Scene 1: The Makishi Awakening

  Lusaka, Zambia

  Dr. Amara Kone stood in the center of the National Museum of Zambia, her eyes fixed on the shattered glass display of Makishi masks. As the world's foremost ethnobotanist specializing in the cultural and biological significance of threatened tree species, she had seen her share of crime scenes involving wooden artifacts. But nothing like this.

  "Dr. Kone, thank you for coming on such short notice," Museum Curator Dr. Natasha Banda said, extending her hand. "Your reputation precedes you."

  "I came as soon as I received your call," Amara replied, shaking Natasha's hand firmly. Her dark eyes, sharp and observant, scanned the destruction. "The Zambian government was right to reach out. This is... unusual."

  At forty-two, Dr. Amara Kone had established herself as the leading authority on the relationship between indigenous cultures and their forest ecosystems. Her groundbreaking research on the hidden biological properties of threatened tree species had earned her both the Goldman Environmental Prize and a position as special consultant to the United Nations Environmental Programme. Her book, The Silent Language of Trees, had become the definitive text in ethnobotanical studies worldwide.

  "The security guard, James Mwale—he was well-liked here, Dr. Kone. A family man, studying part-time at the university," Natasha explained, her voice breaking slightly. "He'd been with us for seven years."

  Amara nodded solemnly. "Show me everything."

  Natasha led her to the security office where a tech specialist waited with the surveillance footage. "We've reviewed it multiple times. Most of it is distorted, but there are moments of clarity that... that defy explanation."

  The grainy footage showed James making his routine rounds, pausing at the Makishi display. Then, unmistakably, one of the masks—the Chizaluki hunter mask—falling to the floor apparently on its own. Static interference obscured the following minutes, but occasional clear frames revealed something impossible: the masks hovering in the air, surrounding the terrified guard.

  "Stop there," Amara commanded, leaning closer to the screen. "Enhance that frame if you can."

  The tech zoomed in on the Chizaluki mask. A dark liquid was visibly dripping from its eyeholes.

  "Sap," Amara murmured. "Not just any sap. Mukula sap." She straightened, turning to Natasha. "These masks—they're made from the mukula tree, correct?"

  "Yes. Many traditional Makishi masks are carved from mukula wood. It's considered sacred by the Luvale people."

  "And increasingly endangered due to illegal logging," Amara added, her jaw tightening. "The mukula tree is being harvested to extinction for luxury furniture markets in Asia and Europe. I've been documenting its decline for years."

  Detective Kasonde entered the room, his expression grim. "Dr. Banda, we've completed our initial investigation. No signs of forced entry. No fingerprints except the victim's and museum staff's. And the coroner is... confused."

  "About the cause of death?" Amara asked.

  Kasonde eyed her suspiciously. "Who are you exactly?"

  After introductions and explanations, the detective continued reluctantly. "The wounds on Mwale's body appear to be puncture wounds, but they don't match any weapon on record. And the wooden spheres in his eye sockets..." He shuddered. "The coroner says they were placed there while he was still alive."

  Stolen story; please report.

  Amara turned back to the Makishi display, approaching it cautiously. The masks hung in perfect alignment, their hollow eyes seemingly tracking her movement.

  "May I?" she asked, pulling on a pair of latex gloves.

  Natasha nodded. "Of course."

  Amara carefully removed the Chizaluki mask from its mount. She turned it over in her hands, examining it with expert precision. Then she froze.

  "What is it?" Natasha asked.

  "This isn't possible," Amara whispered. "The cellular structure of the wood has changed. It's... reorganizing itself. Becoming more vascular."

  "What does that mean?" Detective Kasonde demanded.

  Amara replaced the mask with deliberate care. "It means the wood is becoming more like living tissue than dead matter. Like it's... evolving."

  As she stepped back from the display, Amara thought she heard a faint whisper.

  Mukula... mulonga... mukula...

  "Did you hear that?" she asked sharply.

  Both Natasha and Kasonde shook their heads.

  Amara stared intently at the masks, particularly the Chizaluki. For just an instant—so brief she might have imagined it—the mask's features seemed to shift, the carved mouth curving into what looked disturbingly like a smile.

  "I need to see the body," Amara stated firmly. "And I need samples from both the masks and the wooden spheres found in the victim's eyes. This isn't an isolated incident."

  "What do you mean?" Detective Kasonde asked.

  Amara pulled out her phone, showing them a news alert from Tokyo. "Two days ago, a real estate developer in Kyoto, Japan was found dead in a traditional doll shop. His body was partially transformed into what authorities are describing as 'living wood.'" She scrolled to another alert. "And yesterday, a massacre at a furniture company in Lusaka—Tembo Luxury Furnishings."

  Natasha gasped. "That's one of the largest exporters of mukula wood in the country."

  "Exactly," Amara said grimly. "I've been tracking unusual incidents involving wooden artifacts for years, building a database of anomalies. But in the past week, the occurrences have spiked dramatically." She looked back at the masks, her expression grave. "Something has changed. The wood is responding to a stimulus we don't yet understand."

  "You're suggesting the masks killed James?" Detective Kasonde asked incredulously. "That wood is... what? Coming alive? Taking revenge?"

  "I'm suggesting," Amara replied carefully, "that there are aspects of forest ecology we've barely begun to comprehend. Trees communicate through vast underground mycorrhizal networks—what scientists call the 'Wood Wide Web.' They share resources, send warnings about threats." She gestured to the masks. "These artifacts were once living trees. What if some essence of that communication network remains within the wood? And what if it's been activated?"

  A heavy silence fell over the room, broken only by the soft creaking of the wooden display case.

  "I need to make some calls," Amara said finally. "The pattern is escalating. If I'm right about what's happening, these incidents are just the beginning."

  As she turned to leave, Amara heard it again—clearer this time.

  Mulonga... mulonga... mulonga...

  River. The word repeated in Luvale. But this time, she understood it wasn't merely a word.

  It was a warning.

  (End of Scene 1)