EPISODE 2: BISIK-BISIK DI PASAR

EPISODE 2: BISIK-BISIK DI PASAR

Matahari baru naik setinggi tombak, tapi pasar Dusun Karang sudah ramai oleh orang-orang yang sengaja datang lebih pagi. Bukan karena mereka ingin belanja lebih awal. Tapi karena kabar sudah menyebar semalam: utusan Bajak datang. Dan di pasar, semua kabar selalu berubah jadi dagangan.

Arka berjalan di belakang Wulan, membawa keranjang anyaman yang hampir sebesar badannya. Ibunya hari ini memutuskan menjual ramuan ke pasar—sesuatu yang jarang dilakukan dalam dua tahun terakhir, sebab Wulan lebih sering mengurus luka warga gratis daripada berdagang. Tapi pagi ini, ada alasan lain.

“Awas, Dek, jalannya licin,” ujar Wulan tanpa menoleh.

Arka mengangguk, tapi matanya tidak melihat jalan. Matanya menangkap sesuatu yang lain: tatapan. Dari kiri, dari kanan, dari balik tenda-tenda. Tatapan yang tidak ramah. Tatapan yang seperti memeriksa barang dagangan, bukan manusia.

“Itu dia… anaknya Raka.”

“Yang sering ke gubuk Mbah Ranga.”

“Kata Karta, dia belajar… sesuatu.”

Bisik-bisik itu seperti angin. Tidak kelihatan, tapi terasa dinginnya. Arka menggigit bibir. Ia ingat pesan Raka semalam: jangan tunjukkan apa pun. Tapi bagaimana caranya menunjukkan sesuatu yang bahkan ia sendiri tidak pahami?

Wulan berhenti di sebuah sudut pasar yang agak sepi. Ia membentangkan kain, menyusun botol-botol ramuan, lalu duduk bersila. Wajahnya tenang, tapi tangannya—Arka melihat—sedikit gemetar saat menyusun dagangan.

“Duduk, Nak. Temani Ibu sebentar.”

Arka duduk. Punggungnya membelakangi keramaian, tapi ia bisa merasakan tatapan-tatapan itu menusuk dari belakang. Seperti duri kecil yang tak terlihat tapi perih.

Satu jam berlalu. Dua pembeli datang, membeli ramuan demam dan pereda batuk. Mereka membayar cepat-cepat, lalu pergi tanpa basa-basi. Tidak seperti dulu, ketika warga suka ngobrol panjang dengan Wulan sambil minta nasihat kesehatan.

“Bu,” Arka berbisik, “kenapa mereka…”

“Tidak apa-apa,” potong Wulan cepat. “Mungkin mereka buru-buru.”

Arka tahu itu bohong. Tapi ia diam.

***

Di sisi lain pasar, di bawah tenda besar bekas lumbung sementara, Karta sedang duduk di atas peti kayu. Ia bukan kepala desa—Joko masih memegang jabatan itu meski lumpuh—tapi Karta punya sesuatu yang lebih berharga di masa krisis: suara lantang dan keberanian bicara di depan banyak orang.

“Aku tidak bilang mereka jahat,” ujar Karta pada lima orang yang duduk mengelilinginya. “Tapi pikir sendiri. Dua tahun lalu, saat kebakaran, apa yang kalian lihat?”

Seorang pria paruh baya—Sarmo, petani yang kehilangan gubuknya dalam kebakaran—menggaruk kepala. “Aku lihat tanahnya retak. Terus akar-akar besar muncul dari mana-mana.”

“Nah,” Karta mencondongkan badan. “Tanah retak itu di mana? Dekat rumah Raka. Akar-akar itu dari mana? Dari bawah rumah Raka. Kalian pikir itu kebetulan?”

Seorang wanita muda, Darsih, berbisik, “Tapi kata orang, itu yang selamatkan desa. Bajak kabur karena takut.”

Karta tersenyum—bukan senyum ramah. “Aku juga bersyukur desa selamat. Tapi pikir jernih. Kenapa tiba-tiba tanah retak? Kenapa tiba-tiba akar bergerak? Sejak kapan ada kejadian seperti itu di Dusun Karang? Anak itu… Arka… dia tidak normal. Kau tahu sendiri, Darsih, anak normal umur lima tahun apa bisa bikin tanah retak?”

Darsih terdiam. Yang lain mengangguk-angguk pelan.

Sarmo berkata, “Tapi Raka orang baik. Dia bantu bangun rumahku.”

“Raka baik, aku setuju,” Karta mengalah. “Tapi Raka bukan Arka. Arka anak angkat. Kita tidak tahu darah apa yang mengalir di tubuhnya. Kita tidak tahu… apa yang dibawanya ke desa ini.”

Dari balik tenda, sesosok bayangan hitam memperhatikan percakapan itu. Jubahnya menutupi seluruh tubuh, hanya mata yang terlihat—mata tajam dengan sorot aneh. Di tangannya, sebuah jimat kecil dengan ukiran pohon dan akar berkilat samar terkena sinar matahari.

Orang asing itu tersenyum tipis. Lalu menghilang di antara kerumunan.

***

Arka tidak sengaja melihatnya.

Saat sedang membantu Wulan membereskan botol-botol yang tidak laku, pandangannya tertuju ke arah tenda bekas lumbung. Ia melihat Karta sedang duduk dengan lima orang. Tapi di pinggir tenda, ada seseorang yang berdiri sendiri. Berjubah hitam. Tidak bergerak. Seperti patung.

Dan kemudian, Arka melihatnya: Karta menerima sesuatu dari orang itu. Bungkusan kecil. Lalu orang berjubah itu pergi, menyelinap di antara pasar tanpa suara.

Jantung Arka berdetak cepat. Ia tahu siapa orang berjubah itu—atau setidaknya bisa menebak. Utusan Bajak. Yang semalam Raka bicarakan.

Tapi kenapa Karta menerima sesuatu dari mereka?

“Arka?”

Wulan menyentuh pundaknya. Arka tersentak.

“Kamu lihat apa? Kok melamun?”

Arka membuka mulut, ingin berkata sesuatu. Tapi ia ingat pesan Raka: jangan tunjukkan apa pun. Lalu ia ingat sesuatu yang lain: dua tahun lalu, saat ia mengecek warga dengan kemampuannya yang masih kacau, ia melihat warna merah di atas kepala Karta. Warna yang berarti niat jahat.

“Tidak, Bu. Hanya… panas.”

Wulan menghela napas. “Kita pulang. Dagangan tidak laku.”

***

Sore harinya, Raka pulang dengan wajah lebih lelah dari biasanya. Ia meletakkan parang dan peralatannya di sudut rumah, lalu duduk di bangku bambu tanpa bicara.

Wulan menghampiri. “Ada apa?”

Raka menggeleng. “Tiga langgananku hari ini bilang mereka tidak jadi reparasi alat. Katanya… mau coba ke tukang lain.”

Wulan diam. Ia tahu di Dusun Karang tidak ada tukang reparasi selain Raka.

“Itu artinya…”

“Mereka tidak mau lagi berurusan denganku,” potong Raka pelan. “Atau dengan keluarga ini.”

Udara di dalam rumah mendadak berat. Arka yang sedang duduk di pojok mendengarkan semuanya, tangannya mengepal. Ia ingin bilang pada Raka tentang Karta dan orang berjubah itu. Tapi lidahnya terasa kaku.

“Aku lihat Karta di pasar,” ujar Arka tiba-tiba, memecah keheningan.

Raka menoleh. “Memangnya kenapa?”

“Dia… berbicara dengan lima orang. Seperti membentuk kelompok.”

Raka dan Wulan bertukar pandang. Mereka sudah lama curiga Karta punya maksud tertentu, tapi baru sekarang mendengar konfirmasi.

“Lalu?”

Arka ragu. Haruskah ia bilang tentang orang berjubah? Tapi ia tidak punya bukti. Hanya penglihatan sekilas. Dan ia takut Raka akan melarangnya ke pasar lagi.

“Tidak… hanya itu.”

Raka menghela napas. “Kau jangan terlalu dekat dengan Karta, Nak. Dia bukan teman.”

Arka mengangguk. Tapi di dalam hatinya, ada suara kecil yang bertanya: kalau Karta bukan teman, lalu kenapa ia terima uang dari musuh?

***

Malam turun cepat. Setelah makan, Arka berbaring di tikar, tapi matanya sulit terpejam. Ia memikirkan orang berjubah itu. Memikirkan jimat dengan ukiran pohon dan akar—sama seperti dalam mimpinya. Memikirkan kenapa Karta bisa setega itu menerima uang dari orang yang dua tahun lalu hampir membakar desa mereka.

Di luar, angin malam bertiup pelan. Daun-daun kering berdesir di halaman.

Tiba-tiba, Arka mendengar suara dari luar. Suara Wulan yang terengah-engah, setengah menjerit tapi ditahan.

“Raka… Raka, cepat lihat!”

Arka bangkit dan berlari ke pintu.

Di halaman depan, di bawah cahaya bulan yang redup, Wulan berdiri membeku. Di depannya, tergeletak bangkai ayam—salah satu dari tiga ayam ternak mereka. Lehernya robek dengan luka aneh. Bukan bekas cakar kucing atau gigitan rubah. Luka itu… rapi. Seperti sayatan.

Raka berjongkok, memeriksa bangkai itu dengan teliti. Wajahnya mengeras.

“Ini peringatan,” gumamnya.

Arka menatap bangkai ayam itu. Di lehernya, ia melihat sesuatu yang membuat darahnya berdesir. Sebuah luka kecil—tapi bentuknya seperti… ukiran. Ukiran pohon dan akar. Sama seperti di jimat yang dibawa orang berjubah itu.

“Ayah,” bisik Arka, “itu….”

Tapi sebelum ia bisa menyelesaikan kalimat, dari kejauhan terdengar lolongan serigala. Panjang. Melengking. Lalu diikuti lolongan lain dari arah berbeda, seperti menjawab.

Raka bangkit, meraih parangnya. “Masuk ke dalam. Cepat!”

Wulan menarik Arka ke rumah, tapi mata Arka masih tertuju pada bangkai ayam itu. Pada luka aneh yang baginya berteriak: mereka sudah dekat. Mereka tahu. Dan mereka mulai bermain.

Di kegelapan, di balik pepohonan di pinggir desa, sesosok berjubah hitam tersenyum. Ia memasukkan sesuatu ke dalam kantong—sebilah pisau kecil dengan ukiran sama. Lalu berbisik pada bayangan di sampingnya.

“Karta sudah menerima bayaran. Mulai tahap berikutnya.”

Bayangan itu mengangguk dan menghilang.

Di dalam gubuknya, Mbah Ranga tiba-tiba terbangun lagi. Dadanya sesak. Ia meraih tongkat dan berjalan ke jendela. Menatap langit malam yang sama—tapi kali ia melihat sesuatu yang lain.

Asap tipis membumbung dari arah rumah Raka. Bukan asap api, tapi asap… dupa? Mbah Ranga mengerutkan dahi.

“Mereka sudah mulai,” bisiknya. “Arka… hati-hati, Nak.”

***

Fajar belum tiba, Arka sudah duduk di ambang pintu lagi. Ia tidak bisa tidur. Setiap kali memejam, ia melihat bangkai ayam itu. Luka di lehernya. Ukiran pohon dan akar.

Di tangannya, tanpa sadar, daun-daun kering kembali berputar. Tapi kali ini lebih cepat. Lebih kuat. Sampai-sampai ia hampir tidak bisa mengendalikannya.

“Jangan tunjukkan apa pun,” bisiknya lagi.

Tapi di balik rumah, di balik semak-semak, sepasang mata mengawasi. Mata milik Sarmo, petani yang tadi siang duduk bersama Karta. Ia melihat daun-daun berputar di sekitar Arka, dan matanya membelalak.

Sarmo berbalik dan berlari—bukan ke rumahnya, tapi ke arah pasar. Ke arah Karta.

Dan Arka tidak tahu, bahwa dalam beberapa jam lagi, apa yang paling ia takutkan akan mulai terjadi. Rahasianya tidak akan lagi bisa disembunyikan.

Bersambung…

Karakter yang muncul: Arka (7 tahun), Raka (ayah), Wulan (ibu), Karta (antagonis warga), Sarmo (petani, pengikut Karta), Darsih (wanita muda pengikut Karta), Ratmi (janda tua, saksi bisu di pasar), Orang Asing Berjubah (utusan Bajak), Mbah Ranga (penampilan singkat).

EPISODE 2: WHISPERS AT THE MARKET

The sun had only risen to the height of a spear, but the market of Dusun Karang was already crowded with people who deliberately came earlier. Not because they wanted to shop early. But because news had spread overnight: Bajak's envoy had arrived. And at the market, all news always turned into merchandise.

Arka walked behind Wulan, carrying a woven basket almost as big as himself. His mother had decided today to sell her potions at the market—something she rarely did in the past two years, as Wulan was busier treating wounded villagers for free than trading. But this morning, there was another reason.

"Careful, little one, the path is slippery," Wulan said without turning.

Arka nodded, but his eyes weren't on the path. His eyes caught something else: stares. From left, from right, from behind stalls. Unfriendly stares. Stares that examined goods, not humans.

"That's him… Raka's child."

"The one who often goes to Mbah Ranga's hut."

"Karta says he's learning… something."

The whispers were like wind. Invisible, but their coldness could be felt. Arka bit his lip. He remembered Raka's message from last night: don't show anything. But how do you show something that even you yourself don't understand?

Wulan stopped at a somewhat quiet corner of the market. She spread a cloth, arranged her potion bottles, then sat cross-legged. Her face was calm, but her hands—Arka noticed—trembled slightly while arranging her wares.

"Sit, Son. Stay with Mother for a while."

Arka sat. His back faced the crowd, but he could feel those stares piercing from behind. Like tiny invisible thorns that still stung.

An hour passed. Two buyers came, bought fever medicine and cough relief. They paid quickly, then left without small talk. Not like before, when villagers loved to chat with Wulan while asking for health advice.

"Mother," Arka whispered, "why are they…"

"It's nothing," Wulan cut in quickly. "Maybe they're in a hurry."

Arka knew that was a lie. But he stayed silent.

***

On the other side of the market, under the large temporary shelter that used to be a granary, Karta sat on a wooden crate. He wasn't the village chief—Joko still held that position despite being paralyzed—but Karta possessed something more valuable in times of crisis: a loud voice and the courage to speak before crowds.

"I'm not saying they're evil," Karta said to five people sitting around him. "But think for yourselves. Two years ago, during the fire, what did you see?"

A middle-aged man—Sarmo, a farmer who lost his hut in the fire—scratched his head. "I saw the ground crack. Then big roots appeared from everywhere."

"Now," Karta leaned forward. "Where did the ground crack? Near Raka's house. Where did those roots come from? From under Raka's house. You think that's a coincidence?"

A young woman, Darsih, whispered, "But people say that's what saved the village. Bajak fled because they were scared."

Karta smiled—not a friendly smile. "I'm also grateful the village was saved. But think clearly. Why did the ground suddenly crack? Why did roots suddenly move? Since when have such things happened in Dusun Karang? That child… Arka… he's not normal. You know yourself, Darsih, what normal five-year-old can make the earth crack?"

Darsih fell silent. The others nodded slowly.

Sarmo said, "But Raka is a good man. He helped rebuild my house."

"Raka is good, I agree," Karta conceded. "But Raka isn't Arka. Arka is an adopted child. We don't know what blood flows in his veins. We don't know… what he's bringing to this village."

From behind the shelter, a dark figure watched the conversation. His robe covered his entire body, only his eyes visible—sharp eyes with a strange glint. In his hand, a small amulet carved with a tree and roots glinted faintly in the sunlight.

The stranger smiled thinly. Then disappeared among the crowd.

***

Arka accidentally saw him.

While helping Wulan pack unsold bottles, his gaze drifted toward the former granary shelter. He saw Karta sitting with five people. But at the shelter's edge, someone stood alone. Black-robed. Motionless. Like a statue.

And then, Arka saw it: Karta received something from that person. A small bundle. Then the robed figure left, slipping through the market without a sound.

Arka's heart beat fast. He knew who that robed figure was—or at least could guess. Bajak's envoy. The one Raka mentioned last night.

But why was Karta receiving something from them?

"Arka?"

Wulan touched his shoulder. Arka startled.

"What did you see? You were daydreaming."

Arka opened his mouth, wanting to say something. But he remembered Raka's message: don't show anything. Then he remembered something else: two years ago, when he'd checked villagers with his still-chaotic ability, he'd seen red above Karta's head. The color meaning evil intent.

"Nothing, Mother. Just… it's hot."

Wulan sighed. "Let's go home. Nothing sold."

***

That afternoon, Raka came home with a face more tired than usual. He placed his machete and tools in the corner of the house, then sat on a bamboo bench without speaking.

Wulan approached. "What's wrong?"

Raka shook his head. "Three of my regular customers said they wouldn't repair their tools today. They said… they wanted to try another craftsman."

Wulan was silent. She knew there was no other repair craftsman in Dusun Karang besides Raka.

"That means…"

"They don't want to deal with me anymore," Raka cut in softly. "Or with this family."

The air inside the house grew heavy. Arka, sitting in the corner, heard everything, his hands clenched. He wanted to tell Raka about Karta and the robed figure. But his tongue felt stiff.

"I saw Karta at the market," Arka suddenly said, breaking the silence.

Raka turned. "What about him?"

"He… was talking to five people. Like forming a group."

Raka and Wulan exchanged glances. They'd long suspected Karta had certain intentions, but this was the first confirmation.

"And then?"

Arka hesitated. Should he mention the robed figure? But he had no proof. Just a fleeting glimpse. And he was afraid Raka would forbid him from going to the market again.

"Nothing… just that."

Raka sighed. "Don't get too close to Karta, Son. He's not a friend."

Arka nodded. But inside his heart, a small voice asked: if Karta isn't a friend, then why did he accept money from an enemy?

***

Night fell quickly. After dinner, Arka lay on his mat, but sleep wouldn't come. He thought about the robed figure. About the amulet carved with tree and roots—the same as in his dreams. About why Karta could be so heartless as to accept money from the people who nearly burned their village two years ago.

Outside, the night wind blew gently. Dry leaves rustled in the yard.

Suddenly, Arka heard a sound from outside. Wulan's breathless voice, half-screaming but restrained.

"Raka… Raka, come see this quickly!"

Arka rose and ran to the door.

In the front yard, under the dim moonlight, Wulan stood frozen. Before her lay a dead chicken—one of their three chickens. Its neck was torn with a strange wound. Not from a cat's claw or a fox's bite. That wound… was neat. Like a cut.

Raka crouched, examining the carcass carefully. His face hardened.

"This is a warning," he murmured.

Arka stared at the dead chicken. On its neck, he saw something that made his blood run cold. A small wound—but its shape was like… a carving. A tree and root carving. Just like the amulet the robed figure carried.

"Father," Arka whispered, "that…."

But before he could finish his sentence, from a distance came the howl of wolves. Long. Shrill. Then followed by other howls from different directions, like answering.

Raka stood, grabbing his machete. "Inside. Now!"

Wulan pulled Arka into the house, but Arka's eyes remained fixed on that chicken carcass. On that strange wound that screamed to him: they're close. They know. And they've started playing.

In the darkness, behind the trees at the village edge, a robed figure smiled. He put something back into his pouch—a small knife with the same carving. Then whispered to a shadow beside him.

"Karta has received payment. Begin the next phase."

The shadow nodded and disappeared.

Inside his hut, Mbah Ranga suddenly woke again. His chest felt tight. He grabbed his staff and walked to the window. Stared at the same night sky—but this time he saw something else.

Thin smoke rose from the direction of Raka's house. Not fire smoke, but… incense smoke? Mbah Ranga frowned.

"They've begun," he whispered. "Arka… be careful, child."

***

Dawn hadn't arrived, and Arka was already sitting at the doorstep again. He couldn't sleep. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw that dead chicken. The wound on its neck. The tree and root carving.

In his hand, unconsciously, dry leaves began spinning again. But this time faster. Stronger. Until he almost couldn't control them.

"Don't show anything," he whispered again.

But behind the house, behind the bushes, a pair of eyes watched. The eyes belonged to Sarmo, the farmer who'd sat with Karta that afternoon. He saw the leaves spinning around Arka, and his eyes widened.

Sarmo turned and ran—not to his house, but toward the market. Toward Karta.

And Arka didn't know, that in a few hours, what he feared most would begin to happen. His secret could no longer be hidden.

To be continued…

Characters featured: Arka (7 years old), Raka (father), Wulan (mother), Karta (villager antagonist), Sarmo (farmer, Karta's follower), Darsih (young woman, Karta's follower), Ratmi (elderly widow, silent witness at market), Mysterious Robed Figure (Bajak's envoy), Mbah Ranga (brief appearance).

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