Gerbang Terbuka | EPS 1

GERBANG TERBUKA

Matahari sore menyengat punggung, tapi dingin yang Baran rasakan justru dari dalam. Dua puluh lima bayangan berdiri di luar gerbang kayu runcing yang mulai miring. Perempuan dengan gendongan, anak-anak dengan tulang rusuk terlihat, lelaki tua dengan mata kosong. Di depan mereka, seorang perempuan tua bertubuh ringkih namun matanya—matanya masih menyala. Mbok Ranti, panggilannya. Baran kenal tipe itu. Nini, dukun desanya, juga punya mata yang sama. Mata yang melihat sesuatu yang orang lain tak lihat. Di samping Baran, Pak Teguh menghela napas panjang. “Buka gerbangnya.” Baran menoleh cepat. “Pak, persediaan kita—” “Cuma untuk semalam,” potong Pak Teguh lirih. “Mereka butuh air dan tempat teduh. Kita lihat besok pagi.”

Gerbang berderit dibuka. Baran merasakan beban di pundaknya bertambah. Bukan hanya karena dia harus mengawasi dua puluh lima orang asing. Tapi karena di belakangnya, Laras—istrinya—sudah mendekati seorang anak lelaki kurus kering dengan luka di kaki. “Biar kuobati,” kata Laras lembut. Anak itu menangis. Ibunya—janda muda dengan perut buncit—hanya bisa menunduk. Baran tahu perasaan istrinya. Laras pernah kehilangan anak sebelum Aryan lahir. Tapi perasaan tak bisa mengisi perut. Dia berjalan ke balai desa, mendapati Darman dan beberapa petani lain sudah berkumpul dengan wajah menghitam. “Dua puluh lima mulut baru, Baran. Persediaan kita?” Baran diam. Darman meludah ke tanah. “Ini bunuh diri.”

Di balai desa yang dialihfungsikan jadi tempat tidur darurat, Mbok Ranti duduk bersila. Nini duduk di depannya, dua dukun tua saling pandang. “Lama,” kata Nini pelan. “Tiga puluh tahun, Nini. Sejak Perang Besar.” Mbok Ranti mengeluarkan selembar daun lontar usang dari balik selendang. “Kau masih simpan itu?” Nini menganggut. Rahasia yang mereka jaga bertahun-tahun—tentang Klan Matahari, tentang anak yang dititipkan pada Baran dan Laras—kini terasa lebih berat. Karena kedatangan Mbok Ranti bukan kebetulan. Tapi belum saatnya bicara. Nini bangun. “Kau istirahat dulu. Besok kita bicara.”

Malam turun. Laras menghitung ulang persediaan di dapur kecil. Wajahnya pucat saat menulis angka di tanah dengan arang. “Cukup lima belas hari,” gumamnya. “Dengan jatah dikurangi.” Di luar, suara tangis bayi terdengar. Laras memejamkan mata. Dia ingat Aryan. Anaknya yang baru lima tahun itu sejak tadi tak kelihatan. “Aryan?” Dia beranjak mencari.

Bayu, anak Pak Teguh yang berusia sepuluh tahun, sedang mengintip dari balik pohon randu. Matanya tak percaya. Aryan, bocah kecil yang biasa diajaknya main, sedang menyelinap di dekat balai desa. Dengan hati-hati, Aryan mengeluarkan sepotong roti dari balik bajunya—roti yang disembunyikannya saat makan malam—dan menyodorkannya pada seorang anak pengungsi yang lebih besar. Anak itu menerima dengan ragu, lalu melahapnya seperti serigala kelaparan. Bayu mengenalnya. Buyung, anak yatim yang tadi siang menangis di gerbang. Dia melihat Aryan berbisik, “Jangan bilang siapa-siapa.”

Di balai desa, Pak Teguh menggelar pertemuan darurat dengan Kusno—kepala keluarga pengungsi yang masih tegar meski matanya sembab. “Kita hitung ulang,” kata Pak Teguh. “Beras, singkong, jagung. Semua.” Kusno membantu menghitung. Baran datang, ikut menghitung. Angka demi angka ditorehkan. Dan semakin malam, wajah Pak Teguh semakin pucat. “Ini…” Dia tak mampu lanjut. Baran yang menyelesaikan: “Cukup dua belas hari kalau dibagi rata.” Darman yang mendengar dari pintu berteriak, “Aku bilang juga apa!” Suasana riuh. Caci maki mulai terdengar. “Usir mereka!” “Kita juga akan mati!” Pak Teguh membanting tangannya ke meja. “DIAM!” Ruangan hening. “Besok kita cari solusi. Malam ini, mereka tidur.”

Tapi solusi tak datang semudah itu. Baran berjalan pulang dengan langkah berat. Di depan rumah, dia melihat Laras sedang duduk di tangga, menangis diam-diam. “Ada apa?” tanyanya cemas. Laras menggeleng. “Aku mencari Aryan tadi. Dia… dia kasih roti pada anak pengungsi.” Baran menghela napas. Anaknya baik hati, terlalu baik. Tapi di situasi begini, kebaikan bisa berbahaya. “Di mana dia?” “Sudah tidur. Tapi Baran…” Laras menatap suaminya. “Dari mana Aryan tahu anak itu lapar? Dia bahkan tak bertemu mereka sebelumnya.” Baran terdiam. Pertanyaan itu menggantung. Anaknya memang aneh. Sering tahu hal yang tak seharusnya diketahui anak seusianya. Tapi selama ini mereka rahasiakan.

Di dalam rumah, Aryan tidur pulas. Di tangannya masih menggenggam sisa remah roti. Di luar jendela, Bayu masih berdiri. Memandang rumah Baran dengan perasaan ganjil. Aryan diam-diam memberi makan anak asing. Aryan tahu anak itu lapar padahal tak pernah bertemu. Bayu ingat, beberapa hari lalu, saat mereka main petak umpet, Aryan tiba-tiba bilang “Jangan sembunyi di sumur, nanti jatuh” padahal sumurnya tertutup dan tak terlihat dari tempat mereka berdiri. Bayu waktu itu menganggapnya tebakan beruntung. Tapi sekarang… Dia tak tahu harus berpikir apa. Yang dia tahu, malam ini dia melihat sesuatu yang tak akan dilupakannya. Aryan berbeda. Dan di desa yang baru saja kedatangan dua puluh lima pengungsi dengan persediaan makanan hanya dua belas hari, perbedaan bisa berarti bahaya.

Di kejauhan, dari balik jendela rumahnya yang gelap, Nini mengamati Bayu yang berlari pulang. Lalu matanya beralih ke rumah Baran. “Sudah dimulai,” bisiknya pada angin malam. Di sampingnya, Mbok Ranti yang diam-diam keluar dari balai desa mengangguk pelan. “Anak itu… dia membawa roti untuk Buyung.” Nini menutup jendela. “Bukan rotinya yang penting, Ranti. Tapi bagaimana dia tahu Buyung kelaparan, padahal tak satu kata pun terucap.” Dua dukun tua itu terdiam. Di langit, awan hitam menutupi bulan. Dusun Karang masuk dalam kegelapan. Dan di dalam rumahnya, Aryan tersenyum dalam tidur, seolah mimpi indah. Atau mungkin—seperti bisik Nini kemudian—dia mendengar percakapan mereka dari jarak seratus langkah.

THE GATE OPENS (English Version)

The afternoon sun burned their backs, but the cold Baran felt came from within. Twenty-five silhouettes stood outside the crooked wooden gate. Women with babies strapped to their chests, children with ribs showing through their skin, old men with hollow eyes. At the front stood an old woman, frail in body but her eyes—her eyes still burned. Mbok Ranti, they called her. Baran knew that type. Nini, the village shaman, had the same eyes. Eyes that saw things others couldn't. Beside him, Pak Teguh exhaled slowly. "Open the gate." Baran turned quickly. "Sir, our supplies—" "Just for tonight," Pak Teguh cut him off softly. "They need water and shade. We'll decide tomorrow morning."

The gate creaked open. Baran felt the weight on his shoulders grow heavier. Not just because he had to watch twenty-five strangers. But because behind him, Laras—his wife—was already approaching a skinny boy with a wounded leg. "Let me treat that," Laras said gently. The boy cried. His mother—a young widow with a swollen belly—could only stare at the ground. Baran understood his wife's feelings. Laras had lost a child before Aryan was born. But feelings couldn't fill stomachs. He walked to the village hall and found Darman and some farmers already gathered, faces dark. "Twenty-five new mouths, Baran. Our supplies?" Baran stayed silent. Darman spat on the ground. "This is suicide."

In the village hall, now converted into an emergency shelter, Mbok Ranti sat cross-legged. Nini sat across from her, two old healers staring at each other. "Long time," Nini said quietly. "Thirty years, Nini. Since the Great War." Mbok Ranti pulled out an old palm leaf manuscript from her shawl. "You still keep it?" Nini nodded. The secret they'd guarded for years—about the Sun Clan, about the child entrusted to Baran and Laras—now felt heavier. Because Mbok Ranti's arrival wasn't coincidence. But it wasn't time to speak yet. Nini stood. "Rest now. We'll talk tomorrow."

Night fell. Laras recalculated supplies in the small kitchen. Her face paled as she scratched numbers in the dirt with charcoal. "Fifteen days at most," she muttered. "With reduced rations." Outside, a baby's cry echoed. Laras closed her eyes. She remembered Aryan. Her five-year-old son hadn't been seen for a while. "Aryan?" She went to look.

Bayu, Pak Teguh's ten-year-old son, peeked from behind a kapok tree. His eyes widened in disbelief. Aryan, the little boy he usually played with, was sneaking near the village hall. Carefully, Aryan pulled out a piece of bread from under his shirt—bread he'd hidden during dinner—and offered it to an older refugee boy. The boy hesitated, then devoured it like a starving wolf. Bayu recognized him. Buyung, the orphan who'd cried at the gate that afternoon. He saw Aryan whisper, "Don't tell anyone."

At the village hall, Pak Teguh held an emergency meeting with Kusno—a refugee family head who remained composed despite swollen eyes. "Let's recount," Pak Teguh said. "Rice, cassava, corn. Everything." Kusno helped calculate. Baran joined, counting as well. Number by number was scratched down. And as night deepened, Pak Teguh's face grew paler. "This…" He couldn't finish. Baran completed it for him: "Twelve days if shared equally." Darman, eavesdropping at the door, shouted, "I told you so!" The room erupted. Insults began flying. "Kick them out!" "We'll die too!" Pak Teguh slammed his hand on the table. "SILENCE!" The room went still. "Tomorrow we find a solution. Tonight, they sleep."

But solutions didn't come easily. Baran walked home with heavy steps. Outside his house, he found Laras sitting on the steps, crying quietly. "What's wrong?" he asked anxiously. Laras shook her head. "I was looking for Aryan earlier. He… he gave bread to a refugee child." Baran sighed. His son was kind, too kind. But in times like this, kindness could be dangerous. "Where is he?" "Already asleep. But Baran…" Laras looked at her husband. "How did Aryan know that child was hungry? He'd never met them before." Baran fell silent. The question hung there. His son was strange. Often knowing things a child shouldn't. But they'd always kept it secret.

Inside, Aryan slept soundly. In his hand, he still clutched bread crumbs. Outside the window, Bayu still stood. Staring at Baran's house with strange feelings. Aryan secretly fed a stranger child. Aryan knew that child was hungry without ever meeting him. Bayu remembered, days ago, during hide and seek, Aryan suddenly said "Don't hide in the well, you'll fall" even though the well was covered and invisible from where they stood. Bayu thought it was a lucky guess then. But now… He didn't know what to think. What he knew was, tonight he saw something he'd never forget. Aryan was different. And in a village that just received twenty-five refugees with only twelve days of food, difference meant danger.

In the distance, from her dark window, Nini watched Bayu run home. Then her gaze shifted to Baran's house. "It's begun," she whispered to the night wind. Beside her, Mbok Ranti—who'd quietly left the village hall—nodded slowly. "That child… he brought bread for Buyung." Nini closed the window. "It's not the bread that matters, Ranti. It's how he knew Buyung was hungry, without a single word spoken." The two old shamans fell silent. In the sky, black clouds covered the moon. Dusun Karang was plunged into darkness. And inside his house, Aryan smiled in his sleep, as if dreaming sweetly. Or perhaps—as Nini would whisper later—he'd heard their conversation from a hundred paces away.

Terima kasih sudah mampir! Jika kamu menikmati konten ini dan ingin menunjukkan dukunganmu, bagaimana kalau mentraktirku secangkir kopi? 😊 Ini adalah gestur kecil yang sangat membantu untuk menjaga semangatku agar terus membuat konten-konten keren. Tidak ada paksaan, tapi secangkir kopi darimu pasti akan membuat hariku jadi sedikit lebih cerah. ☕️

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