EPISODE 3: MANA PERTAMA

EPISODE 3: MANA PERTAMA

Tiga hari sejak insiden daging tersembunyi. Tiga hari sejak Raka dan Kepala Desa Joko saling bertatapan dalam diam di balik gubuk. Tiga hari, dan tak ada yang berubah. Joko masih memimpin dengan suara keras, Raka masih pergi berburu setiap pagi, dan Arka masih duduk di samping ibunya, memilah umbi dan belajar hal-hal baru.

Tapi pagi ini berbeda.

"Arka, tolong Ibu cangkul tanah di belakang." Wulan menunjuk ke arah pojok gubuk, di mana cangkul kayu sederhana bersandar di dinding. "Kita tanam bibit ubi di sana. Lahan depan sudah kering semua."

Arka mengangguk. Ia mengambil cangkul itu—lebih besar dari tangannya, lebih berat dari yang ia kira. Tapi ia sudah lima tahun. Sudah saatnya membantu. Ayahnya pergi berburu sejak subuh, ibunya sibuk merebus umbi-umbi racun menjadi makanan darurat. Ia harus berguna.

Di belakang gubuk, tanah membentang kering dan retak-retak. Matahari belum tinggi, tapi panasnya sudah menyengat kulit. Arka menggenggam cangkul itu dengan kedua tangan, mengayunkannya ke tanah.

*Thud.*

Cangkul itu memantul. Tanah hanya tergores sedikit. Arka mengerutkan kening. Ia coba lagi. Dan lagi. Dan lagi. Keringat mulai membasahi dahinya. Tangannya lecet. Tapi tanah itu sekeras batu, menolak setiap hantaman.

"Kenapa susah sekali..." gerutunya pelan.

Ia ingat ibunya pernah bilang: tanah di sini tandus. Sulit ditanami. Tapi kalau tidak ditanami, mereka akan terus bergantung pada buruan ayah yang tak menentu. Pada umbi racun yang harus direbus tiga kali. Pada belas kasihan alam yang kejam.

Arka mengayunkan cangkul itu sekali lagi. Lebih keras. Lebih frustrasi.

Dan sesuatu terjadi.

Di tangannya, cangkul kayu itu... berubah. Bukan retak. Bukan patah. Tapi kayunya tiba-tiba terasa berbeda. Lebih padat. Lebih berat. Warnanya menggelap, serat-seratnya mengencang seperti otot yang menegang. Dan saat cangkul itu menghantam tanah, tanah itu... membelah.

Bukan goresan kecil. Bukan retak tipis. Tapi lubang sedalam setengah lengan, seperti tanah itu tiba-tiba lunak seperti pasir basah.

Arka terpaku. Ia menatap cangkul di tangannya. Kayu itu... masih kayu. Tapi terasa berbeda. Lebih dingin. Lebih... hidup.

"Cangkul... kok jadi begini?" bisiknya, suaranya bergetar.

Ia mencoba lagi. Satu hantaman. Tanah terbuka lebar. Dua hantaman. Lubang semakin dalam. Tiga hantaman. Dalam satu menit, ia sudah menggali lebih dalam dari yang bisa dilakukan orang dewasa dalam sepuluh menit.

Dan di dasar lubang itu... tanahnya basah. Lembab. Arka menjulurkan tangan, meraba tanah itu. Rasanya dingin, berbeda dengan tanah kering di permukaan yang panas dan berdebu. Ia mengambil segenggam, menciumnya. Bau tanah. Bau yang selama ini hanya ia cium setelah hujan, padahal hari ini cerah.

"Arka!"

Suara Wulan dari depan membuatnya tersentak. Arka menoleh ke belakang, ke arah gubuk, lalu kembali ke cangkul di tangannya. Kayu itu... apa yang terjadi? Apa yang ia lakukan?

Ketakutan mulai merayap. Bukan ketakutan biasa, tapi ketakutan yang membuat jantungnya berdebar kencang, yang membuat tangannya gemetar, yang membuat ia ingin lari dan bersembunyi.

Ia cepat-cepat menutup lubang itu dengan tanah kering, meratakan permukaannya sebisanya. Lalu ia berlari ke belakang gubuk, menyembunyikan cangkul itu di balik tumpukan kayu bakar. Tangannya bergerak cepat, menutupi cangkul itu dengan ranting-ranting kering.

"Arka! Kamu di mana?" Wulan muncul dari pojok gubuk, melihat anaknya berdiri di dekat tumpukan kayu dengan wajah pucat. "Kok di sini? Ibu suruh cangkul, malah main."

Arka membuka mulut, ingin bicara. Tapi kata-kata tak keluar. Ia hanya menggeleng.

Wulan menghela napas. "Sudah, masuk. Ibu sudah masak. Nanti Ayah pulang, kita makan."

Arka mengangguk patuh. Tapi sepanjang jalan masuk ke gubuk, ia terus menoleh ke belakang, ke arah tumpukan kayu tempat ia menyembunyikan cangkul itu.

***

Malam harinya, Raka pulang dengan tangan kosong. Wajahnya lelah, lebih lelah dari biasanya. "Tidak dapat apa-apa," katanya singkat sebelum merebahkan diri di sudut gubuk.

Wulan tidak bertanya. Ia hanya menyendokkan kuah umbi ke mangkuk tanah, menyodorkannya pada Raka. "Makan dulu, Kak."

Raka makan diam-diam. Arka duduk di sampingnya, juga diam. Tapi matanya tak lepas dari ayahnya. Dari wajah lelah itu. Dari tangan yang menggenggam sendok dengan sisa-sisa kekuatan. Ayahnya berjuang setiap hari. Berburu, mempertaruhkan nyawa, pulang dengan hasil atau tidak. Dan Arka? Arka hanya duduk, memilah umbi, melakukan hal-hal kecil yang tak berarti.

Tapi hari ini, sesuatu terjadi. Sesuatu yang tak ia pahami. Cangkul itu... apa yang ia lakukan pada cangkul itu?

Malam semakin larut. Api unggun di bawah pohon besar padam satu per satu. Warga tidur. Raka dan Wulan sudah terlelap, suara napas mereka berat oleh kelelahan.

Tapi Arka tidak bisa tidur.

Ia berbaring di samping ibunya, memejamkan mata, berusaha memaksa dirinya tidur. Tapi setiap kali matanya terpejam, ia melihat cangkul itu. Mendengar suara tanah yang membelah. Merasakan getaran aneh di tangannya.

Akhirnya, tanpa sadar, ia tertidur.

***

Dalam mimpi, Arka berdiri di tengah padang rumput yang tak pernah ia lihat sebelumnya. Rumputnya hijau, setinggi lutut, bergoyang lembut ditiup angin. Di kejauhan, ada pohon besar dengan daun-daun keemasan. Dan di bawah pohon itu, seseorang berdiri.

Atau sesuatu.

Bentuknya samar, seperti kabut yang mencoba menjadi manusia. Tapi suaranya jelas. Dalam. Bergema, seperti gemuruh dari dalam tanah.

"Kau... dari darah yang sama."

Arka ingin berlari, tapi kakinya terpaku. Ia ingin berteriak, tapi suaranya hilang.

"Darah yang sudah lama kami tunggu." Sosok itu melangkah mendekat. Setiap langkahnya membuat tanah bergetar. "Kau pewaris, anak kecil. Kau tidak tahu, tapi tanah ini tahu. Aku tahu."

"Apa... apa maksudmu?" Arka akhirnya bisa bicara, suaranya kecil, nyaris tak terdengar.

Sosok itu tersenyum—Arka tahu ia tersenyum meski tak bisa melihat wajahnya. "Kau akan tahu, saat waktunya tiba. Untuk sekarang... simpan rahasiamu. Jangan tunjukkan pada siapa pun. Dunia ini kejam pada yang berbeda."

"Tapi... tapi aku takut."

"Takut itu wajar." Sosok itu kini tepat di depannya. Arka bisa merasakan hangat aneh yang terpancar darinya. "Tapi jangan biarkan ketakutan menghentikanmu. Darahmu... darah kita... bukan untuk bersembunyi."

Arka membuka mulut untuk bertanya lagi. Tapi sosok itu mulai memudar, seperti kabut yang ditiup angin.

"Tunggu! Jangan pergi! Aku belum tahu..."

***

Arka terbangun dengan suara jeritan di kepalanya. Ia ingin berteriak, ingin memanggil ibunya, tapi tak ada suara keluar dari mulutnya. Hanya napas tersengal-sengal dan keringat dingin yang membasahi seluruh tubuhnya.

Di sampingnya, Wulan bergerak gelisah, tapi tidak terbangun. Raka juga masih tertidur lelap.

Arka duduk, memeluk lututnya. Dadanya naik turun cepat. Mimpi itu... terasa begitu nyata. Suara itu... masih bergema di telinganya.

"Dari darah yang sama."

Apa artinya? Darah siapa? Siapa orang itu? Atau... apa itu?

Arka menatap tangannya. Tangannya yang lima tahun lalu memegang cangkul dan mengubahnya menjadi sesuatu yang... aneh. Apakah ini yang dimaksud sosok itu? Apakah ini darahnya?

Di luar gubuk, angin malam berhembus, membawa suara dedaunan yang berbisik. Atau mungkin hanya imajinasinya. Tapi bagi Arka, bisikan itu terdengar seperti kata-kata:

"Kau pewaris... kau pewaris... kau pewaris..."

Arka menutup telinganya, membenamkan wajah di lutut. Tubuhnya gemetar. Bukan karena dingin, tapi karena takut.

Anak lima tahun itu baru saja menemukan bahwa ia berbeda. Dan di dunia yang kejam ini, berbeda bisa berarti bahaya.

Tapi di balik ketakutannya, di sudut terdalam hatinya, ada sesuatu yang lain. Rasa penasaran. Rasa ingin tahu. Apa lagi yang bisa ia lakukan dengan kekuatan itu? Apa lagi yang bisa ia ubah?

Ia menengok ke arah tumpukan kayu di luar, tempat cangkul itu disembunyikan. Mungkin besok, saat ayahnya pergi berburu dan ibunya sibuk memasak, ia akan mengambilnya lagi. Bukan untuk digunakan—tapi untuk dipelajari.

Untuk memahami apa yang terjadi pada dirinya.

Untuk mencari tahu siapa dirinya sebenarnya.

Di luar, angin terus berhembus. Dan di dalam gubuk reyot di Dusun Karang, seorang anak kecil duduk sendiri, memeluk lututnya, menunggu pagi datang dengan seribu pertanyaan yang tak bisa ia tanyakan pada siapa pun.

Bersambung...

Karakter: Arka (5 tahun), Wulan (ibu), Raka (ayah) - disebut

🎬 CINEMATIC MOMENT

Seorang anak kecil dengan mata terbuka lebar ketakutan memegang cangkul kayu yang tampak aneh—ada kilau redup di permukaan kayu, tanah di sekitarnya retak dan dalam, cahaya rembulan menyinari dari atas, bayangan panjang, suasana misterius dan magis.

EPISODE 3: THE FIRST MANA

Three days since the hidden meat incident. Three days since Raka and Village Chief Joko stared at each other in silence behind the hut. Three days, and nothing had changed. Joko still led with his loud voice, Raka still went hunting every morning, and Arka still sat beside his mother, sorting tubers and learning new things.

But this morning was different.

"Arka, help Mother till the soil in the back." Wulan pointed to the corner of the hut, where a simple wooden hoe leaned against the wall. "We're planting yam seeds there. The front land is completely dry."

Arka nodded. He took the hoe—larger than his hands, heavier than he expected. But he was five now. Time to help. His father had gone hunting since dawn, his mother was busy boiling poisonous tubers into emergency food. He had to be useful.

Behind the hut, the ground stretched dry and cracked. The sun wasn't high yet, but its heat already stung the skin. Arka gripped the hoe with both hands, swinging it at the ground.

*Thud.*

The hoe bounced back. The soil barely scratched. Arka frowned. He tried again. And again. And again. Sweat began to wet his forehead. His hands blistered. But the ground was hard as stone, resisting every strike.

"Why is it so hard..." he muttered softly.

He remembered his mother saying: the soil here is barren. Hard to cultivate. But if they didn't cultivate it, they'd keep depending on his father's uncertain hunting. On poisonous tubers that had to be boiled three times. On the mercy of a cruel nature.

Arka swung the hoe once more. Harder. More frustrated.

And something happened.

In his hands, the wooden hoe... changed. Not cracked. Not broken. But the wood suddenly felt different. Denser. Heavier. Its color darkened, its fibers tightened like tensing muscles. And when the hoe struck the ground, the ground... split open.

Not a small scratch. Not a thin crack. But a hole half an arm deep, as if the ground had suddenly softened like wet sand.

Arka froze. He stared at the hoe in his hands. The wood was... still wood. But it felt different. Colder. More... alive.

"Hoe... why is it like this?" he whispered, his voice trembling.

He tried again. One strike. The ground opened wide. Two strikes. The hole deepened. Three strikes. In one minute, he had dug deeper than an adult could in ten minutes.

And at the bottom of that hole... the soil was wet. Moist. Arka reached out, touching the soil. It felt cold, different from the dry surface soil that was hot and dusty. He took a handful, smelling it. The smell of earth. A smell he'd only ever caught after rain, yet today was clear.

"Arka!"

Wulan's voice from the front made him jolt. Arka looked back toward the hut, then back at the hoe in his hands. The wood... what happened? What had he done?

Fear began to creep in. Not ordinary fear, but the kind that made his heart pound wildly, his hands tremble, that made him want to run and hide.

He quickly covered the hole with dry soil, leveling the surface as best he could. Then he ran behind the hut, hiding the hoe behind a pile of firewood. His hands moved quickly, covering the hoe with dry twigs.

"Arka! Where are you?" Wulan appeared from the corner of the hut, seeing her son standing by the woodpile with a pale face. "What are you doing here? I told you to till the soil, not play."

Arka opened his mouth, wanting to speak. But the words wouldn't come. He just shook his head.

Wulan sighed. "Come on, inside. I've cooked. When your father comes home, we'll eat."

Arka obediently nodded. But all the way into the hut, he kept looking back toward the woodpile where he'd hidden the hoe.

***

That night, Raka came home empty-handed. His face was tired, more tired than usual. "Got nothing," he said briefly before lying down in the corner of the hut.

Wulan didn't ask. She just ladled tuber broth into a clay bowl, handing it to Raka. "Eat first."

Raka ate in silence. Arka sat beside him, also silent. But his eyes never left his father. That tired face. Those hands gripping the spoon with remnants of strength. His father struggled every day. Hunting, risking his life, coming home with or without results. And Arka? Arka just sat, sorting tubers, doing small meaningless things.

But today, something had happened. Something he didn't understand. That hoe... what had he done to that hoe?

Night grew deeper. The campfire under the big tree went out one by one. Villagers slept. Raka and Wulan were already asleep, their breathing heavy with exhaustion.

But Arka couldn't sleep.

He lay beside his mother, eyes closed, trying to force himself to sleep. But every time he closed his eyes, he saw that hoe. Heard the sound of earth splitting. Felt that strange vibration in his hands.

Finally, without realizing it, he fell asleep.

***

In his dream, Arka stood in a grassland he'd never seen before. The grass was green, knee-high, swaying gently in the wind. In the distance, there was a large tree with golden leaves. And under that tree, someone stood.

Or something.

Its shape was vague, like mist trying to become human. But its voice was clear. Deep. Echoing, like thunder from within the earth.

"You... are from the same blood."

Arka wanted to run, but his feet were frozen. He wanted to scream, but his voice was gone.

"Blood we've been waiting for, for so long." The figure stepped closer. Each step made the ground tremble. "You are the heir, little one. You don't know it, but this earth knows. I know."

"What... what do you mean?" Arka finally managed to speak, his voice small, barely audible.

The figure smiled—Arka knew it smiled even though he couldn't see its face. "You'll know, when the time comes. For now... keep your secret. Don't show anyone. This world is cruel to those who are different."

"But... but I'm scared."

"Fear is natural." The figure was now right before him. Arka could feel a strange warmth emanating from it. "But don't let fear stop you. Your blood... our blood... isn't meant to hide."

Arka opened his mouth to ask more. But the figure began to fade, like mist blown by the wind.

"Wait! Don't go! I don't know yet..."

***

Arka woke with a scream trapped in his head. He wanted to shout, wanted to call his mother, but no sound came from his mouth. Only ragged breaths and cold sweat soaking his entire body.

Beside him, Wulan stirred restlessly but didn't wake. Raka was still fast asleep.

Arka sat up, hugging his knees. His chest rose and fell rapidly. That dream... it felt so real. That voice... still echoing in his ears.

"From the same blood."

What did it mean? Whose blood? Who was that person? Or... what was it?

Arka stared at his hands. His five-year-old hands that had held the hoe and changed it into something... strange. Was this what the figure meant? Was this his blood?

Outside the hut, the night wind blew, carrying the whisper of leaves. Or maybe it was just his imagination. But to Arka, those whispers sounded like words:

"You're the heir... you're the heir... you're the heir..."

Arka covered his ears, burying his face in his knees. His body trembled. Not from cold, but from fear.

The five-year-old child had just discovered that he was different. And in this cruel world, being different could mean danger.

But beneath his fear, in the deepest corner of his heart, something else stirred. Curiosity. A desire to know. What else could he do with that power? What else could he change?

He glanced toward the woodpile outside, where the hoe was hidden. Maybe tomorrow, when his father went hunting and his mother was busy cooking, he'd take it again. Not to use—but to study.

To understand what was happening to him.

To find out who he really was.

Outside, the wind kept blowing. And inside a rickety hut in Dusun Karang, a small child sat alone, hugging his knees, waiting for morning to come with a thousand questions he couldn't ask anyone.

To be continued...

Characters: Arka (5 years old), Wulan (mother), Raka (father) - mentioned

🎬 CINEMATIC MOMENT

A small child with wide terrified eyes holds a strange-looking wooden hoe—a faint glow on the wood's surface, the surrounding ground cracked and deep, moonlight shining from above, long shadows, mysterious and magical atmosphere.