The Mogushal-Monkeys—once Grey-Monkeys, now renamed in honor of the dream Mokessa had shared in the early hours of yesterday—lost sleep each time the sun invaded the horizon and the forest. Their relaxed bodies awakened with soft snores echoing like whispers.
Their primate noses captured a fragrance of freshly dampened earth combined with the sweetness of fallen fruit. In a way, breathing that air brought an unfamiliar sensation: it was as though the world were beginning anew. And it was.
Mokessa felt the burden of the new name in her chest, like the beat of an extra heart, a reminder of her vision with Mogu. She rose first, her eyes—now more alive and almost luminous—observing all the primates in the group.
"Mogu is alive!"
She thought and announced. The band seemed to believe, for the dream had been recounted with vivid details: the Bearer of Summer returning, not in physical form, but as a guide.
As the group, with lazy awakening, stretched muscles and released morning grunts, a young male stood out. His light fur, spattered with patches, and his curious eyes exposed a restless mind. He approached Mokessa. He was, by far, one of the most questioning, his gaze always carrying a hint of uncertainty, yet his loyalty to the alpha still existed.
He scratched his ear, his nervous gestures revealing his internal agony—appearing to be faith and skepticism in a single dose, as if the dream were a tale too good to be true.
— Mokessa — he said, whispering, yet firm, pausing to adjust the position of his paws on the soft ground, where leaves fell like confetti. He looked at her with an intrigued expression, eyebrows furrowed in a subtle arc, as if weighing invisible words. — Is it really serious? You changed your name from Kessa to Mokessa? It sounds like one of those stories we tell on cold nights.
Mokessa turned to him and regarded him, her eyes narrowed in suspicion against the sun filtering through the leaves.
— It is not merely a story — she answered, with conviction. She gestured with her hand, her fingers crisping like claws, but restrained herself.
It was not yet the time; in truth, Mokessa did not even know if any element obeyed her.
Her thoughts churned:
"He questions what I say, but his hesitation will be overcome. Mogu returned to me, and to all of us. If I do not prove this, the group may fall apart into nothing."
The young male blinked, his expression shifting to a slight grimace, his lower lip inclined in doubt, while he scratched his chin with his hind paw, a nervous habit he often made.
Other monkeys came to join the group, creating a somewhat crooked circle, full of curiosity and a certain fear. The way they looked, at first distrustful, showed a guarded tension—bodies ready for whatever would happen, but focused on caution rather than pure reaction.
An older female, bearing scars from an era the ice stubbornly refused to thaw, grunted in support:
— If Mogu spoke to her in a dream, I fear it must be true. He conquered Eternal Winter before, and that cannot be denied.
Yet the young male persisted, turning his head with a strange interest, as if trying to decipher some mystery.
— But could it not be mere exhaustion speaking? We built shelter yesterday, and today the world changed? That is a lot to process, Mokessa. To me, you are Kessa, the Matriarch who kept us alive after Mogu's departure.
Mokessa felt a wave of emotion—pride alongside impatience, like fire and water meeting without extinguishing one another. She touched his shoulder with her hand, a gesture of affection, while her intense eyes demonstrated some sign of power.
— I understand you. But the experience was vivid; I cannot deny it, as solid as treading on solid ground. Mogu gave me the name Mokessa so I would be his connection to our people. And now we are the Mogushal-Monkeys — she concluded: — You may doubt, but the truth will stand before your eyes. Simply observe.
The group's silence was delivered. They only exchanged glances and some low grumbles, forcing agreement with a nod of the head while others allowed apprehension to grow. The conversation ended, but the questions—at least from some primates—persisted.
The group dragged themselves to morning tasks—foraging for food and fruit—yet the air was dense, pregnant with a foreboding Mokessa could not explain. Perhaps the doubt on some faces left her unsettled.
Mokessa accompanied them, her sight, her chest tightened by a knot of emotions: a spark of hope attempting to combat anxiety, perhaps? The alpha faced the sky, where clouds gathered like a threat of rain, and a single thought crystallized:
"Mogu, give me strength. The band needs to believe!"
The day transformed the jungle into a cauldron of shadow, where ancient trunks rose like silent guardians, and vines intertwined in forms resembling living creatures.
A fragment of the band persisted in her trail behind the alpha, a handful of primates: the questioner, the scarred female, and some young ones driven by curiosity, their steps maintaining the cadence of a single rhythm—the clan had fragmented into several smaller patrols.
Mokessa paused from time to time, her ears attentive to the song of birds and the buzzing of insects, which seemed a melody of "the end of Eternal Winter" and the announcement of life. They took cautious steps, their bodies lowering to avoid low branches, expressions of concentration—eyes half-closed, noses sniffing, paws testing the ground.
Mokessa, at the front, stumbled over something soft, suffering a small fall.
Her gaze descended, and what she saw were bodies—monkeys from the band, once her brothers, now inert, dismembered at absurd angles, like remains of shattered puppets. Dried blood stained the ground, a raw testament to the violence that had befallen this place.
— No... it cannot be — she whispered, her speech tearing, an uncontrollable tremor that was shock and pain. Her mind was a whirlwind: — Who dared do this? Was it a beast? Mogu, why now, why at this moment? — The group stopped, froze at the brutality of the scene, a horror that united them silent and perplexed. Mouths hung open, mute, in grunts that would not emerge, eyes bulging, fixed on the dead.
The scarred female approached slowly, her paw covering her mouth in a reflex of one who feels the weight of what she sees, tension squeezing her breath like a storm in her soul.
— Look at the marks, Mokessa. Enormous teeth, like those of a predator — She pointed with her index finger. — It is not a common wolf.
Mokessa knelt beside one of the mangled bodies, her anxious fingers touching the bloodied fur, at the same instant tears streamed from her eyes.
The young male recoiled, with nausea, murmuring:
— Our own were hunted while we slept?
The blood coagulated in dark pools, the glassy eyes of the dead admiring nothing, wounds irregular like tears in living tissue.
They pressed onward, and despair circulated through the air, tightening each one's stomach like a knot. Their hearts palpitated in frantic and disordered rhythm, their breaths came short, gasping.
— It cannot be mere coincidence — Mokessa murmured to herself, feeling the abyss between the sweet promise of the dream and the sharp cruelty of reality. A flash of heat coursed through her veins, Mogu's fire wanting to emerge, but she contained it. — Who took their lives? Could some beast of Eternal Winter have dared return?
The scarred female grunted:
— We must warn the others! This is an immense sign of danger, Mokessa!
A shiver ran down the leader's spine. The ground, marked by colossal pawprints and torn grass, signaled the passage of a beast, apparently gigantic.
"If Mogu returned, why this trail of terror? Could it be a challenge?"
With effort that bent their backs and their steps, the band initiated the painful transport of the bodies. The burden was twofold, weighing not only on the body but also on the spirit, and with each step the anguish intensified.