EPISODE 3: UTUSAN DARI BAJAK

EPISODE 3: UTUSAN DARI BAJAK

Matahari belum sampai di atas kepala, tapi udara di Dusun Karang sudah terasa panas dan berat. Bukan karena cuaca—tapi karena kabar yang menyebar lebih cepat dari api di musim kemarau. Seseorang melihat utusan Bajak masuk ke balai desa. Sendiri. Tanpa senjata. Tapi dengan senyum yang membuat siapapun yang melihatnya merinding.

Arka sedang membantu Wulan menjemur ramuan di halaman ketika ia melihat orang-orang berlari ke arah balai desa. Bukan lari karena takut—tapi lari karena penasaran. Di dusun sekecil Karang, berita adalah hiburan paling mahal.

“Bu, ada apa?” tanyanya.

Wulan tidak menjawab. Wajahnya pucat. Matanya tertuju pada seorang pria yang berjalan tergesa-gesa melewati rumah mereka.

“Raka,” panggilnya ke dalam rumah. “Cepat.”

Raka muncul dengan parang di tangan—bukan untuk menyerang, tapi refleks mantan prajurit yang selalu waspada. Ia melihat kerumunan di kejauhan, lalu mendengar bisik-bisik yang mulai bertebaran seperti angin.

“Utusan Bajak… di balai desa… mencari seseorang…”

Raka meletakkan parang. “Kau di sini, Arka. Jangan ke mana-mana.”

Ia melangkah cepat menuju balai desa, meninggalkan Arka yang jantungnya berdebar kencang. Arka tahu—ia tahu persis siapa yang dicari utusan itu. Dan ia juga tahu bahwa di balik kerumunan itu, ada Karta yang tersenyum puas.

***

Di dalam balai desa, suasana tegang bisa dipotong dengan parang. Joko duduk di kursi rodanya, wajahnya pucat pasi. Di hadapannya, seorang pria berpakaian hitam dengan jubah lusuh duduk santai—terlalu santai untuk seseorang yang berada di tengah musuh.

“Namaku Wira,” ujar pria itu. “Mantan prajurit Kerajaan Selatan. Sekarang… anggap saja aku yang dipercaya Bajak untuk bicara.”

Joko tidak menjawab. Tangannya di pangkuan menggenggam erat selimut.

Wira tersenyum. “Jangan tegang, Kepala Desa. Aku datang sendiri, tanpa senjata. Lihat?” Ia merentangkan tangan, menunjukkan tidak ada tersembunyi di balik jubahnya. “Aku hanya ingin bicara. Sekadar bicara.”

“Bicara apa?” suara Raka terdengar dari pintu. Ia masuk, diikuti beberapa warga yang berani. Karta juga ada di antara kerumunan di luar, mengintip dari balik pintu.

Wira menoleh. Melihat Raka, matanya sedikit menyipit—seperti mengenali sesuatu. Tapi ia segera kembali tersenyum.

“Kalian punya anak di desa ini. Anak yang lahir saat gerhana, tujuh tahun lalu.”

Udara di balai desa mendadak beku.

Joko membuka mulut, tapi suaranya serak. “Ma… maksudmu?”

“Bajak mencari anak itu,” lanjut Wira santai. “Kami tidak akan menyakiti siapa pun. Justru sebaliknya. Bajak ingin… melindunginya. Ada orang-orang yang juga mencarinya. Orang-orang yang lebih berbahaya dari kami. Percaya atau tidak, Bajak sekarang ingin menjadi tameng.”

Raka tertawa dingin. “Tidak pernah ada kata ‘melindungi’ dalam kamus Bajak.”

Wira mengangkat bahu. “Pikir saja. Aku hanya menyampaikan pesan. Tapi ingat… jika anak itu jatuh ke tangan yang salah, bukan hanya desa ini yang akan hancur. Mungkin seluruh wilayah ini.”

Ia berdiri, siap pergi. Tapi sebelum melangkah, ia berhenti dan menatap Raka.

“Kau mantan prajurit, kan? Aku kenal matamu. Mata orang yang pernah membunuh. Jaga anak itu baik-baik. Karena musuh yang sebenarnya belum datang.”

Wira melangkah keluar. Kerumunan warga membelah memberinya jalan. Di pintu, ia berpapasan dengan Karta. Tanpa suara, Karta mengangguk pelan. Sangat pelan. Hanya Wira yang melihatnya.

***

Saat Wira keluar dari balai desa, matanya menangkap sesuatu—atau seseorang. Di halaman rumah Raka, dari kejauhan, seorang anak kecil berdiri memandang ke arahnya. Rambut acak-acakan, tubuh kecil, tapi tatapannya… tatapan itu seperti menusuk.

Wira berhenti. Matanya melebar.

Ia mengenali tatapan itu. Tatapan yang sama seperti yang dilihatnya dua puluh tahun lalu, pada seorang wanita yang mati di pelukannya. Wanita dengan darah yang sama.

“Arka!” Wulan menarik anaknya masuk ke rumah. Pintu tertutup rapat.

Tapi Wira sudah melihat cukup. Ia tersenyum—bukan senyum jahat, tapi senyum lega. “Masih hidup,” bisiknya. “Dia masih hidup.”

Lalu ia berbalik dan pergi, meninggalkan dusun yang mulai bergemuruh.

***

Sore itu, balai desa berubah jadi medan perang kata-kata.

“Kita harus serahkan anak itu!”

“Kau gila? Menyerahkan anak kecil pada Bajak?”

“Tapi kata utusan itu, kalau tidak, desa kita hancur!”

“Kau percaya omongan Bajak?”

Karta berdiri di atas kursi, menguasai perhatian. “Bukan percaya atau tidak. Tanya pada diri sendiri: kenapa Bajak mencari anak itu? Apa yang istimewa darinya? Apa yang disembunyikan keluarga Raka dari kita?”

Warga mulai saling berpandangan. Kecurigaan yang selama ini dipupuk mulai berbuah.

Sarmo, petani yang pagi tadi melihat daun-daun berputar di sekitar Arka, angkat bicara. “Aku… aku lihat sesuatu. Pagi tadi, di rumah Raka. Daun-daun kering berputar di sekitar anak itu. Sendirian. Padahal tidak ada angin.”

Suasana langsung riuh.

“Dengar! Dengar sendiri!”

“Anak itu memang tidak normal!”

“Mungkin dia penyebab kebakaran dulu!”

Joko mencoba menenangkan, memukulkan tongkatnya ke lantai. “Diam! Kalian semua diam!”

Tapi suaranya tenggelam dalam hiruk-pikuk ketakutan. Di kursi rodanya, Joko hanya bisa menatap dengan mata berkaca-kaca. Ia tahu apa yang akan terjadi. Ia sudah melihatnya berkali-kali dalam hidupnya: ketakutan massal yang berubah jadi amuk massa.

Raka yang dari tadi diam, akhirnya angkat bicara. Suaranya berat, dalam, seperti gempa jauh.

“Kalian lupa? Dua tahun lalu, siapa yang menyelamatkan desa ini? Anak itu! Arka! Kalau bukan karena dia, Bajak sudah membakar habis Dusun Karang!”

Sebagian warga terdiam. Tapi Karta cepat menyambar.

“Atau justru karena dia, Bajak datang? Pikir, Raka! Sebelum dia ada, Bajak tidak pernah datang ke dusun kita. Tapi setelah dia muncul, mereka datang. Dan mereka mencari ‘anak dengan darah Karang’. Apa itu ‘darah Karang’? Apa yang tidak pernah kau ceritakan pada kami?”

Raka membeku.

Pertanyaan itu menggantung di udara, tidak terjawab. Dan keheningan Raka adalah jawaban yang paling buruk.

***

Malam turun dengan cepat, seperti selubung gelap yang menutupi dusun yang terluka. Di rumah Raka, lampu minyak menyala redup. Mereka bertiga duduk melingkar, makan malam tanpa suara.

Arka tidak bisa makan. Ia memainkan nasi di piringnya, tidak berani menatap orangtuanya. Rasa bersalah menggunung di dadanya. Ia tahu, semua ini karena dirinya. Karena kekuatannya. Karena darahnya.

“Arka,” suara Raka memecah keheningan. “Ayah perlu tanya sesuatu.”

Arka mengangkat wajah.

“Apa benar yang dikatakan Sarmo? Daun-daun itu… berputar di sekitarmu?”

Arka ingin berbohong. Tapi lidahnya terasa kaku. Ia hanya bisa mengangguk pelan.

Wulan menutup mulut dengan tangan. Raka menghela napas panjang, napas yang berat seperti membawa gunung.

“Sejak kapan?”

“Sejak… lama. Aku latihan dengan Mbah Ranga setiap subuh. Belajar tentang mana. Tentang aksara kuno. Tentang… darah Karang.”

Raka dan Wulan bertukar pandang. Ada rahasia yang selama ini mereka simpan, dan sekarang sepertinya tidak bisa lagi disembunyikan.

Tapi sebelum mereka bisa bicara, ketukan di pintu mengagetkan mereka.

Tok tok tok.

Tiga kali. Pelan. Berirama.

Raka meraih parang. “Siapa?”

“Ini aku, Ratmi.”

Pintu dibuka. Ratmi, janda tua yang sehari-hari pendiam, berdiri di ambang pintu dengan wajah tegang. Di tangannya, ia memegang sesuatu—selembar kertas lusuh.

“Aku… aku menemukan ini terselip di pintu rumahku. Entah siapa yang menaruh.”

Raka mengambil kertas itu. Membacanya. Wajahnya berubah.

Wulan mendekat. “Apa itu?”

Raka menyerahkan kertas itu dengan tangan gemetar.

Tulisan di atasnya pendek, tapi cukup untuk membuat jantung siapa pun berhenti:

“Darah Karang bukan kutukan. Tapi mereka yang mencarinya adalah kutukan sejati. Jaga anak itu. Atau kalian akan kehilangan segalanya. — Seseorang yang tahu asal-usul darah Karang.”

Arka membaca tulisan itu dari balik lengan Raka. Matanya membelalak.

Darah Karang? pikirnya. Orang ini tahu tentang darah Karang?

“Ratmi, dari mana kau dapat ini?” tanya Raka.

“Aku tidak tahu. Saat buka pintu, ini sudah ada di sana.”

Udara di dalam rumah berubah pekat. Misteri semakin dalam. Siapa yang menulis pesan itu? Siapa yang mengenal ibu kandung Arka? Dan apa artinya semua ini?

Tiba-tiba, dari luar terdengar suara langkah kaki—banyak, cepat, mendekat.

“Raka! Keluar!”

Suara Karta. Disambut teriakan warga lainnya.

“Keluar dan serahkan anak itu!”

Raka mematikan lampu minyak. Dalam gelap, ia berbisik, “Jangan buka pintu. Jangan bersuara.”

Tapi Arka sudah berlari ke pintu belakang. Sebelum Wulan bisa menahan, ia melesat keluar, ke kegelapan.

“Arka!”

Teriakan Wulan tenggelam dalam gemuruh massa di depan rumah.

Arka berlari. Kakinya kecil, tapi ia tahu setiap sudut dusun. Ia berlari melewati kebun, melewati parit irigasi yang dulu ia buat, melewati pohon-pohon yang akarnya pernah ia bangunkan. Ia berlari ke satu tempat: gubuk Mbah Ranga.

Sesampainya di sana, ia membuka pintu anyaman bambu. Mbah Ranga sudah duduk di dalam, menunggu. Seperti ia tahu Arka akan datang.

“Mbah… mereka… Karta…”

“Sudah, Nak. Duduklah.”

Arka duduk, napasnya tersengal. Air matanya mulai jatuh.

“Mbah, apa yang salah denganku? Kenapa mereka takut padaku? Kenapa Bajak mencariku? Apa itu darah Karang?”

Mbah Ranga menatapnya lama. Matanya yang tua berbinar aneh—antara sedih dan bangga.

“Nak,” bisiknya, “waktunya kau tahu kebenaran tentang darahmu.”

Di luar, lolongan serigala terdengar lagi. Lebih dekat. Lebih nyaring.

Dan di balik jendela, bayangan orang berjubah hitam melintas diam-diam.

Bersambung…

Karakter yang muncul: Arka, Raka, Wulan, Joko (Kepala Desa tertekan), Karta (antagonis), Sarmo (saksi mata), Ratmi (pembawa pesan misterius), Mbah Ranggawarsita (guru), Wira (utusan Bajak, mantan prajurit), Bayangan misterius.

EPISODE 3: THE ENVOY FROM BAJAK

The sun hadn't yet reached its zenith, but the air in Dusun Karang already felt hot and heavy. Not because of the weather—but because of news spreading faster than fire in the dry season. Someone had seen Bajak's envoy enter the village hall. Alone. Unarmed. But with a smile that made anyone who saw it shiver.

Arka was helping Wulan dry herbs in the yard when he saw people running toward the village hall. Not running from fear—but running from curiosity. In a village as small as Karang, news was the most expensive entertainment.

"Mother, what's happening?" he asked.

Wulan didn't answer. Her face was pale. Her eyes fixed on a man hurrying past their house.

"Raka," she called inside. "Quickly."

Raka appeared with a machete in hand—not to attack, but the reflex of a former soldier always alert. He saw the crowd in the distance, then heard whispers beginning to scatter like wind.

"Bajak's envoy… at the village hall… looking for someone…"

Raka put down the machete. "Stay here, Arka. Don't go anywhere."

He walked quickly toward the village hall, leaving Arka whose heart pounded wildly. Arka knew—he knew exactly who that envoy was looking for. And he also knew that behind that crowd, Karta was smiling satisfied.

***

Inside the village hall, tension could be cut with a blade. Joko sat in his wheelchair, his face deathly pale. Before him, a man in black with a tattered robe sat casually—too casual for someone surrounded by enemies.

"My name is Wira," the man said. "Former soldier of the Southern Kingdom. Now… consider me someone Bajak trusts to speak."

Joko didn't answer. His hands in his lap gripped the blanket tightly.

Wira smiled. "Don't be tense, Village Chief. I came alone, unarmed. See?" He spread his arms, showing nothing hidden beneath his robe. "I just want to talk. Simply talk."

"Talk about what?" Raka's voice came from the door. He entered, followed by several brave villagers. Karta was also among the crowd outside, peeking through the door.

Wira turned. Seeing Raka, his eyes narrowed slightly—as if recognizing something. But he quickly smiled again.

"You have a child in this village. A child born during an eclipse, seven years ago."

The air in the village hall froze instantly.

Joko opened his mouth, but his voice was hoarse. "Wh… what do you mean?"

"Bajak is looking for that child," Wira continued casually. "We won't hurt anyone. Quite the opposite. Bajak wants to… protect him. There are people also looking for him. People more dangerous than us. Believe it or not, Bajak now wants to be a shield."

Raka laughed coldly. "There's never been the word 'protect' in Bajak's dictionary."

Wira shrugged. "Think what you will. I'm just delivering a message. But remember… if that child falls into the wrong hands, not only this village will be destroyed. Perhaps this entire region."

He stood, ready to leave. But before stepping away, he stopped and stared at Raka.

"You're a former soldier, aren't you? I recognize your eyes. The eyes of someone who has killed. Guard that child well. Because the real enemy hasn't come yet."

Wira stepped outside. The crowd of villagers parted to give him way. At the door, he passed Karta. Silently, Karta nodded slightly. Very slightly. Only Wira saw it.

***

As Wira left the village hall, his eyes caught something—or someone. In the yard of Raka's house, from a distance, a small child stood staring at him. Messy hair, small body, but his gaze… that gaze seemed to pierce.

Wira stopped. His eyes widened.

He recognized that gaze. The same gaze he'd seen twenty years ago, on a woman who died in his arms. A woman with the same blood.

"Arka!" Wulan pulled her child inside the house. The door closed tightly.

But Wira had seen enough. He smiled—not an evil smile, but a relieved one. "Still alive," he whispered. "He's still alive."

Then he turned and left, leaving the village beginning to rumble.

***

That afternoon, the village hall turned into a battlefield of words.

"We must surrender that child!"

"Are you crazy? Surrendering a child to Bajak?"

"But that envoy said, if we don't, our village will be destroyed!"

"You believe Bajak's words?"

Karta stood on a chair, commanding attention. "It's not about belief. Ask yourselves: why is Bajak looking for that child? What's special about him? What is Raka's family hiding from us?"

Villagers began exchanging glances. The suspicion that had been nurtured was now bearing fruit.

Sarmo, the farmer who that morning had seen leaves spinning around Arka, spoke up. "I… I saw something. This morning, at Raka's house. Dry leaves spinning around that child. By themselves. Though there was no wind."

The atmosphere immediately became chaotic.

"Hear that! You hear it yourselves!"

"That child really isn't normal!"

"Maybe he caused the fire back then!"

Joko tried to calm them, pounding his staff on the floor. "Stop! All of you, stop!"

But his voice drowned in the chaos of fear. In his wheelchair, Joko could only watch with tear-filled eyes. He knew what would happen. He'd seen it many times in his life: mass fear turning into mob rage.

Raka, who had been silent, finally spoke. His voice was heavy, deep, like a distant earthquake.

"Have you forgotten? Two years ago, who saved this village? That child! Arka! If not for him, Bajak would have burned Dusun Karang to the ground!"

Some villagers fell silent. But Karta quickly retorted.

"Or perhaps because of him, Bajak came? Think, Raka! Before he existed, Bajak never came to our village. But after he appeared, they came. And they're looking for 'the child with Karang blood.' What is 'Karang blood'? What have you never told us?"

Raka froze.

That question hung in the air, unanswered. And Raka's silence was the worst answer possible.

***

Night fell quickly, like a dark shroud covering a wounded village. In Raka's house, an oil lamp burned dimly. The three of them sat in a circle, eating dinner in silence.

Arka couldn't eat. He played with the rice on his plate, not daring to look at his parents. Guilt piled high in his chest. He knew, all this was because of him. Because of his power. Because of his blood.

"Arka," Raka's voice broke the silence. "Father needs to ask you something."

Arka lifted his face.

"Is it true what Sarmo said? Those leaves… spinning around you?"

Arka wanted to lie. But his tongue felt stiff. He could only nod slowly.

Wulan covered her mouth with her hand. Raka sighed deeply, a breath that seemed to carry mountains.

"Since when?"

"Since… a long time. I train with Mbah Ranga every dawn. Learning about mana. About ancient scripts. About… Karang blood."

Raka and Wulan exchanged glances. There were secrets they'd been keeping, and now it seemed they could no longer be hidden.

But before they could speak, a knock at the door startled them.

Knock knock knock.

Three times. Soft. Rhythmic.

Raka reached for his machete. "Who?"

"It's me, Ratmi."

The door opened. Ratmi, the usually quiet elderly widow, stood at the threshold with a tense face. In her hand, she held something—a crumpled piece of paper.

"I… I found this tucked in my door. I don't know who put it there."

Raka took the paper. Read it. His face changed.

Wulan approached. "What is it?"

Raka handed over the paper with trembling hands.

The writing was brief, but enough to make anyone's heart stop:

"Karang blood is not a curse. But those who seek it are the true curse. Guard that child. Or you will lose everything. — Someone who once knew his mother."

Arka read the writing from behind Raka's arm. His eyes widened.

His mother? His biological mother?

"Ratmi, where did you get this?" Raka asked.

"I don't know. When I opened my door, it was already there."

The air in the house grew thick. The mystery deepened. Who wrote that message? Who knew Arka's birth mother? And what did all this mean?

Suddenly, from outside, footsteps were heard—many, fast, approaching.

"Raka! Come out!"

Karta's voice. Followed by shouts from other villagers.

"Come out and surrender that child!"

Raka extinguished the oil lamp. In the darkness, he whispered, "Don't open the door. Don't make a sound."

But Arka had already run to the back door. Before Wulan could stop him, he slipped out into the darkness.

"Arka!"

Wulan's scream drowned in the roar of the mob at the front.

Arka ran. His legs were small, but he knew every corner of the village. He ran through gardens, past the irrigation ditch he'd once made, past trees whose roots he'd once awakened. He ran to one place: Mbah Ranga's hut.

Arriving there, he opened the woven bamboo door. Mbah Ranga was already sitting inside, waiting. As if he knew Arka would come.

"Grandfather… they… Karta…"

"Calm down, child. Sit."

Arka sat, his breath ragged. Tears began to fall.

"Grandfather, what's wrong with me? Why are they afraid of me? Why is Bajak looking for me? What is Karang blood?"

Mbah Ranga stared at him for a long time. His old eyes gleamed strangely—between sad and proud.

"Child," he whispered, "it's time you knew the truth about your blood."

Outside, wolf howls were heard again. Closer. Louder.

And beyond the window, the shadow of a black-robed figure passed silently.

To be continued…

Characters featured: Arka, Raka, Wulan, Joko (pressured Village Chief), Karta (antagonist), Sarmo (witness), Ratmi (bearer of mysterious message), Mbah Ranggawarsita (teacher), Wira (Bajak's envoy, former soldier), Mysterious shadow.

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