EPISODE 19: PENGKHIANAT

EPISODE 19: PENGKHIANAT

Fajar datang, tapi tidak seperti fajar biasanya.

Matahari terbit dengan malas, seperti enggan melihat apa yang akan terjadi di Dusun Karang hari itu. Cahaya jingganya menyinari bekas pesta semalam—api unggun yang tinggal abu, sisa-sisa makanan berserakan, dan wajah-wajah lelah yang baru tersadar: pertempuran sesungguhnya belum datang.

Raka tidak tidur semalaman. Ia duduk di depan gubuk, memandangi cakrawala, mencoba membaca tanda-tanda yang tidak bisa ia jelaskan. Bajak. Pria bermata satu itu. Hormat militernya masih terbayang jelas, seperti lukisan di ingatan.

"Ayah."

Arka keluar dari gubuk, mengucek mata. Ia duduk di samping Raka, bersandar di lengannya. "Ayah enggak tidur?"

Raka menggeleng. "Tidak bisa."

Arka diam. Di dadanya, mana itu berdenyut pelan. Bukan seperti peringatan, tapi seperti detak jantung kedua yang terus mengingatkannya pada sesuatu. Pada pria bermata satu itu. Pada panggilan aneh yang tidak bisa ia jelaskan.

"Ayah kenal dia?" tanya Arka lagi, pertanyaan yang sama seperti tadi malam.

Raka menatap anaknya lama. Lalu menghela napas. "Ayah... mungkin pernah melihatnya. Di medan perang. Tapi Ayah tidak ingat di mana."

"Dia jahat?"

"Dia musuh." Raka mengelak. "Itu yang penting."

Arka tidak puas, tapi ia tahu tidak bisa memaksa. Ia hanya duduk diam, merasakan mana-nya berdenyut, bertanya-tanya apa artinya semua ini.

***

Pagi beranjak siang, dan warga mulai bangun dari tidur mereka yang kelelahan.

Beberapa masih tersenyum, mengingat pesta semalam. Yang lain mulai membersihkan sisa-sisa perayaan. Di dapur umum, para perempuan memasak untuk sarapan, tertawa dan bercanda, seolah tidak ada ancaman di luar sana.

Tapi ketenangan itu tidak berlangsung lama.

Ratmi—wanita tua yang kehilangan anak saat kelaparan—berlari ke tengah desa dengan wajah pucat. Matanya merah, tubuhnya gemetar. Ia berteriak, "PAIJO! PAIJO HILANG!"

Warga berhenti. Semua menoleh.

"Apa?" Joko mendekat, memegang pundak Ratmi. "Paijo? Suamimu?"

Ratmi mengangguk, terisak. "Tadi malam... pas pesta... dia bilang mau ke belakang sebentar. Aku pikir... aku pikir dia buang air. Tapi sampai pagi... sampai pagi enggak balik."

Raka, yang sejak tadi diam di pinggir, langsung bangkit. "Kau sudah cari ke sekitar?"

"Sudah. Tidak ada." Ratmi menangis. "Tolong... tolong cariin."

Raka mengangguk. "Karta, kumpulkan beberapa orang. Kita cari jejak."

***

Satu jam kemudian, Raka dan Karta menemukan jejak di luar desa.

Bukan di arah padang rumput, tempat musuh berkemah. Tapi di arah yang berbeda—arah utara, dekat sungai kering. Jejak kaki tiga orang: dua dewasa, satu anak kecil. Dan jejak itu tidak menuju ke luar, tapi justru berbelok ke arah lain. Ke arah kamp Bajak.

Raka berlutut, meraba jejak itu. Masih baru. Beberapa jam yang lalu. Malam hari, saat pesta berlangsung.

"Paijo," bisiknya. "Kau... kau khianati kami."

Karta terbelalak. "Maksudmu... dia lari ke musuh?"

Raka mengangguk pelan. "Bukan cuma lari. Lihat ini." Ia menunjuk jejak lain—jejak yang lebih besar, lebih berat. Jejak sepatu. Banyak. "Mereka sudah tunggu. Paijo... dia sudah janjian."

Karta mundur selangkah, wajahnya pucat. "Jadi... jadi dia..."

"Pengkhianat." Raka menyelesaikan kalimatnya. "Dia jual kita."

***

Berita itu menyebar seperti api di padang rumput kering.

Paijo, warga Dusun Karang sejak awal, suami Ratmi, ayah dari dua anak—telah berkhianat. Ia kabur ke kamp musuh, membawa keluarganya, dan memberi tahu semua yang ia tahu. Titik lemah desa. Pagar selatan yang baru diperbaiki. Sumber air utama. Jumlah warga. Senjata seadanya.

Ratmi pingsan saat mendengar berita itu. Beberapa wanita membawanya ke gubuk, memberinya air. Tapi yang lain mulai panik.

"Mereka tahu semua! Kita mati!"

"Paijo bangsat! Dia jual kita!"

"Aku bilang dari dulu kita harus pergi!"

Kekacauan meledak. Warga berteriak, saling tuduh, saling curiga. Beberapa mulai mengemasi barang-barang mereka, bersiap lari. Yang lain mencoba menenangkan, tapi suara mereka tenggelam.

Raka berdiri di tengah kerumunan, diam. Ia melihat semua ini—kepanikan, perpecahan, ketakutan—dan di dalam hatinya, kenangan perang lama kembali. Saat unitnya hancur bukan karena musuh, tapi karena pengkhianat dari dalam.

"DIAM!"

Suara Raka menggelegar, memotong keributan. Semua orang menoleh.

"Kalian panik, kalian mati." Raka melangkah maju, matanya menatap satu per satu warga. "Paijo sudah pergi. Kita tidak bisa ubah itu. Tapi kita masih bisa pilih: mau menangis, atau mau bertahan."

Seorang lelaki berteriak, "Bertahan dengan apa? Mereka tahu semua!"

"Mereka tahu yang Paijo tahu." Raka menjawab cepat. "Tapi Paijo tidak tahu semua. Dia tidak tahu jebakan yang kita pasang setelah dia pergi. Dia tidak tahu rencana cadangan. Dia tidak tahu..."

Ia berhenti, melirik Arka yang duduk di pojok. "Dia tidak tahu apa yang kita bisa lakukan."

Kata-kata itu ambigu, tapi cukup untuk membuat beberapa orang berpikir.

***

Raka memimpin rapat darurat di bawah pohon besar.

Warga berkumpul, wajah-wajah tegang. Joko duduk di samping Raka, kali ini diam, tidak banyak bicara. Ia sadar, ini bukan waktunya untuk pemimpin seremonial. Ini waktunya untuk pemimpin sejati.

Raka berdiri, memandangi warganya. "Kita tidak punya banyak waktu. Malam ini, atau besok pagi, mereka akan datang. Dan kali ini, bukan sepuluh orang. Mungkin dua kali lipat. Mungkin lebih."

Warga mulai berbisik, tapi Raka melanjutkan. "Aku tidak bisa paksa kalian bertahan. Yang mau pergi, silakan. Ambil keluargamu, ambil bekal, pergi sebelum matahari turun. Tapi ingat: di luar sana, mungkin sudah ada jebakan mereka. Mungkin sudah ada yang mengintai."

Ia berhenti, lalu menunjuk ke arah keluarganya—Wulan, Arka, dan beberapa orang lain. "Aku dan keluargaku akan bertahan. Siapa yang mau ikut, silakan. Kita bagi tugas. Kita perkuat pertahanan. Kita buat mereka menyesal pernah datang ke sini."

Keheningan menyelimuti. Lalu satu per satu, warga mulai angkat bicara.

"Aku bertahan." Karta maju selangkah. "Aku sudah capek lari."

"Aku juga." Seorang lelaki lain ikut.

"Aku ikut Raka."

"Aku juga."

Tapi tidak semua. Beberapa keluarga—lima keluarga, total 18 orang—memilih pergi. Mereka takut. Mereka tidak percaya bisa menang. Mereka lebih memilih mengambil risiko di padang rumput daripada mati di desa.

Raka tidak melarang. Ia hanya memberi mereka bekal dan pesan: "Semoga selamat."

Mereka pergi saat matahari mulai turun. Membawa anak-anak, barang seadanya, dan ketakutan yang membumbung tinggi. Warga yang tersisa menatap kepergian mereka dengan perasaan campur aduk. Sedih. Marah. Takut. Tapi juga lega—setidaknya, yang tersisa adalah yang benar-benar ingin bertahan.

Desa menyusut. Tapi yang tersisa, lebih solid.

***

Senja turun, dan Dusun Karang bersiap untuk malam terpanjang dalam sejarah mereka.

Jebakan diperiksa ulang. Pos ronda diperkuat. Senjata seadanya—cangkul, parang, tombak bambu—disiapkan di setiap sudut. Wulan dan para perempuan menyiapkan kain pembalut dan ramuan obat. Anak-anak dikumpulkan di satu gubuk, dijaga oleh beberapa orang tua.

Arka membantu di dapur umum, membawakan air dan kayu bakar. Ia ingin lebih—ingin mempertajam lebih banyak bambu, ingin memperkuat lebih banyak senjata. Tapi mananya belum pulih sepenuhnya. Semalam ia kehabisan terlalu banyak. Tubuhnya masih lemas.

"Arka."

Suara tua memanggil dari belakang. Mbah Ranggawarsita berdiri di sana, dengan tongkatnya dan wajah yang lebih serius dari biasanya.

Arka menghampiri. "Mbah?"

Mbah Ranggawarsita menariknya ke samping, jauh dari keramaian. Di balik gubuk, di tempat yang sepi, ia berhenti dan menatap Arka dengan mata yang tajam.

"Dengar, Nak." Suaranya rendah. "Malam ini mereka akan datang. Mungkin lebih cepat dari perkiraan kita."

Arka mengangguk. Ia tahu. Mana di dadanya sudah berdenyut sejak sore, memberi peringatan.

"Kau harus siap." Mbah Ranggawarsita melanjutkan. "Bukan siap bertarung—kau masih terlalu kecil untuk itu. Tapi siap untuk kemungkinan terburuk."

Arka mengerutkan kening. "Kemungkinan terburuk apa, Mbah?"

Mbah Ranggawarsita diam lama. Terlalu lama. Angin sore berhembus, membawa bau kering dari padang rumput. Di kejauhan, burung-burung terbang menjauh, seperti tahu ada bahaya yang akan datang.

"Rahasiamu." Mbah Ranggawarsita akhirnya bicara, suaranya nyaris berbisik. "Mungkin terbongkar."

Arka terpaku. "Maksud Mbah... orang akan tahu?"

"Jika mereka menang, mereka akan menjarah desa. Mereka akan lihat bambu-bambu itu. Mereka akan tanya. Jika mereka kalah dan melarikan diri, mereka akan sebarkan cerita. Dan jika..." Mbah Ranggawarsita berhenti, tidak mampu melanjutkan.

"Jika apa, Mbah?"

"Jika kita kalah, dan mereka menangkap kalian... mereka akan paksa kau tunjukkan kekuatanmu. Dan dunia ini—dunia di luar Dusun Karang—tidak akan diam melihat anak sekecil kau punya kekuatan sebesar itu."

Arka merasakan dadanya sesak. Bukan dari mana, tapi dari ketakutan. Ketakutan yang selama ini ia pendam, kini muncul ke permukaan.

"Tapi... tapi aku cuma mau bantu."

"Aku tahu, Nak." Mbah Ranggawarsita menghela napas. "Tapi dunia tidak selalu adil pada orang baik."

Ia meletakkan tangannya yang keriput di pundak Arka. "Jadi kau harus siap. Apa pun yang terjadi, jangan biarkan mereka gunakan kau. Kau dengar? Jangan biarkan siapa pun gunakan kekuatanmu untuk hal yang jahat."

Arka mengangguk, meski tidak sepenuhnya mengerti. Di dalam hatinya, hanya satu yang ia pikirkan: melindungi keluarganya. Melindungi Ayah, Ibu, Ragil, dan semua yang ia sayangi.

***

Malam turun, dan bulan purnama muncul di langit. Terang, nyaris tanpa awan. Cahayanya menyinari Dusun Karang seperti sorotan panggung—panggung untuk pertempuran terbesar dalam sejarah desa kecil ini.

Raka berdiri di pos utama, memandangi padang rumput. Di sampingnya, parang tergeletak siap. Di belakangnya, warga berjaga di pos masing-masing, jantung berdebar, napas tertahan.

Arka duduk di depan gubuk, memeluk lututnya. Di sampingnya, sekop kecil yang ia buat pertama kali, tergeletak. Ia memegangnya, merasakan kayu yang dingin, merasakan sisa-sisa mana yang masih tersimpan di dalamnya.

Di kejauhan, dari arah padang rumput, obor-obor mulai menyala. Bukan sepuluh. Bukan dua puluh. Tapi puluhan. Mungkin lima puluh. Mungkin lebih.

Mereka datang. Dan kali ini, mereka tahu persis ke mana harus melangkah.

Raka menggenggam parangnya. Wulan keluar dari gubuk, duduk di samping Arka, memeluknya erat. Tidak ada yang bicara. Tidak perlu.

Di langit, bulan purnama bersinar terang, seolah ingin menyaksikan pertarungan antara yang bertahan dan yang menyerang. Antara yang benar dan yang serakah. Antara masa lalu dan masa depan.

Dan di tengah semua itu, seorang anak kecil duduk, merasakan mana di dadanya berdenyut seperti jantung kedua, siap untuk apa pun yang akan terjadi.

Malam pertempuran telah tiba.

Bersambung ke EPISODE 20: KEPUNGAN BAYANGAN...

Karakter: Arka (5 tahun), Raka (ayah), Mbah Ranggawarsita (sesepuh), Kepala Desa Joko, Wulan (ibu), Ratmi (warga), Karta (warga), Pengkhianat (Paijo, disebut), warga desa

🎬 CINEMATIC MOMENT

Senja di Dusun Karang. Seorang kakek tua dengan tongkat berbicara serius pada seorang anak kecil di balik gubuk. Wajah anak itu tegang, matanya menerawang ke kejauhan. Di latar belakang, warga sibuk bersiap, obor mulai dinyalakan. Langit jingga keunguan, bayangan panjang, suasana haru dan mencekam.

EPISODE 19: THE TRAITOR

Dawn came, but not like any ordinary dawn.

The sun rose lazily, as if reluctant to see what would happen in Dusun Karang that day. Its orange light illuminated the remnants of last night's feast—bonfires reduced to ash, scattered food scraps, and tired faces just realizing: the real battle hadn't come yet.

Raka hadn't slept all night. He sat in front of his hut, gazing at the horizon, trying to read signs he couldn't explain. Bajak. That one-eyed man. His military salute still vivid, like a painting in memory.

"Father."

Arka came out of the hut, rubbing his eyes. He sat beside Raka, leaning against his arm. "Father didn't sleep?"

Raka shook his head. "Can't."

Arka was silent. In his chest, that mana pulsed softly. Not like a warning, but like a second heartbeat constantly reminding him of something. Of that one-eyed man. Of that strange call he couldn't explain.

"Do you know him, Father?" Arka asked again, the same question from last night.

Raka looked at his son for a long time. Then sighed. "Father... might have seen him. On the battlefield. But I don't remember where."

"Is he evil?"

"He's the enemy." Raka evaded. "That's what matters."

Arka wasn't satisfied, but he knew he couldn't push. He just sat quietly, feeling his mana pulse, wondering what it all meant.

***

Morning turned to midday, and villagers began waking from their exhausted sleep.

Some still smiled, remembering last night's feast. Others began cleaning up remnants of the celebration. At the communal kitchen, women cooked breakfast, laughing and joking, as if there was no threat outside.

But that peace didn't last long.

Ratmi—the old woman who had lost children during the famine—ran to the village center with a pale face. Her eyes were red, her body trembling. She screamed, "PAIJO! PAIJO IS GONE!"

The villagers stopped. Everyone turned.

"What?" Joko approached, holding Ratmi's shoulder. "Paijo? Your husband?"

Ratmi nodded, sobbing. "Last night... during the feast... he said he was going to the back for a moment. I thought... I thought he was relieving himself. But until morning... until morning he hasn't returned."

Raka, who had been silently watching from the edge, immediately stood. "Have you searched around?"

"Yes. Nothing." Ratmi cried. "Please... please find him."

Raka nodded. "Karta, gather some people. We'll look for tracks."

***

An hour later, Raka and Karta found tracks outside the village.

Not toward the grassland, where the enemy camped. But in a different direction—north, near the dry river. Footprints of three people: two adults, one child. And those tracks didn't lead outward, but turned toward another direction. Toward Bajak's camp.

Raka knelt, touching the tracks. Still fresh. A few hours old. At night, during the feast.

"Paijo," he whispered. "You... you betrayed us."

Karta's eyes widened. "You mean... he ran to the enemy?"

Raka nodded slowly. "Not just ran. Look at this." He pointed at other tracks—larger, heavier tracks. Boot prints. Many. "They were waiting. Paijo... he made an appointment."

Karta stepped back, his face pale. "So... so he..."

"A traitor." Raka finished his sentence. "He sold us out."

***

The news spread like wildfire in dry grassland.

Paijo, a Dusun Karang resident from the beginning, Ratmi's husband, father of two children—had betrayed them. He fled to the enemy camp, taking his family, and telling them everything he knew. The village's weak points. The newly repaired southern fence. The main water source. The number of villagers. Their makeshift weapons.

Ratmi fainted upon hearing the news. Some women carried her to a hut, giving her water. But others began to panic.

"They know everything! We're dead!"

"Paijo, you bastard! He sold us out!"

"I told you from the beginning we should leave!"

Chaos erupted. Villagers shouted, accused each other, grew suspicious. Some began packing their belongings, ready to flee. Others tried to calm them, but their voices drowned.

Raka stood in the middle of the crowd, silent. He saw all this—panic, division, fear—and in his heart, old war memories returned. When his unit was destroyed not by the enemy, but by a traitor from within.

"SILENCE!"

Raka's voice thundered, cutting through the noise. Everyone turned.

"If you panic, you die." Raka stepped forward, his eyes looking at each villager one by one. "Paijo is gone. We can't change that. But we can still choose: cry, or fight."

A man shouted, "Fight with what? They know everything!"

"They know what Paijo knew." Raka answered quickly. "But Paijo doesn't know everything. He doesn't know the traps we set after he left. He doesn't know the backup plan. He doesn't know..."

He paused, glancing at Arka sitting in the corner. "He doesn't know what we can do."

The words were ambiguous, but enough to make some people think.

***

Raka led an emergency meeting under the big tree.

Villagers gathered, faces tense. Joko sat beside Raka, this time silent, not saying much. He realized, this wasn't the time for a ceremonial leader. This was the time for a true leader.

Raka stood, looking at his people. "We don't have much time. Tonight, or tomorrow morning, they will come. And this time, not ten people. Maybe twice that. Maybe more."

Villagers began whispering, but Raka continued. "I can't force you to fight. Those who want to leave, go ahead. Take your family, take provisions, go before the sun sets. But remember: out there, their traps might already be set. They might already be watching."

He paused, then pointed toward his family—Wulan, Arka, and a few others. "My family and I will fight. Whoever wants to join, come. We'll divide tasks. We'll strengthen our defenses. We'll make them regret ever coming here."

Silence enveloped them. Then one by one, villagers began to speak.

"I'll fight." Karta stepped forward. "I'm tired of running."

"Me too." Another man joined.

"I'm with Raka."

"Me too."

But not everyone. A few families—five families, total 18 people—chose to leave. They were afraid. They didn't believe they could win. They preferred to take their chances in the grassland than die in the village.

Raka didn't stop them. He just gave them provisions and a message: "Stay safe."

They left as the sun began to set. Carrying children, whatever belongings they could, and overwhelming fear. The remaining villagers watched them go with mixed feelings. Sad. Angry. Afraid. But also relieved—at least, those who remained were the ones truly willing to fight.

The village shrank. But what remained was more solid.

***

Dusk fell, and Dusun Karang prepared for the longest night in their history.

Traps were rechecked. Guard posts reinforced. Improvised weapons—hoes, machetes, bamboo spears—prepared at every corner. Wulan and the women prepared bandages and medicinal herbs. Children were gathered in one hut, guarded by some elders.

Arka helped at the communal kitchen, bringing water and firewood. He wanted to do more—wanted to sharpen more bamboo, strengthen more weapons. But his mana hadn't fully recovered. Last night he used too much. His body was still weak.

"Arka."

An old voice called from behind. Mbah Ranggawarsita stood there, with his staff and a face more serious than usual.

Arka approached. "Elder?"

Mbah Ranggawarsita pulled him aside, away from the crowd. Behind the hut, in a quiet place, he stopped and looked at Arka with sharp eyes.

"Listen, child." His voice was low. "Tonight they will come. Maybe sooner than we think."

Arka nodded. He knew. The mana in his chest had been pulsing since afternoon, giving warning.

"You must be ready." Mbah Ranggawarsita continued. "Not ready to fight—you're still too small for that. But ready for the worst possibility."

Arka frowned. "What worst possibility, Elder?"

Mbah Ranggawarsita was silent for a long time. Too long. The evening wind blew, carrying the dry scent from the grassland. In the distance, birds flew away, as if sensing approaching danger.

"Your secret." Mbah Ranggawarsita finally spoke, his voice almost a whisper. "It might be exposed."

Arka froze. "You mean... people will know?"

"If they win, they'll plunder the village. They'll see those bamboos. They'll ask. If they lose and flee, they'll spread stories. And if..." Mbah Ranggawarsita stopped, unable to continue.

"If what, Elder?"

"If we lose, and they capture you... they'll force you to show your power. And this world—the world outside Dusun Karang—won't stay silent seeing a child as small as you possessing such great power."

Arka felt his chest tighten. Not from mana, but from fear. The fear he had been suppressing all this time, now rising to the surface.

"But... but I just want to help."

"I know, child." Mbah Ranggawarsita sighed. "But the world isn't always fair to good people."

He placed his wrinkled hand on Arka's shoulder. "So you must be ready. Whatever happens, don't let them use you. You hear me? Don't let anyone use your power for evil."

Arka nodded, though not fully understanding. In his heart, only one thing mattered: protecting his family. Protecting Father, Mother, Ragil, and everyone he loved.

***

Night fell, and a full moon appeared in the sky. Bright, almost cloudless. Its light shone on Dusun Karang like a spotlight—a stage for the greatest battle in this small village's history.

Raka stood at the main post, gazing at the grassland. Beside him, his machete lay ready. Behind him, villagers guarded their posts, hearts pounding, breaths held.

Arka sat in front of the hut, hugging his knees. Beside him, the small shovel he first made lay still. He held it, feeling the cold wood, feeling the remnants of mana still stored within.

In the distance, from the grassland, torches began to light. Not ten. Not twenty. But dozens. Perhaps fifty. Perhaps more.

They were coming. And this time, they knew exactly where to step.

Raka gripped his machete. Wulan came out of the hut, sitting beside Arka, hugging him tightly. No one spoke. No need.

In the sky, the full moon shone brightly, as if wanting to witness the battle between those who defend and those who attack. Between right and greed. Between past and future.

And in the midst of it all, a small child sat, feeling the mana in his chest pulse like a second heart, ready for whatever would come.

The night of battle had arrived.

Continued in EPISODE 20: SHADOW SIEGE...

Characters: Arka (5 years old), Raka (father), Mbah Ranggawarsita (elder), Village Chief Joko, Wulan (mother), Ratmi (villager), Karta (villager), Traitor (Paijo, mentioned), villagers

🎬 CINEMATIC MOMENT

Dusk at Dusun Karang. An old man with a staff speaks seriously to a small child behind a hut. The child's face is tense, his eyes gazing into the distance. In the background, villagers busily prepare, torches begin to be lit. Purple-orange sky, long shadows, emotional and tense atmosphere.

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