EPISODE 2: PEMBURU DI SENJA

EPISODE 2: PEMBURU DI SENJA

Lima hari. Sudah lima hari sejak Dusun Karang berdiri, dan sudah lima hari pula perut mereka hanya diisi air dan daun-daunan.

Raka berjalan menyusuri lereng bukit di sebelah timur. Matanya tak pernah lepas dari tanah, mencari jejak. Bukan jejak rusa atau kijang—hewan besar sudah lama pergi dari daerah ini, kabur setelah perang dan kebakaran hutan. Yang tersisa hanya binatang-binatang kecil yang cukup pintar untuk bersembunyi. Atau cukup kuat untuk bertahan di tanah tandus ini.

Kadal pasir. Itu targetnya. Reptil sebesar lengan orang dewasa yang bisa hidup berminggu-minggu tanpa air. Dagingnya alot, tapi cukup untuk mengisi perut yang kosong.

Tiga jam berjalan, Raka menemukan jejak—garis-garis di pasir yang menunjukkan ada kadal besar lewat beberapa saat lalu. Ia mengikuti jejak itu dengan hati-hati, langkahnya pelan, napasnya ditahan. Di kejauhan, matahari mulai turun. Senja adalah waktu terbaik untuk berburu. Hewan-hewan keluar dari persembunyian, mencari kehangatan terakhir sebelum malam yang dingin.

Dan di sana, di balik batu besar, ekor kadal pasir terlihat. Raka tak bergerak. Ia hitung jarak. Tiga langkah. Dua. Satu.

Tombak buatannya—kayu runcing yang ujungnya dikeraskan dengan api—meluncur tepat ke kepala kadal. Hewan itu menggelepar beberapa detik, lalu diam.

Raka menghela napas panjang. Ia memungut bangkai kadal itu, merasakan beratnya di tangan. Ini cukup untuk keluarganya makan dua hari. Tapi di desa, 47 perut menunggu. Dan di antara 47 itu, ada anak-anak yang tangisnya sudah pecah setiap malam karena lapar.

Raka memutuskan untuk pulang lewat jalur memutar. Jalur yang lebih panjang, tapi lebih sepi. Jalur yang tidak dilewati warga desa.

Di atas bukit, ia berhenti sejenak. Dari sini, Dusun Karang terlihat jelas—tujuh gubuk reyot di bawah pohon besar, asap tipis dari api unggun, dan orang-orang yang bergerak lamban karena lapar. Raka teringat sesuatu. Sesuatu yang mengganggunya sejak tadi siang.

Jejak. Bukan jejak binatang.

Di dekat sumber mata air kecil yang ia temukan dua hari lalu, ada bekas sepatu. Bukan sepatu warga desa—kebanyakan dari mereka berjalan tanpa alas kaki, atau hanya dengan sandal dari kulit kayu. Ini sepatu. Sepatu tentara. Dengan pola sol yang Raka kenali betul karena dulu ia sendiri yang memakainya.

Raka berjongkok, meraba bekas itu. Masih baru. Mungkin beberapa jam yang lalu. Atau kemarin. Siapa yang memakainya? Apakah tentara kerajaan mulai berpatroli lagi? Atau... mantan tentara seperti dirinya, yang memilih jalan berbeda setelah perang usai?

Atau mungkin hanya ingatan masa lalu yang terus menghantuinya.

Raka menggeleng, mengusir pikiran itu. Ia harus fokus. Kadal di tangannya mulai dingin. Waktunya pulang.

***

Wulan sedang merebus air ketika Raka tiba. Di sampingnya, Arka yang kini berusia lima tahun duduk dengan tekun memilah-milah umbi-umbian kecil yang ia kumpulkan dari sekitar desa. Anak itu pendiam. Lebih pendiam dari anak seusianya. Tapi matanya... matanya selalu bergerak, mengamati, mencatat.

"Ayah pulang!" Arka bangkit, berlari menyambut Raka. Tapi ia berhenti saat melihat wajah ayahnya. Raka tersenyum, tapi senyum itu tidak sampai ke mata.

"Hasil apa, Kak?" Wulan bertanya pelan. Panggilan "Kak" untuk suami—kebiasaan orang dusun yang sudah lama menikah.

Raka meletakkan kadal pasir itu di tanah. Wulan menarik napas. Besar. Ini cukup untuk tiga hari jika diirit. Tapi mereka tidak sendirian.

"Kau dengar tangisan anak-anak tadi malam?" Wulan bertanya, meski sudah tahu jawabannya.

Raka mengangguk. "Tiga hari tanpa daging. Aku tahu."

"Ada yang sudah mulai merebus rumput." Wulan melanjutkan. "Anak-anak Ratmi pingsan kemarin. Cuma karena lapar."

Raka diam. Ia tahu apa yang istrinya maksud. Tapi ia juga tahu bahwa keluarganya sendiri belum makan daging selama lima hari. Wulan semakin kurus. Arka, anaknya, tulang rusuknya mulai terlihat jelas.

"Aku sembunyiin sebagian." Raka akhirnya bicara, suaranya berbisik. "Cukup untuk kita berdua—eh, bertiga. Malam nanti kita masak diam-diam."

Wulan menatapnya lama. Lalu mengangguk pelan. "Aku siapkan umbi-umbian ini. Biar kental kuahnya."

Arka mendengar semuanya. Ia tidak protes. Ia hanya duduk kembali, melanjutkan memilah umbi. Tapi tangannya berhenti saat melihat satu jenis umbi yang tidak ia kenal. "Bu, ini apa?"

Wulan mendekat, mengambil umbi itu. Warnanya keunguan, dengan getah putih yang menempel di kulitnya. Ia tersenyum tipis. "Ini umbi racun, Arka. Namanya umbi setan. Kalau dimakan mentah, perut bisa bengkak, muntah-muntah, bisa mati."

Arka mundur sedikit. "Terus kenapa Ibu kumpulin?"

"Karena kalau direbus tiga kali, airnya dibuang setiap kali mendidih, racunnya hilang. Sisanya jadi makanan darurat." Wulan menjelaskan sambil tangannya sudah mulai membersihkan umbi-umbi itu. "Dulu, waktu Ibu masih jadi asisten tabib, Ibu lihat orang gunung masak begini pas musim paceklik."

Arka mengamati setiap gerakan ibunya. Mencatat. Menghafal. "Rebus tiga kali," bisiknya pelan, mengulang dalam hati.

Di luar, matahari semakin rendah. Senja mulai berubah menjadi malam. Warga desa mulai berkumpul di bawah pohon besar—dapur umum darurat yang mereka dirikan dua hari lalu. Sebuah tungku sederhana dari batu, periuk tanah yang pecah di satu sisi, dan api kecil yang dijaga agar tidak mati.

Kepala Desa Joko berdiri di sana, berbicara pada siapa pun yang mau mendengar. "Besok kita cari makanan lagi. Yang laki-laki ikut aku ke hutan. Yang perempuan jaga anak-anak. Jangan ada yang pergi sendirian."

Orang-orang mengangguk, tapi mata mereka kosong. Mereka sudah terlalu lapar untuk bersemangat.

Raka lewat di dekat mereka, berjalan cepat. Kadal pasir di tangannya—sebagian besar, yang akan ia serahkan ke dapur umum—terlihat jelas. Mata-mata warga langsung tertuju ke sana. Seorang anak kecil menunjuk, "Daging! Bapak Raka bawa daging!"

Kerumunan langsung mendekat. Raka meletakkan kadal itu di depan Joko. "Untuk desa." Suaranya datar.

Joko menatapnya, lalu ke kadal itu, lalu kembali ke Raka. "Ini besar. Sendirian kau dapat?"

Raka mengangguk. "Beruntung."

"Beruntung," ulang Joko, ragu. Tapi tak ada yang peduli. Warga sudah berebut memotong daging, membayangkan kuah panas yang akan mengisi perut mereka malam ini.

Raka berbalik, berjalan ke gubuknya. Di belakangnya, ia dengar Joko membagi-bagi daging dengan suara keras. Aturan tak tertulis: hasil buruan besar milik semua. Tapi aturan itu tidak tertulis karena yang bisa menulis hanya Mbah Ranggawarsita, dan ia terlalu tua untuk ikut berburu.

Malam semakin gelap. Api unggun di bawah pohon besar menyala terang. Warga duduk melingkar, menunggu kuah mendidih. Anak-anak yang tadi menangis kelaparan kini mulai tersenyum.

Di balik gubuknya, Raka menggali lubang kecil di tanah. Dari balik bajunya, ia mengeluarkan potongan daging—dua potong besar yang ia sembunyikan saat memotong kadal tadi. Daging itu ia bungkus dengan daun, lalu ia kubur di lubang itu, menutupnya dengan tanah dan ranting kering.

"Nanti malam, kalau semua sudah tidur." Bisiknya pada dirinya sendiri.

Ia berdiri, menepuk-nepuk tanah agar rata. Lalu berbalik.

Dan di sana, di balik pohon, Kepala Desa Joko berdiri.

Tidak bergerak. Tidak bicara. Hanya menatap.

Raka juga diam. Matanya bertemu dengan mata Joko. Di kejauhan, suara warga yang berebut kuah terdengar samar-samar. Angin malam berhembus dingin, membawa bau tanah basah dari lubang yang baru saja Raka tutup.

Lima detik. Sepuluh. Tak ada yang bicara.

Joko menatap tanah di belakang Raka, lalu kembali ke wajah Raka. Lalu, tanpa sepatah kata, ia berbalik dan berjalan pergi, kembali ke kerumunan warga yang sedang menikmati kuah daging pertama dalam lima hari.

Raka berdiri di sana, membeku. Ia tak tahu apakah Joko melihat, atau hanya curiga. Yang ia tahu, aturan tak tertulis itu mungkin baru saja ia langgar. Dan di desa yang baru lahir ini, melanggar aturan—tertulis atau tidak—bisa berarti lebih dari sekadar masalah.

Bisa berarti pengucilan. Atau lebih buruk.

Di dalam gubuk, Arka menatap ke luar melalui celah dinding bambu. Ia melihat ayahnya berdiri kaku, dan kepala desa yang baru saja pergi. Ia tidak mengerti apa yang terjadi. Tapi ia tahu satu hal: raut wajah ayahnya bukan raut wajah orang yang baru saja beruntung dapat buruan besar.

Itu raut wajah orang yang ketakutan.

Dan untuk pertama kalinya dalam hidupnya yang singkat, Arka bertanya: kenapa ayahnya takut pada orang yang seharusnya mereka panggil pemimpin?

Bersambung...

Karakter: Arka (5 tahun), Raka (ayah/pemburu), Wulan (ibu), Kepala Desa Joko (pemimpin desa)

🎬 CINEMATIC MOMENT

Seorang pemburu dengan otot tegang membawa bangkai kadal besar di bahu, berjalan di senja jingga melewati gubuk-gubuk reyot, di kejauhan seorang wanita dan anak kecil menunggu di pintu, bayangan panjang, suasana muram namun hangat, warna dominan coklat dan oranye.

EPISODE 2: THE HUNTER AT DUSK

Five days. Five days since Dusun Karang was founded, and five days since their stomachs had been filled with nothing but water and leaves.

Raka walked along the eastern slope. His eyes never left the ground, searching for tracks. Not deer or antelope tracks—the large animals had long fled this area, escaping after the war and forest fires. What remained were small creatures smart enough to hide. Or strong enough to survive this barren land.

Sand lizard. That was his target. A reptile the size of an adult's arm that could live for weeks without water. The meat was tough, but enough to fill an empty stomach.

Three hours into his walk, Raka found tracks—lines in the sand indicating a large lizard had passed by recently. He followed carefully, his steps soft, his breath held. In the distance, the sun was beginning to set. Dusk was the best time to hunt. Animals emerged from hiding, seeking the last warmth before the cold night.

And there, behind a large rock, a sand lizard's tail was visible. Raka didn't move. He calculated the distance. Three steps. Two. One.

His makeshift spear—sharpened wood hardened by fire—flew straight into the lizard's head. The animal thrashed for a few seconds, then went still.

Raka let out a long breath. He picked up the lizard's carcass, feeling its weight in his hands. Enough for his family to eat for two days. But in the village, 47 stomachs were waiting. And among those 47, there were children whose cries had broken through every night from hunger.

Raka decided to take a detour on his way back. A longer path, but quieter. A path the villagers didn't use.

On the hilltop, he stopped for a moment. From here, Dusun Karang was clearly visible—seven shacks under a large tree, thin smoke from a campfire, and people moving slowly from hunger. Raka remembered something. Something that had been bothering him since midday.

Tracks. Not animal tracks.

Near the small water source he'd found two days ago, there were boot prints. Not villagers' footwear—most of them walked barefoot, or with only sandals made of bark. These were boots. Soldier boots. With a sole pattern Raka recognized well because he used to wear them himself.

Raka crouched, touching the imprint. Still fresh. Maybe a few hours ago. Or yesterday. Who wore them? Were the kingdom's soldiers patrolling again? Or... former soldiers like himself, who chose a different path after the war ended?

Or maybe it was just the past, haunting him again.

Raka shook his head, chasing away the thought. He needed to focus. The lizard in his hands was growing cold. Time to go home.

***

Wulan was boiling water when Raka arrived. Beside her, Arka, now five years old, sat diligently sorting small tubers he'd collected around the village. The child was quiet. Quieter than children his age. But his eyes... his eyes were always moving, observing, recording.

"Father's home!" Arka stood, running to greet Raka. But he stopped when he saw his father's face. Raka smiled, but the smile didn't reach his eyes.

"What did you get?" Wulan asked softly.

Raka placed the sand lizard on the ground. Wulan drew a breath. Large. Enough for three days if rationed. But they weren't alone.

"Did you hear the children crying last night?" Wulan asked, though she already knew the answer.

Raka nodded. "Three days without meat. I know."

"Some have started boiling grass." Wulan continued. "Ratmi's children fainted yesterday. Just from hunger."

Raka was silent. He knew what his wife meant. But he also knew that his own family hadn't eaten meat for five days. Wulan was growing thinner. Arka, his son, his ribs were beginning to show.

"I'm hiding some." Raka finally spoke, his voice a whisper. "Enough for us—the three of us. Tonight, we'll cook quietly."

Wulan looked at him for a long time. Then nodded slowly. "I'll prepare these tubers. To thicken the broth."

Arka heard everything. He didn't protest. He just sat back down, continuing to sort tubers. But his hand stopped when he saw a type of tuber he didn't recognize. "Mother, what's this?"

Wulan approached, taking the tuber. It was purplish, with white sap sticking to its skin. She smiled faintly. "This is a poison tuber, Arka. They call it devil's tuber. If eaten raw, your stomach swells, you vomit, you could die."

Arka backed away slightly. "Then why are you collecting them?"

"Because if you boil them three times, discarding the water each time, the poison disappears. What's left becomes emergency food." Wulan explained while already cleaning the tubers. "Back when I was a healer's assistant, I saw mountain people cook like this during famine season."

Arka watched his mother's every movement. Recording. Memorizing. "Boil three times," he whispered softly, repeating in his mind.

Outside, the sun was sinking lower. Dusk was turning into night. Villagers began gathering under the large tree—an emergency communal kitchen they'd set up two days ago. A simple stone hearth, a cracked clay pot on one side, and a small fire they kept alive.

Village Chief Joko stood there, speaking to anyone who would listen. "Tomorrow we'll search for food again. The men come with me to the forest. The women watch the children. No one goes alone."

People nodded, but their eyes were empty. They were too hungry to be enthusiastic.

Raka passed by them, walking quickly. The sand lizard in his hands—most of it, the portion he would surrender to the communal kitchen—was clearly visible. Villagers' eyes immediately locked onto it. A small child pointed, "Meat! Uncle Raka brought meat!"

The crowd gathered. Raka placed the lizard before Joko. "For the village." His voice was flat.

Joko looked at him, then at the lizard, then back at Raka. "This is large. You got this alone?"

Raka nodded. "Lucky."

"Lucky," Joko repeated, doubtful. But no one cared. The villagers were already scrambling to cut the meat, imagining the hot broth that would fill their stomachs tonight.

Raka turned, walking toward his hut. Behind him, he heard Joko dividing the meat with a loud voice. An unwritten rule: large catches belonged to everyone. But that rule was unwritten because the only one who could write was Mbah Ranggawarsita, and he was too old to hunt.

Night grew darker. The campfire under the large tree burned bright. Villagers sat in a circle, waiting for the broth to boil. The children who had been crying from hunger were now beginning to smile.

Behind his hut, Raka dug a small hole in the ground. From beneath his shirt, he pulled out pieces of meat—two large portions he'd hidden while butchering the lizard. He wrapped them in leaves, buried them in the hole, covering it with dirt and dry twigs.

"Tonight, when everyone's asleep," he whispered to himself.

He stood, patting the ground flat. Then turned.

And there, behind the tree, Village Chief Joko stood.

Not moving. Not speaking. Just watching.

Raka was silent too. Their eyes met. In the distance, the sound of villagers fighting over broth was faintly audible. The night wind blew cold, carrying the smell of wet earth from the hole Raka had just covered.

Five seconds. Ten. No one spoke.

Joko looked at the ground behind Raka, then back at Raka's face. Then, without a word, he turned and walked away, returning to the crowd of villagers enjoying the first meat broth in five days.

Raka stood there, frozen. He didn't know if Joko had seen, or only suspected. What he knew was that unwritten rule might have just been broken. And in this newly born village, breaking rules—written or not—could mean more than just trouble.

Could mean exile. Or worse.

Inside the hut, Arka looked out through the gaps in the bamboo walls. He saw his father standing stiffly, and the village chief who had just left. He didn't understand what had happened. But he knew one thing: his father's expression wasn't the face of a man who'd just been lucky with a big catch.

It was the face of a man who was afraid.

And for the first time in his short life, Arka wondered: why was his father afraid of someone they were supposed to call leader?

To be continued...

Characters: Arka (5 years old), Raka (father/hunter), Wulan (mother), Village Chief Joko (village leader)

🎬 CINEMATIC MOMENT

A hunter with tense muscles carries a large lizard carcass on his shoulder, walking through orange dusk past rickety huts, in the distance a woman and small child wait at the doorway, long shadows, bleak yet warm atmosphere, dominant colors brown and orange.