The Spider That Hid Rain (Episode 1)

Dinner time.

The Spider That Hid Rain  

Episode 1: The Village and the Forest 

Once, in the heart of a lush valley, cradled between rolling emerald hills that rose high as if to kiss the clouds and wound around into glistening riverbeds, there lay a beautiful village.  

The village was known as Nandi. To stand atop the surrounding hills and gaze below was to witness a masterpiece of nature—a patchwork quilt woven from golden fields of wheat, reddish swathes of millet and vibrant green pastures where livestock roamed freely, their movement like a gentle dance across the land. 

Encircling Nandi in a protective embrace stood the mighty Bayoka Forest. Bayoka was made of towering trees reaching skyward as though in conversation with the heavens. Their ancient canopies, dense and interwoven, painted the horizon with shades of green so deep they seemed endless.  

Bayoka stood not as a mere border but as a silent sentinel, its presence both reassuring and mysterious, as though whispering tales of ages past to those who dared to listen. The forest loomed with a quiet majesty, its shadows hinting at secrets too old for human memory. 

Each dawn, Bayoka sang a symphony to the waking village. The melodies of birds echoed from branch to branch, a chorus of life carried on the breeze. Leaves whispered ancient lullabies as they rustled gently in the wind, while the hum of unseen insects wove a harmony that rose and fell with the sun’s ascent. It was a song that seemed eternal, promising another day of peace and plenty. 

From Bayoka’s depths, silver streams emerged, their waters weaving through the hills of Nandi like ribbons of light. These streams, fed by the forest’s hidden springs, brought life to Nandi. Their crystal clarity mirrored the sky and their taste was said to carry the sweetness of the earth itself. Children laughed as they splashed in their cool waters, while farmers drew the life-giving liquid to nourish their fields. To the people of Nandi, the streams were the veins of the land, carrying the blessings of Bayoka to every corner of their home. 

The air in Nandi was an intoxicating blend of earth and bloom. The scent of wildflowers drifted freely, mingling with the rich aroma of freshly turned soil. It was a fragrance so pure and so full of life that it seemed to fill the lungs with joy and banish every care. 

In Nandi, Bayoka was not simply a forest. It was a lifeline, a guardian and a giver of gifts. Its tall trees drew down the clouds, coaxing the rains that soaked the fields and filled the granaries. Those rains painted the village with abundance, each drop a promise of another season’s fortune.  

For as long as memory stretched, the people of Nandi had lived in harmony with the forest, thriving under its watchful gaze, bound to its rhythms as tightly as the rivers to their source. 

But all that harmony, all that beauty, all those farms that produced bountiful harvests for the families of Nandi, one day, would be threatened—bringing the people of Nandi to despair and brokenness. However, that period saw the rise of two heroes, two young children, siblings, Dojo and Rog, who stood, putting their lives to the task of saving Nandi. 

This is their story. 

Inside a small grass-thatched house near the edge of the village, Dojo and Rog would sit at the dining table with their parents every evening.  

Their meals with their parents were always a celebration—feasts of roasted yams, boiled cassava, roasted potatoes with fresh greens or boiled meat with steaming bowls of porridge. Laughter filled the room as their father would raise a wooden cup high above his head. 

“To the rains that fill our fields!” he’d declare, his voice booming with joy. 

“And to the soil that feeds us with bountiful harvests,” their mother would add with a smile, raising her own cup. 

“To the food!” Dojo would usually say, grinning mischievously while reaching for another yam or piece of meat or potato. He always reached for something. 

“And to you two,” their father would conclude, pointing his cup at the children. 

Dinner time was always story time too. The parents of Dojo and Rog would always go on telling them story after story. They would light a fire—yes, there was a fireplace near the dining table—and with the fire going, embers glowing softly, stories would come flying into the room. 

One evening after a good harvest, when they had celebrated with an unusually sumptuous meal, their father sat sipping his evening brew. 

“Dojo and Rog, my beautiful children,” he started, “someday, you’ll take care of this land just like your great-grandparents did before us.” 

Rog tilted her head. “Great-grandparents? Weren’t they hunters? Did I get it wrong?” 

“Smart girl!” their dad declared. 

Her mother chuckled. “Oh, sure, great thing you remember the history of our village,” she patted her back. 

“I knew it too,” Dojo commented, his competitiveness kicking in. He always loved to show he was smarter than Rog. 

“Of course, you knew that,” their mum replied softly. 

“So, yes, you are all right—they were hunters,” their dad continued, “and as the story goes, long ago, this village lived off the forest, giving us meat and fruit...” 

“I have never asked,” Dojo interrupted. “How exactly did our great-grandparents become farmers?” 

“Relax, Dojo,” their dad answered. “That is what I’m coming to. Today, you will learn how we got to farming.” Dojo and Rog leaned in, drawn by their father’s words. Their mum poured more brew for their dad. 

Their dad paused, watching the brew fill his cup. “Thank you, Bubbu!” he said—that was how he affectionately referred to their mother. 

“And kids,” he turned to the children, “what did we say about brew?” 

All replied in unison, “It is for adults only, not good for kids.” 

“Good, good. So, where were we?” 

“You were telling us how our great-grandparents became farmers,” Rog said, eagerness bright in her eyes. 

“Oh! Good girl,” he said cheerfully, “long ago, before the farms, before the roasted yams you enjoy, our people here in Nandi were hunters. In fact, it is well known that your great-great-grandfather, they say, was one of the very best hunters ever to live in and walk this village.” 

“Really?” Dojo asked, fascinated. 

“Yes, he was the master planner when it came to setting traps in Bayoka. And he was fast, strong and sharp-eyed,” he paused, sipping from his cup. The children were alight with fascination. 

“Wow!” Rog said, her eyes fixed on her dad. Their mum was quiet and smiling all the time. She loved to sit and hear her husband tell stories to their children. He was the best storyteller she had ever met. 

“But one day, after thousands of generations of hunting and gathering, the people of Nandi realized animals were growing scarcer in the great Bayoka. The villagers were worried—not just for food but for the animals’ extinction as well.” 

“Oh! Worried for animals? Why?” Dojo asked, puzzled. 

“Animals,” their mum answered, “ought to be preserved as well for future generations. Had they all been hunted, you would not know what a Kob is—or a rabbit, would you?” 

“No,” Rog replied, shaking her head while Dojo nodded. 

“So,” their dad continued, “when the animals grew scarce and the forest turned quiet, the great chief then convened a very big meeting. It was during that meeting that the idea of cultivating the ground to plant crops and domesticating animals for meat and milk was developed.” 

“Ehh...” Dojo wondered aloud. 

“Yes,” their dad continued. “That way, our great-grandparents shifted from hunting to farming. Thanks to the fertile soils of Nandi, the ground yielded great harvests and has yielded ever since,” he paused, sipped his brew. 

“In this village,” he resumed, “there has never been a season without a harvest. And every harvest is always bigger than the last one. Can you imagine?” He threw his hands up in excitement. The children’s eyes lit up with surprise. 

“How come we always have great harvests?” Rog asked inquisitively. 

“Because apart from the fertile soils,” their mum answered, “we are blessed with regular rain. It always rains just in time for planting our crops, flooding our streams with fresh water for our animals.” 

“The rain!” Dojo exclaimed. 

“Yes, the rain,” their dad resumed, “it is a very important component of our farming.” 

“Where does it come from?” Rog inquired. 

“Oh! Baby,” their mum replied, “no one knows really where it comes from. Some say there are rivers and lakes high above in the sky.” The kids giggled. 

“Really?” Dojo asked. 

“What can we say?” their dad replied, “all we know is that when we need rain, we receive it. Perhaps that will be for your generation to find out.” 

Dojo raised his hand high. “I promise I will make it a mission to find out where rain comes from.” 

“Me too!” Rog joined in. 

Their parents laughed heartily at their children. 

“Why are we not allowed to go to the forest, Bayoka?” Dojo suddenly asked, “I have always wanted to visit the forest. Perhaps it has answers in there.” 

“You’re not to go near the forest or into the forest,” their dad answered with caution. “During the great meeting in which farming was invented, it was decreed that no one should go into the forest to give time and chance for animals to reproduce, grow and multiply.” 

“So, one day we will become hunters again?” Rog asked. 

“No, not really, but in case future generations find a need for it, they should not suffer,” their dad answered, “animals are still part of nature. They should be protected and preserved. Don’t you think so?” 

“Yes, yes,” Dojo answered, “I have heard there are villages where animals have completely disappeared due to over hunting.” 

“You see!” their mum remarked. 

The next morning, the sun was high and cool breezes from Bayoka swept through Nandi. Dojo and Rog were in the family garden, helping their parents harvest sweet potatoes. The earth was soft and damp beneath their hands, still holding the memory of last week’s rains.  

Around them, neighbors worked in their fields. It was a harvest season; everyone was happy, laughing and chatting as they pulled up crops. It was a picture of harmony, the village alive with the sounds of hard work and good spirits. 

As Dojo dug into the soil, something caught his eye. He paused, his brow furrowing as he looked toward the forest. Above the trees, a thin veil of mist hovered, shimmering faintly in the sunlight. He stopped working, standing still, squinting his eyes, trying to see what it might be. 

“Dojo, what are you looking at?” his sister, Rog, called out. 

“Come close, Rog, come,” he called her with the gesture of his left arm. Rog drew near. 

“Look above the forest. What do you see? Tell me!” Dojo asked his sister. Rog, squinting her eyes too, tried to see. 

“Some kind of mist... I...” she responded. 

“Mist? You say mist?” Dojo interrupted her. 

“Yes, mist. I see some kind of mist above the forest,” she answered with excitement. 

“That is what I see too. I think it is strange; don’t you think?” said Dojo. 

“Umh!” Rog exclaimed. 

“Dojo, Rog!” their mum called out to them. 

“Mother, look!” Dojo called out, pointing. 

“What is it now? Why are you just standing there staring at the forest?” his mother asked, straightening up with a basket of potatoes. 

“There’s something over the forest—like mist or smoke or something,” Dojo said, shading his eyes with his hand. 

His father glanced up and shook his head. “It’s just the sun playing tricks. Keep working, boy. The potatoes won’t pull themselves out of the ground.” 

Dojo frowned but said nothing. He and Rog resumed uprooting potatoes, but their gaze kept lingering on the mist above the forest as it slowly spread. 

By the next day, when the villagers left their houses to return to their fields, the mist above Bayoka had grown. What had been a faint, shimmering veil now stretched into a thick, silvery shroud, draped like a ghostly cloak over the forest of Bayoka. It did not drift or dissipate as normal mist would; instead, it hung motionless, as if woven into the very air. 

The sunlight, usually dappled and golden through the treetops, now seemed to dim as it touched the mist, scattering into a pale, eerie glow. From afar, the forest appeared transformed—alive with an unearthly presence, its towering trees now veiled in mystery. 

The villagers, so accustomed to the forest’s steadfast majesty, found themselves drawn into uneasy silence. Farmers stopped mid-task, their hands frozen over half-filled baskets. Children clutched each other’s arms, their games abandoned as they gazed wide-eyed at the strange sight. Even the livestock seemed restless, their bleats and lowing subdued, as though they too could sense something amiss. 

Ms. Soraya, the eldest and most revered woman in the village, came passing by the farm of Dojo and Rog’s parents. She stopped to say hi to Dojo and Rog’s parents, who just stood looking dumbfounded and awed by what they had woken up to. Her wrinkled hands trembled slightly as her sharp eyes peered at the mist. She squinted, her lips pressed into a thin line. 

“In all my years,” she muttered, her voice barely above a whisper, “I’ve never seen the forest like this. It’s... unnatural.” 

The silence that followed her words was heavy, thick as the mist itself. Neighbors of Dojo and Rog’s parents gathered nearby, murmuring nervously, their eyes flicking between one another and the forest. 

“Do you think it’s a sign?” asked a young woman, her voice tight with fear. 

“A sign of what?” muttered Ms. Soraya. “Trouble, that’s what it is,” she remarked. 

The mist seemed to breathe, its edges curling faintly, as though aware of the eyes fixed upon it. From within its depths came no sound—no birdsong, no rustling leaves. The forest that had once been a symphony of life now stood as silent as stone, its secrets buried beneath the strange, shimmering veil. 

Dojo stood next to Rog, his gaze locked on the mist. “It’s like the forest is hiding,” he said, his voice barely audible.  

Rog shivered and pulled her shawl closer. “Or waiting,” she replied, her tone heavier than a child’s. 

The village, usually alive with laughter and the hum of work, had come to a standstill. Farmers abandoned their tools and conversations turned into hushed speculations. People gathered in clusters, pointing to the horizon, their faces pale with a mixture of awe and unease. For the first time in generations, Bayoka no longer felt like a guardian. It felt like a stranger. 

And above it all, the mist loomed, silent and still, holding the village captive in its eerie embrace. 

EzroniX Kids.