Sira, a young griot with a battered kora slung across her back, walks beside the weary caravan. Her face is set with quiet determination as she watches the parched lips and drooping shoulders of her companions. The camels grunt, their steps sluggish, and the traders murmur prayers for rain.
Karim, the caravan leader, gathers the group. "If we do not find water by sunrise, we will not last another day. Sira, you are blessed with words—can you call upon the old spirits?" Sira nods, her fingers tracing the carvings on her instrument, heart pounding with both fear and hope.
The Old Spirit of the Dune emerges first, tall and translucent with eyes like polished amber. "Who dares disturb the sleep of the desert with mortal wisdom?" Sira bows her head, voice steady. "A griot seeking mercy for her people. I offer proverbs in exchange for rain."
The Whispering Mirage, a spirit glimmering with the colors of dawn, intones, "He who carries water in his hands shall always thirst—explain." Sira answers, her words soft but sure. "Because only those who learn to share with many will be granted abundance." The spirits nod, and the dance of proverbs continues, each answer weaving a thread of hope.
"Mortal, you have spoken well. But wisdom demands sacrifice. What will you offer so your people may drink?" Sira removes her kora, holding it out with trembling hands. "Take my music. Let my voice fade, if only water may rise for the caravan." Silence falls as the spirits accept the gift.
Karim clasps her hands, tears mingling with rain. "Your sacrifice will be sung from Timbuktu to the Niger, Sira the Wise." The spirits have faded, but the memory of their bargain lingers in every drop that falls on the revived land.
