EPISODE 18: MALAM PENUH LUKA

EPISODE 18: MALAM PENUH LUKA

Malam itu, bulan bersembunyi di balik awan.

Seperti ikut bersiap, ikut menahan napas, ikut menunggu sesuatu yang tak terhindarkan. Angin berhembus pelan, membawa bau kering dari padang rumput. Bau yang sama seperti malam-malam sebelumnya, tapi kali ini terasa berbeda. Lebih tajam. Lebih mengancam.

Di pos ronda sebelah utara, Karta duduk bergantian dengan dua lelaki lain. Mata mereka lelah, tapi tidak bisa tidur. Setiap suara kecil—dedaunan bergoyang, ranting patah—membuat mereka menoleh, jantung berdetak lebih kencang.

"Kau dengar itu?" bisik Karta.

Yang lain menggeleng. "Hanya angin."

Tapi Karta tidak yakin. Ia memicingkan mata, mencoba melihat ke arah padang rumput yang gelap gulita. Di sana, dalam gelap, ia merasa ada yang bergerak. Bayangan-bayangan. Samar, tapi ada.

Ia ingin berteriak, memberi peringatan. Tapi sebelum ia sempat, suara jerit memecah keheningan.

Bukan jeritan dari pos ronda. Tapi dari arah timur, dari balik semak-semak, dari tempat jebakan pertama dipasang.

***

Raka melompat dari tempat tidurnya. Ia sudah tidak tidur—hanya berbaring, memejamkan mata, telinga terus waspada. Jeritan itu langsung membuatnya bangkit, meraih parang di sampingnya, dan berlari keluar.

Arka bangun, ingin mengikuti. Tapi Wulan memegangnya. "Kau di sini!"

"Tapi, Bu—"

"DI SINI!" Wulan jarang membentak. Tapi kali ini ia membentak. Tangannya gemetar, tapi genggamannya kuat.

Arka diam. Ia duduk di pojok gubuk, memeluk lututnya. Di dadanya, mana itu berdenyut kencang. Sangat kencang. Seperti jantung yang mau meledak. Ia tahu. Mereka datang.

***

Di luar, kekacauan mulai terjadi.

Sepuluh bayangan bergerak cepat dari arah timur. Mereka tahu arahnya—langsung menuju desa, seperti sudah memetakan jalan. Tapi mereka tidak tahu tentang jebakan.

*BRUK!*

Lubang jebak pertama memakan korban. Dua bayangan jatuh ke dalam, tertusuk pancang bambu yang sudah diperkuat Arka. Jeritan mereka memecah malam, lalu berhenti. Tidak ada yang bisa selamat dari tusukan sedalam itu.

Bayangan-bayangan lain berhenti, ragu. Tapi dari kejauhan, seseorang berteriak memberi perintah. Mereka bergerak lagi, memutar, mencoba jalur lain.

Jerat. Dua bayangan tersangkut, terangkat ke udara, bergelantungan seperti boneka. Mereka meronta, berteriak, tapi tidak bisa lepas.

Yang tersisa terus maju. Empat bayangan kini mencapai batas desa. Tapi di sana, pancang-pancang bambu menanti di rerumputan. Satu, dua, tiga—kaki mereka tertusuk, mereka jatuh, meringkuk kesakitan.

Hanya satu yang selamat. Ia berhenti, menatap ke arah desa dengan napas tersengal. Di depannya, Raka berdiri dengan parang di tangan. Warga lain mulai berdatangan dengan pentungan kayu, cangkul, apa saja yang bisa dijadikan senjata.

Bayangan itu mundur. Lari. Meninggalkan teman-temannya yang mati dan terluka.

Warga bersorak. "KITA MENANG! MEREKA LARI!"

Tapi Raka tidak bersorak. Ia hanya berdiri, menatap ke arah bayangan itu pergi. Lalu matanya beralih ke atas bukit kecil di kejauhan. Di sana, dalam gelap, ia melihat sesuatu. Seseorang.

Seorang pria berdiri di atas bukit, menatap ke arah desa. Cahaya bulan yang samar menerangi sosoknya. Satu matanya—hanya satu—berkilau. Mata satunya tertutup kain hitam.

Pria itu tersenyum. Dari jarak sejauh itu, Raka bisa merasakan senyum itu. Senyum dingin. Senyum puas. Seperti seseorang yang baru saja mendapatkan apa yang ia inginkan.

Bajak.

***

Warga sibuk membersihkan medan pertempuran kecil itu. Tiga mayat bandit dikeluarkan dari lubang jebak. Dua lainnya masih bergelantungan di jerat. Tiga terluka, merintih kesakitan, kaki mereka hancur terkena pancang bambu.

"Ikat mereka," perintah Raka. "Tahan di gubuk kosong. Kita tanya nanti."

Karta dan yang lain melaksanakan perintah. Wajah mereka berseri-seri, bangga. Mereka baru saja memenangkan pertempuran pertama melawan bandit kejam. Tiga lawan mati, tiga luka, tanpa korban dari pihak mereka. Ini kemenangan besar.

"RAKA!" Karta berteriak dari kejauhan. "KITA MENANG! LIhat ini!" Ia mengangkat salah satu panah bandit, berjingkrak seperti anak kecil.

Warga lain ikut bersorak. Beberapa mulai menari-nari di tempat. Yang lain tertawa, berpelukan, menangis haru. Ketakutan yang selama ini menggunung, kini berubah menjadi euforia.

"Malam ini kita rayakan!" teriak seorang lelaki. "Kita ambil makanan dari dapur umum! Kita bakar api unggun!"

"HIDUP RAKA! HIDUP DUSUN KARANG!"

Sorak-sorai menggema. Warga berlari mengambil kayu bakar, menyalakan api unggun besar di tengah desa. Beberapa mengambil umbi-umbian dan sayuran dari dapur umum, mulai memasak untuk pesta kecil. Anak-anak yang tadi ketakutan, kini ikut tertawa dan bermain.

Di tengah keramaian, Raka berdiri diam. Wajahnya tidak ikut berseri. Matanya terus tertuju ke arah bukit, ke tempat di mana pria bermata satu itu tadi berdiri. Sekarang sudah kosong. Tapi bayangannya masih melekat.

"Raka!" Joko mendekat, memegang pundaknya. "Kau tidak ikut bergembira? Kita menang!"

Raka menatapnya. "Ini bukan kemenangan, Joko."

Joko mengerutkan kening. "Maksudmu?"

"Ini ujian." Raka menunjuk ke arah bukit. "Mereka coba lihat sekuat apa kita. Mereka lihat jebakan kita. Mereka lihat siapa yang lari ke mana. Mereka lihat semua."

Joko terdiam. Senyumnya perlahan memudar.

"Dan pemimpin mereka..." Raka berhenti, mencari kata yang tepat. "Dia bukan bandit biasa."

***

Pesta kecil tetap berlangsung, meski Raka tidak ikut.

Warga menari di sekitar api unggun, menyanyi lagu-lagu lama yang mereka ingat dari kampung halaman. Anak-anak berlarian, tertawa, untuk pertama kalinya setelah berminggu-minggu mereka bisa tertawa lepas. Dapur umum mengeluarkan makanan lebih banyak dari biasanya—perayaan kecil di tengah keterbatasan.

Di pojok, Arka duduk di samping ayahnya. Ia tidak ikut merayakan. Matanya juga tertuju ke arah bukit, tempat yang sama yang ditatap ayahnya.

"Ayah," bisiknya. "Pria itu... aku lihat dia."

Raka menoleh. "Kau lihat?"

Arka mengangguk. "Waktu aku pegang panah dulu. Dia yang muncul. Matanya satu."

Raka diam. Ia menarik Arka lebih dekat, memeluknya. "Ayah tahu, Nak. Ayah tahu."

Mereka duduk berpelukan, sementara di belakang mereka pesta terus berlangsung. Kontras yang aneh—kebahagiaan di satu sisi, kewaspadaan di sisi lain.

Saat pesta mulai mereda, seorang warga yang menjaga tahanan berlari mendekati Raka. Wajahnya pucat. "Raka... mereka... mereka mati."

Raka berdiri. "Mati? Bagaimana?"

"Entah. Mungkin racun. Atau... atau mereka bunuh diri." Warga itu gemetar. "Gigi mereka ada yang hilang. Mungkin menyimpan racun di sana."

Raka mengepalkan tangan. Tentara bayaran sejati. Mereka lebih baik mati daripada bicara. Ini bukan bandit kampungan. Ini prajurit terlatih.

***

Malam semakin larut, dan warga mulai tidur, masih dengan senyum di wajah mereka. Pesta usai, euforia perlahan mengendap, meninggalkan kelelahan.

Raka duduk sendirian di depan gubuknya, menatap api unggun yang mulai redup. Di sampingnya, parang tergeletak siap. Ia tidak bisa tidur. Mungkin tidak akan bisa tidur sampai semua ini selesai.

Dari arah bukit, tiba-tiba muncul sesosok. Bukan menyerang, hanya berdiri di sana, di batas cahaya api. Raka bangkit, menggenggam parangnya.

Sosok itu melangkah maju. Cahaya api menerangi wajahnya. Pria bermata satu. Bajak.

Ia tidak membawa senjata. Hanya berdiri, sekitar lima puluh langkah dari Raka. Lalu perlahan, ia mengangkat tangan. Memberi hormat. Hormatan tentara. Hormatan yang hanya dikenal oleh mereka yang pernah berada di medan perang.

Raka membeku. Ia mengenal hormat itu. Ia sendiri pernah memberikannya pada komandannya dulu. Ini bukan hormat sembarangan. Ini hormat dari satu prajurit ke prajurit lain.

Bajak tersenyum. Lalu ia berbalik, berjalan perlahan kembali ke dalam gelap, menghilang seperti hantu.

Raka masih berdiri di tempatnya, parang di tangan, jantung berdebar kencang. Di belakangnya, Arka keluar dari gubuk, menarik bajunya.

"Ayah." Suara Arka kecil, tapi jelas. "Ayah kenal dia?"

Raka tidak menjawab. Ia hanya memeluk Arka erat, lebih erat dari sebelumnya. Di dalam hatinya, pertanyaan yang sama berputar: Kenalkah ia? Atau hanya pernah melihat? Atau mungkin—mungkin mereka pernah satu medan perang dulu, sebelum semuanya hancur.

Ia tidak tahu. Tapi satu hal yang ia tahu: ini baru awal. Pertempuran tadi hanyalah cicipan. Yang sesungguhnya akan datang. Dan kali ini, mungkin tidak akan ada pesta setelahnya.

Di langit timur, fajar mulai merekah. Tapi bagi Dusun Karang, hari yang baru bukan berarti harapan. Bisa jadi, ini adalah hari terakhir mereka.

Arka merasakan mana di dadanya berdenyut. Bukan karena takut. Tapi karena... panggilan. Panggilan yang sama seperti saat ia menyentuh panah. Panggilan yang menghubungkannya dengan pria bermata satu itu.

Ia tidak tahu apa artinya. Tapi ia tahu, suatu saat, ia akan tahu. Dan saat itu, mungkin segalanya akan berubah.

Bersambung...

Karakter: Arka (5 tahun), Raka (ayah), Bajak (pemimpin bandit), Karta (warga), Joko (kepala desa), warga desa

🎬 CINEMATIC MOMENT

Seorang pria berdiri di batas cahaya api unggun, mengangkat tangan memberi hormat. Matanya satu, yang lain tertutup kain hitam. Di kejauhan, seorang pria lain berdiri dengan parang di tangan, seorang anak kecil memeluknya dari belakang. Kontras antara gelap malam dan cahaya api yang redup. Suasana tegang, penuh misteri, dan firasat buruk.

EPISODE 18: NIGHT OF WOUNDS

That night, the moon hid behind the clouds.

As if it too was preparing, holding its breath, waiting for something inevitable. The wind blew softly, carrying the dry scent of the grassland. The same scent as previous nights, but this time it felt different. Sharper. More threatening.

At the northern guard post, Karta sat in rotation with two other men. Their eyes were tired, but they couldn't sleep. Every small sound—rustling leaves, breaking twigs—made them turn, hearts beating faster.

"Did you hear that?" Karta whispered.

The others shook their heads. "Just the wind."

But Karta wasn't sure. He squinted, trying to see into the pitch-black grassland. There, in the darkness, he felt movement. Shadows. Vague, but there.

He wanted to shout, to give warning. But before he could, a scream shattered the silence.

Not from the guard post. But from the east, from beyond the bushes, from where the first trap was set.

***

Raka jumped from his bed. He hadn't been sleeping—just lying, eyes closed, ears alert. The scream immediately made him rise, grab his machete beside him, and run outside.

Arka woke, wanting to follow. But Wulan held him. "You stay here!"

"But, Mother—"

"HERE!" Wulan rarely shouted. But this time she shouted. Her hands trembled, but her grip was strong.

Arka was silent. He sat in the corner of the hut, hugging his knees. In his chest, that mana pulsed rapidly. Very rapidly. Like a heart about to explode. He knew. They were coming.

***

Outside, chaos began.

Ten shadows moved quickly from the east. They knew the direction—heading straight for the village, as if they had mapped the path. But they didn't know about the traps.

*CRASH!*

The first pit trap claimed its victims. Two shadows fell in, impaled on bamboo stakes reinforced by Arka. Their screams pierced the night, then stopped. No one could survive such deep punctures.

The other shadows stopped, hesitant. But from the distance, someone shouted orders. They moved again, circling, trying another path.

Snares. Two shadows got caught, lifted into the air, dangling like puppets. They thrashed, screamed, but couldn't escape.

The remaining ones kept advancing. Four shadows now reached the village boundary. But there, bamboo stakes waited in the grass. One, two, three—their feet were pierced, they fell, writhing in pain.

Only one survived. He stopped, staring at the village with gasping breath. Before him, Raka stood with machete in hand. Other villagers began arriving with wooden clubs, hoes, anything that could be used as a weapon.

The shadow retreated. Ran. Leaving his dead and wounded comrades behind.

The villagers cheered. "WE WON! THEY RAN!"

But Raka didn't cheer. He just stood, staring at where the shadow had gone. Then his eyes shifted to a small hill in the distance. There, in the darkness, he saw something. Someone.

A man stood on the hill, looking toward the village. The faint moonlight illuminated his figure. One eye—only one—gleamed. The other eye was covered with black cloth.

The man smiled. From that distance, Raka could feel that smile. A cold smile. A satisfied smile. Like someone who had just gotten what he wanted.

Bajak.

***

The villagers busied themselves cleaning up the small battlefield. Three bandit corpses were pulled from the pit traps. Two others still dangled in snares. Three were wounded, groaning in pain, their feet destroyed by bamboo stakes.

"Tie them up," Raka ordered. "Hold them in an empty hut. We'll question them later."

Karta and the others carried out the orders. Their faces beamed with pride. They had just won their first battle against cruel bandits. Three enemies dead, three wounded, with no casualties on their side. This was a great victory.

"RAKA!" Karta shouted from a distance. "WE WON! Look at this!" He raised one of the bandits' arrows, prancing like a child.

Other villagers joined in the cheering. Some began dancing in place. Others laughed, hugged, cried with emotion. The fear that had been building up had now turned into euphoria.

"Tonight we celebrate!" a man shouted. "Let's take food from the communal kitchen! Let's light a bonfire!"

"LONG LIVE RAKA! LONG LIVE DUSUN KARANG!"

Cheers echoed. Villagers ran to get firewood, lighting a large bonfire in the center of the village. Some took tubers and vegetables from the communal kitchen, beginning to cook for a small feast. Children who had been frightened now laughed and played along.

In the midst of the crowd, Raka stood still. His face didn't join in the joy. His eyes remained fixed on the hill, where the one-eyed man had stood. Now it was empty. But his shadow still lingered.

"Raka!" Joko approached, patting his shoulder. "Aren't you joining the celebration? We won!"

Raka looked at him. "This isn't victory, Joko."

Joko frowned. "What do you mean?"

"This was a test." Raka pointed toward the hill. "They were testing our strength. They saw our traps. They saw who ran where. They saw everything."

Joko fell silent. His smile slowly faded.

"And their leader..." Raka paused, searching for the right words. "He's not an ordinary bandit."

***

The small feast continued, even though Raka didn't join.

Villagers danced around the bonfire, singing old songs they remembered from their homelands. Children ran around, laughing, for the first time in weeks they could laugh freely. The communal kitchen distributed more food than usual—a small celebration in the midst of scarcity.

In the corner, Arka sat beside his father. He didn't join the celebration. His eyes too were fixed on the hill, the same spot his father was staring at.

"Father," he whispered. "That man... I saw him."

Raka turned. "You saw him?"

Arka nodded. "When I touched the arrow before. He appeared. One-eyed."

Raka was silent. He pulled Arka closer, hugging him. "Father knows, Son. Father knows."

They sat embracing, while behind them the feast continued. A strange contrast—happiness on one side, vigilance on the other.

As the feast began to die down, a villager who was guarding the prisoners ran to Raka. His face was pale. "Raka... they... they're dead."

Raka stood. "Dead? How?"

"I don't know. Poison. Or... or they killed themselves." The villager trembled. "Their teeth... some were missing. Maybe they kept poison there."

Raka clenched his fists. True mercenaries. They'd rather die than talk. These weren't village bandits. These were trained soldiers.

***

Night grew deeper, and the villagers began to sleep, still with smiles on their faces. The feast was over, euphoria slowly subsiding, leaving exhaustion behind.

Raka sat alone in front of his hut, staring at the dying bonfire. Beside him, his machete lay ready. He couldn't sleep. Perhaps wouldn't be able to sleep until all this was over.

From the direction of the hill, suddenly a figure appeared. Not attacking, just standing there, at the edge of the firelight. Raka rose, gripping his machete.

The figure stepped forward. The firelight illuminated his face. The one-eyed man. Bajak.

He carried no weapon. Just stood there, about fifty paces from Raka. Then slowly, he raised his hand. Saluting. A soldier's salute. A salute known only to those who had been on the battlefield.

Raka froze. He recognized that salute. He himself had given it to his commander long ago. This wasn't an ordinary salute. This was a salute from one soldier to another.

Bajak smiled. Then he turned, walking slowly back into the darkness, disappearing like a ghost.

Raka still stood there, machete in hand, heart pounding. Behind him, Arka came out of the hut, tugging his shirt.

"Father." Arka's voice was small, but clear. "Do you know him?"

Raka didn't answer. He just hugged Arka tightly, tighter than before. In his heart, the same question spun: Did he know him? Or had he only seen him? Or perhaps—perhaps they had once been on the same battlefield, before everything fell apart.

He didn't know. But one thing he knew: this was only the beginning. The earlier battle was just a taste. The real one would come. And this time, there might be no feast afterward.

In the eastern sky, dawn began to break. But for Dusun Karang, a new day didn't mean hope. It could be their last day.

Arka felt the mana in his chest pulse. Not from fear. But from... a call. The same call as when he touched the arrow. A call that connected him to that one-eyed man.

He didn't know what it meant. But he knew, someday, he would know. And when that day came, perhaps everything would change.

To be continued...

Characters: Arka (5 years old), Raka (father), Bajak (bandit leader), Karta (villager), Joko (village chief), villagers

🎬 CINEMATIC MOMENT

A man stands at the edge of bonfire light, raising his hand in salute. One eye, the other covered with black cloth. In the distance, another man stands with machete in hand, a small child hugging him from behind. Contrast between the dark night and the dim firelight. Tense, mysterious, foreboding atmosphere.

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