Jatah Terakhir | EPS 3
Episode 3: Hama dan Harapan
Seminggu sejak Aryan membuat mata tombak pertamanya. Seminggu sejak Baran membawa pulang kelinci dan Laras mulai pulih. Seminggu yang penuh dengan pukulan batu, serpihan-serpihan kecil, dan rahasia antara seorang ayah dan anak.
Di bawah kolong rumah, tumpukan batu pecah semakin banyak. Tiga mata tombak baru tersembunyi di balik tiang—masing-masing lebih baik dari sebelumnya. Yang pertama hanya batu runcing tak berbentuk. Yang kedua mulai menyerupai segitiga. Yang ketiga, yang dibuat dua hari lalu, benar-benar tajam. Baran menggunakannya untuk berburu, dan pulang dengan seekor kadal besar. Bukan kelinci, tapi cukup untuk makan.
Aryan merasa bangga. Tapi di dalam hatinya, ada yang mengganjal. Mata tombak itu hanya dilihat ayahnya. Hanya ayahnya yang tahu. Sementara warga desa lain, mereka tetap kelaparan, tetap kurus, tetap menangis di malam hari.
"Aku ingin membantu lebih banyak," bisiknya pada diri sendiri suatu pagi, saat Laras masih tidur.
***
Pagi itu, semua orang dikejutkan oleh teriakan dari ladang. Aryan berlari keluar, mengikuti warga lain yang berhamburan. Di sana, pemandangan yang menunggu membuatnya membeku.
Ladang jagung—satu-satunya tanaman pangan utama yang masih bertahan—diselimuti awan hitam yang bergerak. Bukan awan. Itu adalah kawanan wereng dan hama lainnya, bergerombol begitu padat hingga seperti kabut hitam yang melahap habis apa pun di depannya. Batang-batang jagung yang kemarin masih hijau, pagi itu berubah cokelat kehitaman. Daun-daun ludes. Tongkol-tongkol yang hampir panen, tinggal kerangka kosong.
Gagal panen total.
Para petani jatuh berlutut. Beberapa menjerit, memukuli tanah. Yang lain hanya diam, menatap kosong. Wanita-wanita menangis, memeluk anak-anak mereka.
Aryan berdiri di tepi ladang, menyaksikan semua itu. Tangannya meraba-raba batu di balik bajunya—batu latihannya, yang selalu ia bawa ke mana-mana. Tapi batu tak bisa menolong ladang yang mati. Batu tak bisa mengembalikan jagung yang sudah dimakan hama.
***
Siang itu, Kepala Desa Teguh mengumpulkan semua warga di lapangan dekat pohon beringin mati. Tiga puluh kepala keluarga datang dengan wajah muram. Tak ada yang bicara. Yang terdengar hanya isak tangis tertahan dan batuk-batuk kering karena kurang gizi.
Teguh berdiri di atas batu, kaki palsunya terlihat goyah. Usianya lima puluh tahun lebih, tapi pagi ini ia tampak seperti sudah sembilan puluh. Lingkaran hitam di bawah matanya dalam, kulitnya kian keriput dalam semalam.
"Warga Dusun Karang," suaranya serak. "Kalian sudah lihat ladang pagi ini. Hama telah mengambil apa yang tersisa."
Seorang wanita menjerit, "Lalu kami mau makan apa? Anak-anak saya sudah dua hari hanya minum air!" Yang lain menyusul, suara-suara protes bergemuruh.
Teguh mengangkat tangan, meminta diam. "Cadangan benih dan makanan kering di lumbung. Jika dibagi rata per kepala... cukup untuk tiga hari dengan porsi normal."
Keheningan mencekik. Tiga hari. Angka itu terasa seperti vonis mati.
"Karena itu," Teguh melanjutkan, suaranya bergetar, "mulai hari ini, jatah makanan dipotong empat puluh persen. Kita semua akan makan sekali sehari, setengah porsi. Dengan cara itu, kita bisa bertahan lima hari. Mungkin enam."
Protes pecah. "Lima hari? Lalu setelah itu?!" teriak seorang lelaki. "Kau mau kami mati perlahan?" Yang lain berteriak lebih keras, "Turunkan Teguh! Dia tidak bisa memimpin!"
Beberapa orang maju ke depan, tangan mengepal. Seorang pemuda kurus—Rasiman, yang punya anak balita—mendorong dada Teguh hingga kepala desa itu hampir jatuh.
"HENTIKAN!"
Baran melangkah maju, berdiri di antara Teguh dan para pendesak. "Kalian pikir dengan menjatuhkan Teguh, makanan akan muncul? Kita ini satu dusun. Satu keluarga. Kalau mulai saling bunuh, kita sudah mati sebelum lapar membunuh."
Kerumunan terdiam. Rasiman mundur selangkah. Baran kembali ke tempatnya, duduk di samping Aryan.
Di tengah rapat yang mereda, seorang petani tua bernama Jaka menghela napas panjang. "Bukan cuma makanan. Cangkul kita juga sudah tumpul. Ladang baru—kalau pun kita bisa buka—tak bisa digarap dengan alat rusak. Aku sudah coba asah, tapi batuannya sudah terlalu aus."
Yang lain mengangguk setuju. "Pisau dapur juga. Banyak yang sudah tak bisa dipakai. Daging keras pun tak bisa dipotong."
Aryan mendengar semua itu. Matanya tertuju pada cangkul yang dipegang Jaka—tumpul, retak di bagian ujung, tak berguna. Lalu ia melihat tangannya sendiri. Tangannya yang lecet, kapalan, tapi sudah bisa membuat mata tombak. Mungkin... mungkin ia bisa mencoba hal lain.
Saat rapat usai, Aryan mendekati Jaka. Dengan suara kecil, ia berkata, "Paman... boleh aku pinjam cangkulnya? Sebentar saja."
Jaka menatapnya heran. "Untuk apa?"
"Aku... aku mau lihat bentuknya."
Jaka mengangkat bahu, menyerahkan cangkul itu. "Bawa saja. Tapi hati-hati, sudah rapuh."
Aryan membawa cangkul itu pulang, menyembunyikannya di balik baju. Di bawah kolong rumah, ia mengamatinya dengan saksama. Batu pipih, lebar, dengan ujung runcing. Bentuknya jauh lebih rumit dari mata tombak yang biasa ia buat. Tapi mungkin... mungkin ia bisa meniru.
Ia mengambil batu sungai pipih, mulai memukul. DUK! DUK! DUK!
Satu jam. Dua jam. Batu itu pecah. Berkali-kali. Tak satu pun menyerupai cangkul.
Aryan frustrasi. Tangannya lecet, satu jari berdarah. Tapi ia tak menyerah. Ia ambil batu lain. Coba lagi. DUK! DUK! Pecah lagi.
Malam itu, saat makan malam—sup encer dari sisa-sisa kadal—Aryan diam seribu bahasa. Tangannya ia sembunyikan di balik paha, tak ingin ibunya melihat luka-luka baru.
"Nak, kau tidak apa-apa?" tanya Laras.
Aryan mengangguk, tersenyum tipis. "Hanya capek, Ma."
Baran menatapnya, tahu ada yang disembunyikan. Tapi ia diam. Malam nanti, ia akan bertanya.
***
Tiga hari setelah rapat, suasana desa makin mencekam. Jatah makanan dipotong, perut semakin lapar, dan kecurigaan antarwarga makin tajam. Aryan terus mencoba membuat cangkul di bawah kolong, tapi gagal lagi dan lagi. Empat batu pecah. Hasilnya hanya tumpukan serpihan tak berguna.
Sore itu, kabar buruk datang. Keluarga Rasiman—yang paling vokal di rapat—mengancam akan pindah. "Kami tak akan menunggu mati di sini!" teriak Rasiman di tengah lapangan. "Lebih baik coba untung di tempat lain!"
Beberapa keluarga lain ikut terpengaruh. Suasana makin panas.
Di rumah mereka, Baran duduk diam, memegang tombak dengan mata batu buatan Aryan—yang terbaik, yang paling tajam. Ia menatap anaknya lama. "Nak, Ayah harus pergi. Ke hutan dalam. Mungkin di sana masih ada rusa."
Aryan membelalak. "Tapi hutan dalam berbahaya, Yah!"
"Ayah tahu. Tapi di sini kita juga berbahaya. Kelaparan." Baran berdiri, mengikat tombaknya di punggung. "Doakan Ayah."
Laras ingin melarang, tapi tak bisa. Ia hanya memeluk Baran erat. "Hati-hati."
Baran pergi saat matahari mulai tenggelam. Aryan berdiri di beranda, memandangi ayahnya menghilang di balik semak. Di tangannya, sebongkah batu baru—calon cangkul yang entah akan gagal lagi.
***
Malam itu, Aryan tak bisa tidur. Ia duduk di bawah kolong, mencoba lagi. Tak... tak... tak... Pukulan kecil, hati-hati. Batu itu mulai menunjukkan bentuk. Pipih. Lebar. Mulai mirip.
Tapi kemudian, CRACK! Batu itu pecah. Yang kelima.
Aryan melempar batu pemukul, frustrasi. Matanya panas, tapi ia tahan. Ia ingin menangis, tapi tak mau. Di atasnya, Laras mungkin sudah tidur. Di luar, desa sunyi, hanya suara jangkrik.
Lalu, tiba-tiba, suara teriakan memecah keheningan. Bukan teriakan biasa. Ini histeris, penuh keputusasaan.
"TOLONG! MAKANAN KITA! DIRAMPOK!"
Aryan merangkak keluar. Dari kejauhan, dari arah rumah Rasiman, terdengar tangis dan jeritan. Beberapa warga keluar, bingung, takut. Baran tak ada—masih di hutan. Laras bangun, memeluk Aryan erat.
"Apa yang terjadi?" bisik Laras, gemetar.
Aryan tak bisa menjawab. Ia hanya bisa memandangi gelap, tempat di mana jeritan itu berasal. Seseorang—atau sekelompok orang—telah merampok keluarga yang paling rentan. Keluarga yang mengancam akan pergi.
Kecurigaan mulai merayap. Warga saling tatap dengan curiga. Malam itu, tak ada yang tidur.
***
Pagi harinya, desa seperti kubangan. Keluarga Rasiman duduk di depan rumah mereka yang acak-acakan, menangis. Persediaan makanan mereka—sedikit yang tersisa—lenyap. Tak ada jejak, tak ada petunjuk.
Aryan melihat semua dari jauh. Di dalam hatinya, campur aduk antara takut, sedih, dan marah. Tapi di balik itu, ada sesuatu yang lain: tekad. Desa ini hancur. Warga saling curiga. Makanan habis. Tapi mungkin—mungkin—ia bisa melakukan sesuatu. Bukan dengan tombak. Tapi dengan cangkul. Jika ia bisa membuat cangkul yang bagus, mereka bisa membuka ladang baru. Mereka bisa menanam lagi.
"Aku harus bisa," bisiknya pada diri sendiri.
Ia mengambil batu baru, bersiap mencoba lagi—yang keenam kalinya. Tapi baru saja hendak memukul, suara riuh dari kejauhan membuatnya berhenti.
Dari arah hutan, sesosok muncul. Baran. Berjalan dengan langkah berat, tubuhnya lelah, tapi di punggungnya... di punggungnya ada sesuatu. Besar. Cokelat kemerahan.
Rusa.
Aryan membeku. Matanya membelalak. Ayahnya pulang. Dengan rusa.
Warga mulai berhamburan keluar, menyambut dengan takjub. "BARAN! BARAN DAPAT RUSA!"
Aryan ingin berlari, ingin memeluk ayahnya, ingin ikut bergembira. Tapi kakinya tak bergerak. Ia hanya bisa berdiri, memandangi dari kejauhan, dengan batu cangkul yang gagal di tangannya.
Di tengah kerumunan yang mulai riuh, Baran mencari-cari sesuatu. Matanya menemukan Aryan. Ia tersenyum—lebar, bangga—dan mengangkat tombaknya. Tombak dengan mata batu buatan Aryan.
Aryan tersenyum balik. Tapi di sudut hatinya, ada perih yang menganga. Ayahnya berhasil. Tombaknya berhasil. Tapi cangkulnya... cangkulnya masih tak kunjung jadi. Dan desa ini butuh lebih dari sekadar satu rusa. Mereka butuh ladang baru. Mereka butuh cangkul.
Ia menunduk, memandangi batu di tangannya—yang keenam, yang akan segera pecah juga, ia tahu. Lalu ia mengepalkannya erat.
Besok. Besok aku coba lagi.
Di kejauhan, sorak-sorai memenuhi langit. Dusun Karang berpesta, untuk pertama kalinya dalam berbulan-bulan. Tapi di bawah kolong rumah, tersembunyi dari semua orang, tumpukan batu pecah dan cangkul-cangkul gagal berjejer dalam gelap—menunggu tangan-tangan kecil yang tak kenal menyerah.
Dan di dalam rumah itu, seorang anak berusia lima tahun memeluk lututnya, mendengar tawa dari kejauhan, berjanji pada diri sendiri bahwa suatu hari nanti, ia akan membuat sesuatu yang benar-benar berarti. Bukan untuk pujian. Tapi untuk ibunya yang pucat. Untuk ayahnya yang berdarah-darah di hutan. Untuk desa yang hampir hancur.
Untuk semua orang yang tak bisa membuat cangkul sendiri.
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. ☕️
Episode 3: Pests and Hope
A week since Aryan made his first spearhead. A week since Baran brought home a rabbit and Laras began to recover. A week filled with stone strikes, small flakes, and a secret between father and son.
Under the stilt house, the pile of broken stones grew larger. Three new spearheads were hidden behind the post—each better than the last. The first was just a shapeless pointed stone. The second began to resemble a triangle. The third, made two days ago, was truly sharp. Baran used it for hunting, and returned with a large lizard. Not a rabbit, but enough to eat.
Aryan felt proud. But in his heart, something gnawed. Only his father saw those spearheads. Only his father knew. Meanwhile, other villagers remained starving, remained thin, remained crying at night.
"I want to help more," he whispered to himself one morning, while Laras was still asleep.
***
That morning, everyone was startled by screams from the fields. Aryan ran out, following the other villagers rushing over. There, the scene awaiting him made him freeze.
The cornfield—the only main food crop that still survived—was covered in a moving black cloud. Not a cloud. It was a swarm of planthoppers and other pests, clustered so densely they were like a black fog devouring everything in their path. The corn stalks that were still green yesterday, that morning turned brownish-black. Leaves were gone. Cobs almost ready for harvest were just empty skeletons.
Total crop failure.
The farmers fell to their knees. Some screamed, pounding the ground. Others just stood silent, staring blankly. Women cried, hugging their children.
Aryan stood at the edge of the field, watching it all. His hand reached for the stone under his shirt—his practice stone, which he always carried everywhere. But a stone couldn't help a dead field. A stone couldn't bring back the corn already eaten by pests.
***
That afternoon, Village Head Teguh gathered all residents in the field near the dead banyan tree. Thirty heads of families came with grim faces. No one spoke. Only muffled sobs and dry coughs from malnutrition were heard.
Teguh stood on a rock, his wooden prosthetic leg looking unsteady. He was over fifty, but this morning he looked ninety. Dark circles under his eyes were deep, his skin had wrinkled overnight.
"Residents of Dusun Karang," his voice was hoarse. "You've seen the fields this morning. Pests have taken what was left."
A woman screamed, "Then what will we eat? My children have only had water for two days!" Others followed, voices of protest rumbling.
Teguh raised his hand, asking for silence. "Seed reserves and dry food in the granary. If divided equally per person... enough for three days with normal portions."
Strangling silence. Three days. That number felt like a death sentence.
"Therefore," Teguh continued, his voice trembling, "starting today, food rations are cut by forty percent. We will all eat once a day, half portions. That way, we can survive five days. Maybe six."
Protests erupted. "Five days? Then what?!" shouted a man. "You want us to die slowly?" Another shouted louder, "Remove Teguh! He can't lead!"
Several people stepped forward, fists clenched. A thin young man—Rasiman, who had a toddler—pushed Teguh's chest until the village head nearly fell.
"STOP IT!"
Baran stepped forward, standing between Teguh and the protesters. "You think by removing Teguh, food will appear? We are one hamlet. One family. If we start killing each other, we'll be dead before hunger kills us."
The crowd fell silent. Rasiman stepped back. Baran returned to his place, sitting beside Aryan.
In the subsiding meeting, an old farmer named Jaka sighed deeply. "It's not just food. Our hoes are also blunt. New fields—even if we could open them—can't be worked with broken tools. I've tried sharpening them, but the stones are too worn."
Others nodded in agreement. "Kitchen knives too. Many are unusable. Even tough meat can't be cut."
Aryan heard it all. His eyes fixed on the hoe Jaka was holding—blunt, cracked at the tip, useless. Then he looked at his own hands. His scraped, calloused hands, but they could already make spearheads. Maybe... maybe he could try something else.
When the meeting ended, Aryan approached Jaka. In a small voice, he said, "Uncle... can I borrow your hoe? Just for a moment."
Jaka looked at him strangely. "What for?"
"I... I want to see its shape."
Jaka shrugged, handing over the hoe. "Take it. But be careful, it's fragile."
Aryan brought the hoe home, hiding it under his shirt. Under the stilt house, he examined it carefully. Flat, wide stone with a pointed edge. Its shape was much more complicated than the spearheads he usually made. But maybe... maybe he could imitate it.
He took a flat river stone, began striking. THUD! THUD! THUD!
One hour. Two hours. The stone broke. Repeatedly. Not one resembled a hoe.
Aryan was frustrated. His hands were scraped, one finger bleeding. But he didn't give up. He took another stone. Tried again. THUD! THUD! Broke again.
That night, during dinner—thin soup from lizard leftovers—Aryan was silent. He hid his hands under his thighs, not wanting his mother to see the new wounds.
"Son, are you okay?" asked Laras.
Aryan nodded, smiling faintly. "Just tired, Mom."
Baran looked at him, knowing something was being hidden. But he remained silent. Tonight, he would ask.
***
Three days after the meeting, the village atmosphere grew more tense. Food rations were cut, stomachs grew hungrier, and suspicion among villagers sharpened. Aryan kept trying to make a hoe under the house, but failed again and again. Four stones broken. The result was only piles of useless flakes.
That afternoon, bad news came. Rasiman's family—the most vocal at the meeting—threatened to leave. "We won't wait to die here!" Rasiman shouted in the middle of the field. "Better to try our luck elsewhere!"
Several other families were influenced. The atmosphere grew hotter.
At their home, Baran sat silently, holding the spear with the stone tip made by Aryan—the best, the sharpest. He looked at his son for a long time. "Son, Father has to go. Into the deep forest. Maybe there are still deer there."
Aryan's eyes widened. "But the deep forest is dangerous, Dad!"
"Father knows. But here we're also in danger. Starvation." Baran stood, tying his spear to his back. "Pray for Father."
Laras wanted to forbid him, but couldn't. She just hugged Baran tightly. "Be careful."
Baran left as the sun began to set. Aryan stood on the porch, watching his father disappear behind the bushes. In his hand, a new chunk of stone—a potential hoe that would probably fail again.
***
That night, Aryan couldn't sleep. He sat under the house, trying again. Tak... tak... tak... Small, careful strikes. The stone began to show shape. Flat. Wide. Starting to resemble.
But then, CRACK! The stone broke. The fifth one.
Aryan threw the hammer stone, frustrated. His eyes burned, but he held back. He wanted to cry, but wouldn't. Above him, Laras was probably asleep. Outside, the village was silent, only cricket sounds.
Then, suddenly, screaming shattered the silence. Not ordinary screaming. It was hysterical, full of despair.
"HELP! OUR FOOD! ROBBED!"
Aryan crawled out. From a distance, from the direction of Rasiman's house, came cries and screams. Some villagers came out, confused, afraid. Baran wasn't there—still in the forest. Laras woke up, hugging Aryan tightly.
"What happened?" whispered Laras, trembling.
Aryan couldn't answer. He could only stare into the darkness, where the screams came from. Someone—or a group of people—had robbed the most vulnerable family. The family that had threatened to leave.
Suspicion began to creep. Villagers looked at each other suspiciously. That night, no one slept.
***
The next morning, the village was like a cesspool. Rasiman's family sat in front of their ransacked house, crying. Their food supplies—the little that remained—were gone. No traces, no clues.
Aryan watched from afar. In his heart, a mix of fear, sadness, and anger. But beneath that, there was something else: determination. This village was crumbling. Residents suspected each other. Food was gone. But maybe—maybe—he could do something. Not with a spear. But with a hoe. If he could make a good hoe, they could open new fields. They could plant again.
"I have to be able," he whispered to himself.
He took a new stone, ready to try again—the sixth time. But just as he was about to strike, commotion from a distance made him stop.
From the direction of the forest, a figure emerged. Baran. Walking with heavy steps, his body tired, but on his back... on his back was something. Large. Reddish brown.
A deer.
Aryan froze. His eyes widened. His father had returned. With a deer.
Villagers began rushing out, greeting with amazement. "BARAN! BARAN GOT A DEER!"
Aryan wanted to run, wanted to hug his father, wanted to join in the joy. But his feet wouldn't move. He could only stand, watching from a distance, with the failed hoe stone in his hand.
In the middle of the increasingly noisy crowd, Baran looked for something. His eyes found Aryan. He smiled—wide, proud—and raised his spear. The spear with the stone tip made by Aryan.
Aryan smiled back. But in a corner of his heart, there was a gaping ache. His father succeeded. His spear succeeded. But his hoe... his hoe still wasn't done. And this village needed more than just one deer. They needed new fields. They needed hoes.
He looked down, staring at the stone in his hand—the sixth one, which would soon break too, he knew. Then he clenched it tightly.
Tomorrow. Tomorrow I'll try again.
In the distance, cheers filled the sky. Dusun Karang was feasting, for the first time in months. But under the stilt house, hidden from everyone, piles of broken stones and failed hoes lined up in the dark—waiting for small, never-say-die hands.
And inside that house, a five-year-old boy hugged his knees, hearing laughter from afar, promising himself that one day, he would make something truly meaningful. Not for praise. But for his pale mother. For his father who bled in the forest. For a village nearly destroyed.
For all those who couldn't make their own hoes.
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