EPISODE 1: DUA TAHUN KEMUDIAN

EPISODE 1: DUA TAHUN KEMUDIAN

Subuh belum sepenuhnya datang. Kabut masih menggantung malas di atas Dusun Karang, tapi Arka sudah melangkah pelan di antara ilalang basah. Kakinya kecil, tapi jejaknya pasti. Dua tahun setelah malam ketika tanah retak dan akar-akar bergerak menyelamatkan desa, anak itu kini berusia tujuh tahun. Lebih tinggi, lebih diam, dan matanya—matanya menyimpan lebih banyak pertanyaan daripada jawaban.

“Kau datang lagi.”

Suara serak Mbah Ranggawarsita menyambutnya dari balik pintu gubuk reyot di pinggir desa. Arka mengangguk, membuka pintu anyaman bambu, dan langsung duduk bersila di lantai tanah. Di hadapannya, sudah terbuka sebuah buku tua dengan aksara-aksara yang bagi orang lain hanya coreng-moreng tak berarti.

“Tiga aksara hari ini,” ujar Mbah Ranga tanpa basa-basi. “Kau hafal kemarin?”

Arka mengangguk lagi. Ia menunjuk baris pertama, membaca dengan suara pelan tapi jelas, “Ra-ga-ya-na. Artinya… energi yang mengalir dalam semua yang hidup.”

Mbah Ranga tersenyum. Bukan senyum bangga—ia terlalu tua untuk bergembira berlebihan—tapi senyum lega. “Kau benar. Itu adalah definisi pertama mana. Energi kehidupan. Dulu para leluhur percaya, siapa yang bisa mengendalikan mana, dia bisa mengubah dunia.”

“Atau menghancurkannya?” tanya Arka tiba-tiba.

Mbah Ranga diam sejenak. “Kau masih ingat mimpi itu?”

Arka mengangguk. “Sumber itu… masih memanggil. Tiap malam.”

Di luar, matahari mulai merangkak naik. Kabut menipis. Tapi di dalam gubuk itu, suasana justru semakin pekat. Mbah Ranga menatap anak di hadapannya—bukan lagi balita yang dulu ia gendong, tapi seorang anak yang matanya terlalu tajam untuk usianya.

“Teori mana,” ujar Mbah Ranga akhirnya, “bukan hanya tentang membaca. Kau harus merasakannya. Pejamkan mata. Jangan pikirkan apa pun. Biarkan energi itu… mengalir.”

Arka memejam. Napasnya pelan. Ia sudah melakukan ini ribuan kali dalam dua tahun terakhir. Tapi kali ini, entah kenapa, ada sensasi berbeda. Seperti ada benang halus yang menarik dari dalam dadanya, menjalar ke lengan, ke ujung jari.

Tanpa sadar, ia membuka mata.

Dan di depannya, tiga helai daun kering yang berserakan di lantai mulai bergerak. Perlahan. Seperti ditarik benang tak terlihat. Mereka melayang, berputar lambat di udara, lalu jatuh kembali.

Arka menatap tangannya sendiri. “Aku… tidak sengaja.”

Mbah Ranga tidak menjawab. Tapi di sudut matanya, ada kilatan cemas dan bangga yang bercampur aneh.

“Itu pertanda,” gumamnya akhirnya. “Bakatmu… mulai muncul. Tapi ingat, Arka. Di desa ini, bakat seperti itu bisa menjadi berkah, bisa juga kutukan. Tergantung siapa yang melihat.”

***

Sore harinya, Arka berjalan pulang melewati pasar kecil di tengah desa. Dua tahun setelah kebakaran lumbung, Dusun Karang memang sudah bangkit kembali—setengahnya. Lumbung baru sudah berdiri, lebih kecil dari sebelumnya. Tapi bekas-bekas malam mengerikan itu masih terasa. Tiga keluarga kehilangan anggota. Joko, kepala desa, kini hanya bisa duduk di kursi roda, kakinya lumpuh sejak tertimpa bambu terbakar.

“Itu dia… anak Raka.”

Bisik-bisik itu tidak pernah benar-benar hilang. Setiap kali Arka lewat, suara-suara seperti angin berbisik di antara tenda-tenda pasar.

“Dia yang dulu… waktu kebakaran… aku lihat tanahnya retak.”

“Kata Karta, anak itu tidak normal.”

“Aku dengar dia sering ke gubuk Mbah Ranga. Belajar apa?”

Arka memasang wajah datar. Ia sudah terbiasa. Tapi tangannya mengepal erat.

“Arka!”

Suara Raka menyelamatkannya. Ayahnya berdiri di depan rumah, memegang parang yang baru selesai diasah. Wajahnya lelah—dua tahun terakhir, Raka bekerja lebih keras dari siapa pun. Memperbaiki rumah yang hampir roboh, membantu warga membangun ulang lumbung, dan diam-diam, melindungi Arka dari kecurigaan yang mengendap.

“Masuk, Nak. Ibu sudah masak.”

Di dalam, Wulan sedang mengaduk sesuatu di periuk. Aroma rempah menguar. Tapi wajahnya juga tegang. Begitu Arka duduk, Wulan langsung bertanya pelan, “Kau ke Mbah Ranga lagi?”

Arka mengangguk.

“Kata orang, kau sering ke sana,” lanjut Wulan. “Apa yang kalian lakukan?”

Arka terdiam. Raka menatap istrinya, lalu berkata, “Biarkan dia, Wan. Mbah Ranga bukan orang jahat.”

“Bukan itu masalahnya,” desah Wulan. “Masalahnya… orang mulai bertanya. Karta sudah dua kali datang kemari, katanya mau ‘membantu’. Tapi aku tahu maksudnya. Dia mau cari tahu.”

“Biarkan saja,” jawab Raka tegas. “Aku tidak takut pada Karta.”

Malam turun cepat di Dusun Karang. Setelah makan, Arka berbaring di tikar, tapi matanya tidak bisa terpejam. Ia masih merasakan sensasi aneh tadi pagi. Daun-daun yang bergerak. Seperti ada sesuatu yang mengalir dari dalam dirinya, sesuatu yang selama ini terpendam.

“Panggilan itu,” bisiknya sendiri. “Makin kuat.”

Tiba-tiba, pintu rumah terbuka. Raka masuk dengan langkah cepat, wajahnya berubah. Bukan lelah lagi—tapi tegang.

“Ada apa?” Wulan bangkit.

Raka menatap Arka sejenak, lalu berbisik, “Penjaga desa melihat api unggun di perbatasan. Bukan api biasa. Api unggun besar. Dengan lambang.”

“Lambang apa?” tanya Wulan.

“Tengkorak dan pedang menyilang,” jawab Raka pelan. “Bajak.”

Udara di dalam rumah mendadak dingin. Arka duduk, jantungnya berdebar. Bajak. Nama yang selama dua tahun hanya jadi bisikan ketakutan, kini kembali.

Raka meraih parangnya. “Mereka mengirim utusan. Aku harus ke balai desa. Jangan keluar malam-malam.”

Ia melangkah ke pintu, lalu berhenti. Menoleh pada Arka.

“Apa pun yang terjadi, Nak… kau jangan tunjukkan apa pun. Kau paham?”

Arka mengangguk, meski hatinya menjerit. Di luar, angin malam bertiup membawa bau asing. Bau petaka yang mendekat pelan-pelan.

Dan di kejauhan, di pinggir desa, di bawah cahaya bulan yang redup, tiga sosok berjubah hitam duduk di sekitar api unggun. Salah satu dari mereka memegang sebuah jimat kecil—jimat dengan ukiran pohon dan akar. Jimat yang sama seperti yang pernah dilihat Arka dalam mimpinya.

Utusan Bajak tersenyum tipis. “Dusun Karang… akhirnya kita temukan.”

Di dalam gubuknya, Mbah Ranga tiba-tiba terbangun. Dadanya sesak. Ia meraih tongkat, berjalan ke jendela, dan menatap langit malam yang tiba-tiba terlihat aneh.

“Gusinya… datang lagi,” bisiknya. “Mereka tahu.”

***

Fajar belum tiba, tapi Arka sudah bangun. Ia duduk di ambang pintu, memandangi langit timur yang masih gelap. Di tangannya, tanpa sadar, daun-daun kering kembali berputar pelan.

“Jangan tunjukkan apa pun,” bisiknya meniru ucapan Raka.

Tapi di balik punggungnya, di dalam gubuk, Wulan menatap anaknya dengan mata basah. Ia tahu, rahasia yang selama ini mereka jaga, sebentar lagi tidak akan bisa disembunyikan.

Bajak datang. Kecurigaan warga memuncak. Dan Arka, anak tujuh tahun itu, berada tepat di pusat badai yang akan datang.

Bersambung…

Karakter yang muncul: Arka (7 tahun, protagonis), Raka (ayah, mantan prajurit), Wulan (ibu, tabib), Mbah Ranggawarsita (guru, 80+ tahun), Joko (kepala desa lumpuh), Karta (warga yang curiga), Utusan Bajak (penampilan perdana).

EPISODE 1: TWO YEARS LATER

Dawn hadn't fully arrived. Mist still hung lazily above Dusun Karang, but Arka was already walking slowly through the wet grass. His feet were small, but his steps were certain. Two years after the night when the earth cracked and roots moved to save the village, the boy was now seven years old. Taller, quieter, and his eyes—his eyes held more questions than answers.

"You came again."

Mbah Ranggawarsita's hoarse voice greeted him from behind the door of a rickety hut on the village edge. Arka nodded, opened the woven bamboo door, and immediately sat cross-legged on the dirt floor. Before him, an old book lay open, filled with scripts that to others were just meaningless scribbles.

"Three scripts today," Mbah Ranga said without preamble. "Did you memorize yesterday's?"

Arka nodded again. He pointed to the first line, reading in a soft but clear voice, "Ra-ga-ya-na. It means… energy that flows through all living things."

Mbah Ranga smiled. Not a proud smile—he was too old for excessive joy—but a relieved one. "You're right. That is the first definition of mana. Life energy. The ancestors believed that whoever could control mana could change the world."

"Or destroy it?" Arka asked suddenly.

Mbah Ranga was silent for a moment. "You still remember that dream?"

Arka nodded. "That source… it still calls. Every night."

Outside, the sun began to crawl up. The mist thinned. But inside the hut, the atmosphere grew even thicker. Mbah Ranga stared at the boy before him—no longer the toddler he once carried, but a child whose eyes were too sharp for his age.

"The theory of mana," Mbah Ranga finally said, "is not just about reading. You must feel it. Close your eyes. Don't think about anything. Let the energy… flow."

Arka closed his eyes. His breath was slow. He had done this thousands of times over the past two years. But this time, somehow, there was a different sensation. Like a thin thread pulling from within his chest, spreading to his arms, to his fingertips.

Unconsciously, he opened his eyes.

And before him, three dried leaves scattered on the floor began to move. Slowly. As if pulled by invisible threads. They floated, spun slowly in the air, then fell back down.

Arka stared at his own hands. "I… didn't mean to."

Mbah Ranga didn't answer. But in the corner of his eyes, there was a strange mixture of pride and worry.

"It's a sign," he finally murmured. "Your talent… is beginning to emerge. But remember, Arka. In this village, such talent can be a blessing, or a curse. Depending on who sees it."

***

That afternoon, Arka walked home through the small market in the center of the village. Two years after the granary fire, Dusun Karang had indeed risen again—halfway. A new granary stood, smaller than before. But the traces of that terrible night still lingered. Three families had lost members. Joko, the village chief, could now only sit in a wheelchair, his legs paralyzed since being hit by burning bamboo.

"That's him… Raka's child."

The whispers never truly disappeared. Every time Arka passed, voices whispered like wind among the market stalls.

"The one from back then… during the fire… I saw the ground crack."

"Karta says that child isn't normal."

"I hear he often goes to Mbah Ranga's hut. Learning what?"

Arka kept his face neutral. He was used to it. But his hands clenched tightly.

"Arka!"

Raka's voice saved him. His father stood in front of their house, holding a newly sharpened machete. His face was tired—the past two years, Raka had worked harder than anyone. Fixing their almost-collapsed house, helping villagers rebuild the granary, and secretly, protecting Arka from the growing suspicion.

"Come inside, Son. Your mother's cooked."

Inside, Wulan was stirring something in a pot. Spice aromas wafted. But her face was also tense. As soon as Arka sat down, Wulan asked softly, "Did you go to Mbah Ranga again?"

Arka nodded.

"People say you go there often," Wulan continued. "What do you do?"

Arka was silent. Raka looked at his wife, then said, "Let him be, Wan. Mbah Ranga isn't a bad person."

"That's not the problem," Wulan sighed. "The problem is… people are starting to ask questions. Karta has come twice, saying he wants to 'help.' But I know his intention. He wants to find out."

"Let him," Raka answered firmly. "I'm not afraid of Karta."

Night fell quickly over Dusun Karang. After dinner, Arka lay on his mat, but his eyes wouldn't close. He still felt that strange sensation from this morning. Leaves moving. Like something flowing from within him, something that had been buried all along.

"That call," he whispered to himself. "Growing stronger."

Suddenly, the door opened. Raka entered quickly, his face changed. Not tired anymore—but tense.

"What is it?" Wulan rose.

Raka glanced at Arka for a moment, then whispered, "Village guards saw a bonfire at the border. Not an ordinary fire. A large bonfire. With a symbol."

"What symbol?" asked Wulan.

"A skull with crossed swords," Raka answered softly. "Bajak."

The air inside the house turned cold instantly. Arka sat up, his heart pounding. Bajak. A name that for two years had only been a fearful whisper, now returned.

Raka grabbed his machete. "They're sending an envoy. I have to go to the village hall. Don't go out tonight."

He stepped toward the door, then stopped. Turned to Arka.

"Whatever happens, Son… don't show anything. You understand?"

Arka nodded, though his heart screamed. Outside, the night wind blew, carrying a strange scent. The scent of approaching disaster, creeping slowly.

And in the distance, at the village edge, under the dim moonlight, three figures in black robes sat around a bonfire. One of them held a small amulet—an amulet carved with a tree and roots. The same amulet Arka had seen in his dreams.

The Bajak envoy smiled thinly. "Dusun Karang… finally we found you."

Inside his hut, Mbah Ranga suddenly woke up. His chest felt tight. He grabbed his staff, walked to the window, and stared at the night sky that suddenly seemed strange.

"They're… coming again," he whispered. "They know."

***

Dawn hadn't arrived, but Arka was already awake. He sat at the doorstep, gazing at the still-dark eastern sky. In his hand, unconsciously, dried leaves began to spin slowly again.

"Don't show anything," he whispered, imitating Raka's words.

But behind him, inside the hut, Wulan watched her son with tear-filled eyes. She knew, the secret they had been guarding, would soon be impossible to hide.

Bajak was coming. Villagers' suspicion was peaking. And Arka, that seven-year-old child, stood right at the center of the approaching storm.

To be continued…

Characters featured: Arka (7 years old, protagonist), Raka (father, former soldier), Wulan (mother, healer), Mbah Ranggawarsita (teacher, 80+ years), Joko (paralyzed village chief), Karta (suspicious villager), Bajak Envoy (first appearance).

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