Bibit Pertama | EPS 5

BIBIT PERTAMA

Matahari pagi menyinari ladang baru yang kemarin masih semak belukar. Kini tanah cokelat terhampar, siap ditanami. Kusno berdiri di pinggir ladang, memegang cangkul yang berbeda dari biasanya—cangkul itu memancarkan kilau redup, seperti embun beku di pagi hari. Di sampingnya, dua pengungsi lain—lelaki kurus yang kemarin tertangkap mencuri, dan seorang perempuan muda bernama Minah—memegang alat serupa. Nini berdiri di hadapan mereka, matanya menyapu wajah satu per satu. "Kalian bertiga terpilih karena kalian pekerja keras dan bisa dipercaya," kata Nini pelan. "Tapi ingat: apa yang kalian lihat, apa yang kalian pegang, ini rahasia desa. Kalau bocor, bukan hanya kalian yang celaka, tapi seluruh dusun." Kusno mengangguk mantap. Lelaki kurus—namanya Karto—menunduk dalam. "Saya tak akan ingkar, Nini. Saya sudah diberi kesempatan kedua." Minah, perempuan muda dengan mata penuh rasa ingin tahu, hanya menggenggam erat cangkulnya.

Nini mulai menjelaskan. "Alat ini bukan cangkul biasa. Ada kekuatan di dalamnya—kekuatan yang membantu tanah lebih gembur, yang menarik air lebih dekat ke akar. Tapi kalian tak perlu tahu cara membuatnya. Yang perlu kalian tahu: gunakan dengan hati-hati. Jangan sampai melukai diri sendiri atau orang lain. Dan yang paling penting—jangan pernah membicarakan ini dengan siapa pun di luar kelompok." Dia menghela napas. "Sekarang coba. Kusno, kau duluan." Kusno melangkah ke ladang. Dia mengayunkan cangkul ke tanah. Dan dia merasakan perbedaannya seketika. Cangkul itu masuk ke tanah seperti pisau ke mentega. Tanah yang biasanya keras dan berbatu, kini terbelah dengan mulus. Kusno tertegun. "Ini... ini luar biasa." Nini tersenyum tipis. "Itu baru permulaan."

Di pinggir ladang, Aryan dan Buyung duduk di bawah pohon waru. Mereka berpura-pura main kelereng, tapi mata Aryan terus tertuju pada cangkul-cangkul itu. "Aku juga mau coba," gumamnya. Buyung menggeleng. "Jangan, Aryan. Itu untuk orang dewasa." Tapi Aryan tak bisa mengalihkan pandangan. Ada sesuatu dari alat-alat itu yang memanggilnya. Seperti ada benang tak terlihat yang menghubungkan dadanya dengan kilau redup di mata cangkul. Dia mengalihkan pandangan paksa, fokus pada kelereng. Tapi di kepalanya, pertanyaan terus berputar: kenapa dia bisa merasakan alat-alat itu? Kenapa jantungnya berdebar saat melihatnya?

Siang harinya, Pak Teguh keluar rumah untuk pertama kalinya setelah dua hari terbaring. Wajahnya masih pucat, tapi matanya mulai bersinar. Dia berjalan ke balai desa dengan langkah pelan, ditemani Bayu yang cemas. Di balai, beberapa warga sudah berkumpul—Baran, Kusno, Darman, dan beberapa yang lain. Pak Teguh duduk perlahan. "Ada yang mau kulaporkan," katanya. Semua diam menunggu. "Selama aku sakit, aku banyak berpikir. Tentang desa ini, tentang kalian semua, tentang masa depan." Dia menatap satu per satu. "Dan aku memutuskan: setiap pengungsi yang bekerja di desa ini selama setahun penuh, tanpa masalah, berhak menjadi warga tetap Dusun Karang."

Suasana hening. Darman membelalak. "Setahun? Jadi mereka akan tinggal di sini selamanya?" Pak Teguh mengangguk. "Kalau mereka bekerja keras, iya. Mereka jadi bagian dari kita." Kusno menunduk, bahunya bergetar. Di belakangnya, beberapa pengungsi yang ikut mendengar mulai berbisik-bisik dengan mata berkaca-kaca. Baran memandang Pak Teguh dengan rasa hormat yang baru. Ini keputusan berani. Mungkin terlalu berani. Tapi dia tahu, Pak Teguh melakukannya untuk masa depan desa. Darman bangkit hendak protes, tapi Baran menatapnya. "Darman, lihat ladang baru. Lihat hasil kerja mereka. Kau masih mau bilang mereka beban?" Darman membeku. Lalu dia mendengus, duduk kembali. Tak ada protes. Pak Teguh menghela napas lega.

Sore harinya, suasana ladang berbeda. Ada semangat baru. Kusno, Karto, dan Minah bekerja dengan alat sihir, membalik tanah dengan kecepatan dua kali lipat. Warga asli yang melihat dari kejauhan mulai mendekat, ingin tahu. Beberapa bahkan bertanya, "Bisa pinjam cangkulnya?" Nini yang menjaga di pinggir ladang menggeleng. "Belum saatnya. Mereka masih belajar." Tapi dia tersenyum dalam hati. Perlahan, tembok antara warga asli dan pengungsi mulai retak. Bukan karena kebijakan, tapi karena kerja nyata. Karena melihat sendiri bahwa pengungsi bisa membantu desa maju.

Malam turun. Laras sedang membereskan dapur ketika Nini datang. Wajah dukun tua itu tak seperti biasanya—tegang, waspada. "Nini, ada apa?" tanya Laras cemas. Nini memastikan tak ada orang di sekitar, lalu berbisik, "Ada mata-mata di antara pengungsi. Aku bisa merasakannya." Laras memucat. "Maksud Nini?" Nini duduk di kursi bambu, tangannya menggenggam tongkat. "Aku sudah cukup lama hidup, Laras. Aku tahu kapan ada orang yang berpura-pura. Di antara pengungsi itu, ada satu atau dua yang matanya tak cocok dengan ceritanya. Mereka terlalu tenang. Terlalu memperhatikan." Laras menggigit bibir. "Baran harus tahu." Nini mengangguk. "Bilang Baran. Tapi hati-hati. Jangan sampai menimbulkan kepanikan. Atau menuduh yang salah."

Di luar, di balik pohon randu, seorang lelaki duduk bersandar. Namanya Kirun. Dia datang sebagai pengungsi gelombang pertama, selalu diam, selalu bekerja tanpa banyak bicara. Tak pernah menonjol. Tak pernah menimbulkan masalah. Tapi malam itu, setelah memastikan tak ada yang melihat, dia mengeluarkan buku kecil dari balik bajunya. Dengan hati-hati, dia mencatat sesuatu dengan arang: "Ladang baru. Alat khusus. Tiga orang pengguna. Perempuan tua penjaga." Lalu dia menyimpan kembali buku itu, melirik ke arah bengkel Nini yang remang-remang. Matanya menyipit. "Jadi ini sumber kekuatan mereka," bisiknya hampir tak terdengar. "Menarik."

Di dalam rumah Baran, Aryan belum tidur. Dia duduk di jendela, memandang bulan. Di sampingnya, Buyung—yang malam ini diizinkan Laras menginap—ikut duduk diam. "Aryan, kamu kenapa?" tanya Buyung. Aryan diam lama. Lalu dia berkata, "Buyung, kamu percaya kalau ada orang yang bisa merasakan apa yang orang lain rasakan?" Buyung mengerutkan kening. "Maksudmu?" Aryan menghela napas. "Kayak... aku tahu Karto sedih. Ayahnya ditinggal, ibunya mati di jalan. Aku tahu Minah takut, tapi dia pura-pura berani. Aku tahu..." dia berhenti. "Aku tahu kamu kangen orang tuamu."

Buyung tertegun. Matanya berkaca-kaca. "Kok kamu tahu?" Aryan menggeleng. "Aku nggak tahu kenapa. Tapi aku tahu." Buyung diam. Lalu dia memeluk Aryan. "Kamu aneh, Aryan. Tapi aneh yang baik." Aryan tersenyum tipis. Tapi di dadanya, kegelisahan tetap ada. Karena dia juga tahu—dia merasakan—ada sesuatu yang buruk akan datang. Seperti awan hitam di kejauhan yang hanya dia bisa lihat. Tapi dia tak tahu apa, tak tahu kapan, dan tak tahu bagaimana menghentikannya.

Di bengkel Nini, lampu minyak masih menyala. Dua dukun tua itu duduk berhadapan, dengan tiga cangkul sihir baru di samping mereka. Produksi hari ini: tiga alat. Sesuai target. Tapi Nini tak bisa tenang. "Rasa waspada itu semakin kuat," gumamnya. Mbok Ranti mengangguk. "Aku juga merasakannya. Seperti ada yang mengintai." Nini menatap keluar jendela. Di kegelapan, dia melihat bayangan—sosok lelaki yang duduk di bawah pohon randu. Terlalu jauh untuk dikenali. Tapi cukup jelas untuk diketahui: ada yang tak beres. "Kita harus perkuat penjagaan," bisik Nini. "Dan kita harus percepat persiapan. Sebelum terlambat."

Malam semakin larut. Dusun Karang tidur. Tapi di balik tidur itu, ada yang tak bisa memejamkan mata. Kirun masih duduk di bawah pohon randu, menunggu, mengamati. Buku kecilnya sudah penuh catatan. Besok, atau lusa, dia harus mengirim kabar. Tapi ke mana? Dan untuk siapa? Di dalam buku itu, di halaman terakhir, ada simbol yang samar-samar digambar: bulan sabit dengan bintang di atasnya. Simbol yang sama yang tiga puluh tahun lalu terlihat di panji-panji pasukan yang membantai Klan Matahari. Kirun menyimpan buku itu, bersandar, dan tersenyum tipis. "Tak lama lagi," bisiknya. "Tak lama lagi."

THE FIRST SEEDS (English Version)

Morning sun shone on the new field that was still wilderness yesterday. Now brown earth lay ready for planting. Kusno stood at the field's edge, holding a hoe unlike any other—it emitted a faint shimmer, like morning frost. Beside him, two other refugees—the skinny man caught stealing yesterday, and a young woman named Minah—held similar tools. Nini stood before them, her eyes sweeping each face. "You three were chosen because you're hard workers and trustworthy," Nini said softly. "But remember: what you see, what you hold, this is the village's secret. If it leaks, not only you will be in danger, but the entire hamlet." Kusno nodded firmly. The skinny man—Karto—bowed deeply. "I won't break my promise, Nini. I've been given a second chance." Minah, the young woman with curious eyes, simply gripped her hoe tightly.

Nini began explaining. "These aren't ordinary hoes. There's power inside—power that makes soil looser, that draws water closer to roots. But you don't need to know how they're made. What you need to know: use them carefully. Don't hurt yourself or others. And most importantly—never speak of this to anyone outside the group." She sighed. "Now try. Kusno, you first." Kusno stepped into the field. He swung the hoe into the earth. And he felt the difference immediately. The hoe entered the soil like a knife into butter. Earth that was usually hard and rocky split smoothly. Kusno was stunned. "This... this is incredible." Nini smiled faintly. "That's just the beginning."

At the field's edge, Aryan and Buyung sat under a hibiscus tree. They pretended to play marbles, but Aryan's eyes kept returning to those hoes. "I want to try too," he murmured. Buyung shook his head. "Don't, Aryan. That's for adults." But Aryan couldn't look away. Something about those tools called to him. Like invisible threads connecting his chest to the faint shimmer on the hoe blades. He forced his gaze away, focusing on marbles. But in his head, questions kept circling: why could he feel those tools? Why did his heart pound when he saw them?

That afternoon, Pak Teguh left his house for the first time in two days. His face was still pale, but his eyes began to shine. He walked slowly to the village hall, accompanied by a worried Bayu. At the hall, several villagers had gathered—Baran, Kusno, Darman, and others. Pak Teguh sat down slowly. "I have something to report," he said. Everyone waited silently. "While I was sick, I did a lot of thinking. About this village, about all of you, about the future." He looked at each person. "And I've decided: every refugee who works in this village for a full year, without problems, has the right to become a permanent resident of Dusun Karang."

Silence fell. Darman's eyes widened. "A year? So they'll stay here forever?" Pak Teguh nodded. "If they work hard, yes. They become part of us." Kusno looked down, shoulders trembling. Behind him, some listening refugees began whispering with tearful eyes. Baran looked at Pak Teguh with new respect. This was a brave decision. Maybe too brave. But he knew, Pak Teguh did it for the village's future. Darman stood to protest, but Baran stared at him. "Darman, look at the new field. Look at their work. You still want to call them burdens?" Darman froze. Then he snorted, sitting back down. No protest came. Pak Teguh sighed in relief.

That evening, the field felt different. There was new spirit. Kusno, Karto, and Minah worked with magic hoes, turning soil at double speed. Natives watching from a distance began approaching, curious. Some even asked, "Can we borrow those hoes?" Nini, guarding at the field's edge, shook her head. "Not yet. They're still learning." But she smiled inwardly. Slowly, the wall between natives and refugees began cracking. Not because of policy, but because of real work. Because they saw for themselves that refugees could help the village progress.

Night fell. Laras was tidying the kitchen when Nini arrived. The old shaman's face was different—tense, alert. "Nini, what's wrong?" Laras asked anxiously. Nini ensured no one was around, then whispered, "There's a spy among the refugees. I can feel it." Laras paled. "What do you mean?" Nini sat on a bamboo chair, gripping her staff. "I've lived long enough, Laras. I know when someone's pretending. Among those refugees, there are one or two whose eyes don't match their stories. They're too calm. Too observant." Laras bit her lip. "Baran needs to know." Nini nodded. "Tell Baran. But be careful. Don't cause panic. Or accuse the wrong person."

Outside, behind the kapok tree, a man sat leaning. His name was Kirun. He came as a first-wave refugee, always silent, always working without much talk. Never stood out. Never caused trouble. But that night, after ensuring no one watched, he pulled out a small book from under his shirt. Carefully, he wrote something with charcoal: "New field. Special tools. Three users. Old woman guarding." Then he hid the book again, glancing toward Nini's dim workshop. His eyes narrowed. "So this is their power source," he whispered, almost inaudibly. "Interesting."

Inside Baran's house, Aryan hadn't slept. He sat at the window, looking at the moon. Beside him, Buyung—allowed by Laras to stay over—sat quietly too. "Aryan, what's wrong?" Buyung asked. Aryan was silent for a long time. Then he said, "Buyung, do you believe some people can feel what others feel?" Buyung frowned. "What do you mean?" Aryan sighed. "Like... I know Karto is sad. His father was left behind, his mother died on the road. I know Minah is scared, but she pretends to be brave. I know..." he paused. "I know you miss your parents."

Buyung froze. His eyes glistened. "How do you know?" Aryan shook his head. "I don't know why. But I know." Buyung was silent. Then he hugged Aryan. "You're strange, Aryan. But strange in a good way." Aryan smiled faintly. But in his chest, restlessness remained. Because he also knew—he felt—something bad was coming. Like a black cloud in the distance that only he could see. But he didn't know what, didn't know when, and didn't know how to stop it.

In Nini's workshop, the oil lamp still burned. The two old shamans sat facing each other, with three new magic hoes beside them. Today's production: three tools. On target. But Nini couldn't relax. "That feeling of alertness grows stronger," she murmured. Mbok Ranti nodded. "I feel it too. Like someone's watching." Nini looked out the window. In the darkness, she saw a silhouette—a man sitting under the kapok tree. Too far to recognize. But clear enough to know: something was wrong. "We must strengthen security," Nini whispered. "And we must accelerate preparations. Before it's too late."

Night deepened. Dusun Karang slept. But behind that sleep, some couldn't close their eyes. Kirun still sat under the kapok tree, waiting, observing. His small book was full of notes. Tomorrow, or the next day, he needed to send word. But where? And to whom? In that book, on the last page, there was a faintly drawn symbol: a crescent moon with a star above it. The same symbol that thirty years ago appeared on the banners of the army that massacred the Sun Clan. Kirun hid the book, leaned back, and smiled faintly. "Not long now," he whispered. "Not long now."

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