old man gestured to a rug covered room and Aiman sat down, careful to keep the bottoms of his feet pointed away from the old man, as he carefully tucked his feet under him and sat down crossed legged, waiting for his host to serve him.

The old man sat down and called towards the back of the house. Several quiet moments later, an aged woman wearing the garb of the village, walked in carrying a tray filled with a tea pot and two cups. The older woman served the two men and quietly left them alone to drink.

After serval polite sips of the bitter tasting tea, he looked at the old man and decided to be as straight forward as possible. “I am part of a group of people who are looking for the remains of the village of Kabultiloa. And whatever remains that the residents therein may have left behind.”

The old man regarded the stranger with a calm silence. “And what interest do you have in the Bultungin?”

Aiman knew that Bultungin translated roughly to ‘I change myself into a hyena.’ So, these people at least knew of the legends of the Shape shifters of the region, which was a good sign. Whether the old man knew anything beyond that was yet to be seen.

“We seek only knowledge of the Bultungin. Perhaps learn more of the stories and legends that surround them.”

“You seek to unearth the knowledge of what it is to be a Bultungin. How to become one!” The old man’s voice raised as he said this last part. “Leave this house now, stranger. We have no knowledge to share with you.”

Aiman tried to repair the damage, “But we only seek knowledge of the legends. We’re scholars of sorts.”

“Many scholars have come, the knowledge is lost and forbidden, now leave.” The old man turned away from Aiman and disappeared into the deeper recesses of the house. Aiman had no choice but to slowly get to his feet and leave the house.

As he exited the house and began walking back the way he had come to exit the village, the villagers he could see pointedly avoided him. They scrambled away from him like scared rodents. The streets emptied quickly and he was left alone with his thoughts as he quickly walked down the now empty streets.

He left the village and made his way back to his pack. The pack had moved to a small tree for the shade it offered. Asclepius was laying down panting. The group looked up at his approach but didn’t get up.

“What did they say?” Mary asked.

“The village elder or chief’s answer was emphatic, his reasons were erratic, and his demeanor become hostile very quickly. But that doesn’t mean I didn’t get a kind of an answer.” Aiman answered calmly.

Acharya lifted a questioning eyebrow, “The what, now?”

“He told him no,” Malikah answered flatly.

“Yes,” Aiman responded, “But it was the way he said no that leads me to believe that we are at least closer to our goal than we were.”