Malam Pertama | EPS 2

MALAM PERTAMA

Matahari baru naik setinggi pohon kelapa, tapi sumur desa sudah seperti pasar. Ember dentang-mendenting, suara orang berebut, dan di tengahnya Darman berdiri dengan kedua tangan terkacak pinggang. "Kalian pikir ini sumur orang tua kalian?" hardiknya pada tiga perempuan pengungsi yang mengantri dengan tampan malu-malu. Salah satu dari mereka, Marni—janda dengan tangan terampil membatik—hanya menunduk. Tapi Kusno yang kebetulan lewat tak bisa diam. "Mereka juga butuh air, Pak." Darman meludah. "Air kami. Sumur kami. Kalian numpang." Kusno memucat. Di balik pintu rumahnya, Baran mengamati dengan rahang mengeras. Dia harus memisah sebelum jadi keroyokan.

"DARMAN!" bentak Baran, melangkah keluar. Semua orang menoleh. Baran bukan tipe orang yang suka bicara—dia lebih suka tindakan. "Ada aturan baru. Antrian bergilir. Warga asli pagi, pengungsi siang." Darman membelalak. "Kau gila, Baran? Ini desa kita!" Baran menatapnya datar. "Ini desa kita. Dan kita masih punya adab." Suasana hening. Kusno mengangguk pelan pada Baran, semacam terima kasih yang tak terucap. Darman mendengus pergi, diikuti beberapa petani yang selama ini sepaham dengannya. Baran menghela napas panjang. Di balik jendela, Laras melihat semuanya. Ada rasa bangga bercampur cemas. Suaminya memang keras, tapi adil. Tapi adil di saat krisis begini... bisa berbahaya.

Siang harinya, Laras menyelinap ke dapur umum—sebutan untuk sudut balai desa yang disulap jadi tempat masak. Dia membawa bungkusan daun pisang. Isinya: lima potong singkong rebus. Wati, janda muda dengan perut buncit, menatapnya dengan mata berkaca-kaca. "Bu Laras... ini..." Laras menggeleng. "Jangan bilang siapa-siapa. Untuk anak-anak." Dia menatap Buyung yang duduk di pojok, sendirian, memainkan tanah. "Khususnya untuk dia." Wati mengangguk, tak kuasa berkata-kata. Laras keluar dengan perasaan campur aduk. Dia tahu persediaan menipis. Tapi melihat anak-anak kelaparan... dia lebih rela mengurangi jatahnya sendiri.

Di luar balai, di balik pohon randu yang sama seperti semalam, Bayu mengintip lagi. Kali ini dia melihat Aryan duduk di samping Buyung. Keduanya sedang mengupas singkong. Buyung masih ragu, tapi Aryan dengan cekatan mengupas dan menyodorkan setengah pada Buyung. "Ini buat kamu," kata Aryan pelan. Buyung menerima, matanya sembab. "Kenapa kamu baik sama aku?" Aryan mengangkat bahu. "Kamu lapar. Aku punya makanan." Sederhana sekali. Tapi Bayu, dari tempat persembunyiannya, merasa ada yang aneh. Aryan bicara seperti orang dewasa. Seperti... seperti tahu persis apa yang dirasakan Buyung. Bayu memejamkan mata. Ingatannya melompat pada kejadian beberapa bulan lalu: saat Aryan tiba-tiba menangis di malam hari, berkata "ada orang sakit di selatan" sebelum fajar. Esoknya, kabar datang: Mbah Joyo meninggal di rumahnya yang di selatan desa. Bayu dulu menganggapnya kebetulan. Tapi sekarang?

Matahari condong ke barat. Laras sedang mencuci pakaian di sungai kecil, ditemani beberapa ibu-ibu asli. Mereka berbisik-bisik. "Kasihan ya Wati, hamil tapi suami mati di jalan." "Iya, tapi jangan terlalu baik. Nanti kita kekurangan." Laras diam, terus mencuci. Tapi hatinya berdesir. Di tengah obrolan itu, tiba-tiba Sri—istri muda seorang petani—berkata, "Tapi anaknya Aryan juga baik. Tadi aku lihat dia bagi singkong sama anak pengungsi." Laras menghentikan gerakan tangannya. Jantungnya berhenti sejenak. "Maksudmu?" Sri tersenyum polos. "Iya, di belakang balai. Aryan sama anak yatim itu. Namanya Buyung, kan?" Laras memaksakan senyum. "Ah... iya, mereka main." Tapi dalam hati, ombak besar menghantam. Aryan terlalu terlihat. Ini berbahaya.

Senja turun. Laras bergegas pulang, berniat bicara pada Aryan. Tapi di ambang pintu, dia melihat Nini sudah duduk di beranda rumahnya. Dukun tua itu menatapnya dengan sorot tajam. "Laras." Suara Nini berat. Laras merasa kakinya lemas. "Nini... ada apa?" Nini menepuk kursi di sampingnya. "Duduk." Laras duduk. Tangannya berkeringat dingin. Nini diam cukup lama, lalu berkata pelan, "Anakmu terus memberi makan anak pengungsi." Laras membela. "Dia baik hati, Nini." "Bukan soal baiknya," potong Nini. "Tapi soal bagaimana dia tahu anak itu lapar. Padahal dia tak pernah bicara dengan mereka. Tak pernah lihat mereka. Laras... anakmu tak normal." Laras memucat. "Maksud Nini?" Nini menatap matanya langsung. "Kau tahu maksudku. Sejak lahir dia berbeda. Aku sudah bilang, rahasiakan. Tapi sekarang... di depan orang banyak, dia mulai menunjukkan."

Laras ingin menangis. Tapi dia tahan. "Aku hanya... aku tak tega lihat anak kelaparan, Nini." Nini menghela napas panjang, terdengar seperti angin malam. "Perasaanku sama. Tapi Laras, ada yang lebih penting dari rasa iba. Kelangsungan hidup anakmu. Kalau sampai orang tahu... kau tahu sendiri bagaimana desa memperlakukan yang berbeda." Laras membayangkan. Darman dan kelompoknya. Mereka sudah benci pada pengungsi. Apalagi kalau tahu ada anak "ajaib"? Bisa dibakar hidup-hidup. Atau diusir. Atau lebih parah. "Apa yang harus kulakukan?" tanyanya lirih. Nini bangun. "Kontrol dia. Jangan biarkan dia terlalu mencolok. Beri makan anak-anak itu, tapi jangan lewat Aryan." Laras mengangguk patuh. Nini melangkah turun dari beranda. Di kejauhan, di balai desa yang mulai sunyi, sesosok perempuan tua berdiri. Mbok Ranti. Matanya menyipit memandang Nini yang berjalan pulang.

Malam semakin pekat. Mbok Ranti tak bisa tidur. Dia keluar dari balai, duduk di batu dekat pohon beringin. Matanya terus mengikuti bayangan Nini yang hilang di ujung desa. Hatinya berdebar tak karuan. Tiga puluh tahun. Tiga puluh tahun lalu, di medan Perang Besar, dia melihat Nini jatuh tertembus panah. Dia sendiri yang menutup mata Nini, mendoakannya. Tapi tadi, di siang hari, dia melihat Nini berjalan dengan selamat. "Apa aku bermimpi?" bisiknya sendiri. Tapi dia tahu itu bukan mimpi. Nini hidup. Nini ada di sini. Di Dusun Karang. Dan di balik semua itu, Mbok Ranti ingat rahasia yang mereka jaga bersama. Klan Matahari. Anak yang dititipkan. Tiba-tiba napasnya tercekat. Anak itu—mungkin sekarang sudah besar—ada di desa ini. Lalu dia melihat ke arah rumah Baran, tempat Aryan tinggal. "Ya Tuhan..." bisiknya. "Apa mungkin..."

Di dalam rumahnya, Nini duduk bersila di depan altar kecil. Lilin menyala redup. Dia membuka kotak kayu, mengeluarkan selembar daun lontar yang sama dengan yang dilihat Mbok Ranti. Di atasnya tertulis simbol matahari dengan sinar berjumlah tujuh. Simbol Klan Matahari. Klan yang dianggap musuh kerajaan tiga puluh tahun lalu. Klan yang dibantai habis-habisan. Klan yang tersisa hanya satu—seorang bayi laki-laki yang dititipkan pada Baran dan Laras. Aryan. Nini memejamkan mata. "Maafkan aku, Ranti," bisiknya. "Aku harus sembunyikan ini. Demi anak itu." Tapi di luar, Mbok Ranti sudah melangkah mendekati rumah Nini. Langkahnya pelan, berat, penuh tanya. Di tangannya, dia juga menggenggam daun lontar yang sama. Simbol matahari bersinar diterpa cahaya bulan yang samar.

Ketukan di pintu. Nini terkejut. Siapa malam-malam begini? Dia bangun, membuka pintu sedikit. Di luar, berdiri Mbok Ranti dengan mata berkaca-bakaca. "Nini..." suaranya bergetar. "Kau benar-benar hidup." Nini diam. Tak bisa berkata. Mbok Ranti melanjutkan, "Tiga puluh tahun lalu aku melihatmu mati. Aku menguburmu, Nini. Tapi kau di sini." Nini menunduk. "Maafkan aku, Ranti." Mbok Ranti menggeleng. "Bukan itu yang ingin kutahu. Yang ingin kutahu... kenapa kau bersembunyi? Dan..." dia mengangkat daun lontar di tangannya. "Apa anak Klan Matahari ada di sini?" Nini memucat. Di kejauhan, dari rumah Baran, terdengar suara Aryan tertawa kecil dalam tidurnya. Angin malam membawa tawa itu. Dan dua dukun tua itu terdiam, di ambang pintu, di malam pertama yang akan mengubah segalanya.

Di pos jaga, Baran duduk termenung. Dia tak tahu apa yang terjadi di rumah Nini. Yang dia tahu, malam ini dia merasa cemas luar biasa. Bukan karena pengungsi, bukan karena Darman. Tapi karena anaknya. Aryan. Bocah yang selalu bicara dalam tidur. Malam ini, Aryan bergumam, "Buyung... jangan takut... aku tahu kamu sedih..." Baran memejamkan mata. "Lindungi dia, apa pun yang terjadi," bisiknya pada Tuhan yang entah percaya atau tidak. Di luar, bulan bersembunyi di balik awan. Dusun Karang tenggelam dalam gelap. Dan di kegelapan itu, benih-benih perubahan mulai tumbuh—entah jadi pohon pelindung, atau racun yang mematikan.

THE FIRST NIGHT (English Version)

The sun had barely risen to coconut-tree height, but the village well was already a marketplace. Buckets clanged, voices argued, and at the center stood Darman with hands on his hips. "You think this is your parents' well?" he barked at three refugee women waiting meekly in line. One of them, Marni—a widow with skilled batik-making hands—just stared at the ground. But Kusno, passing by, couldn't stay silent. "They need water too, sir." Darman spat. "Our water. Our well. You're just guests here." Kusno paled. Behind his door, Baran watched with clenched jaw. He had to intervene before it turned into a brawl.

"DARMAN!" Baran shouted, stepping outside. Everyone turned. Baran wasn't a man of many words—he preferred action. "New rule. Rotating queue. Natives in the morning, refugees in the afternoon." Darman's eyes widened. "Are you crazy, Baran? This is our village!" Baran stared flatly. "Our village. And we still have manners." Silence fell. Kusno nodded subtly at Baran, a wordless thanks. Darman stormed off, followed by some like-minded farmers. Baran sighed deeply. Behind the window, Laras watched everything. A mix of pride and worry filled her. Her husband was firm, but fair. But being fair in a crisis like this... could be dangerous.

That afternoon, Laras slipped into the communal kitchen—a corner of the village hall turned cooking area. She carried a banana-leaf package containing five boiled cassavas. Wati, the pregnant young widow, looked at her with tearful eyes. "Mrs. Laras... this is..." Laras shook her head. "Don't tell anyone. For the children." She looked at Buyung, sitting alone in the corner, playing with dirt. "Especially for him." Wati nodded, speechless. Laras left with mixed feelings. She knew supplies were dwindling. But seeing hungry children... she'd rather reduce her own portion.

Outside the hall, behind the same kapok tree as last night, Bayu was spying again. This time he saw Aryan sitting next to Buyung. Both were peeling cassava. Buyung still hesitated, but Aryan skillfully peeled and offered half to Buyung. "This is for you," Aryan said softly. Buyung accepted, eyes swollen. "Why are you being kind to me?" Aryan shrugged. "You're hungry. I have food." So simple. But Bayu, from his hiding spot, felt something strange. Aryan spoke like an adult. Like... like he knew exactly what Buyung felt. Bayu closed his eyes. His mind flashed to an event months ago: when Aryan suddenly cried at night, saying "someone's sick in the south" before dawn. Next morning, news came: Mbah Joyo died in his house south of the village. Bayu thought it was coincidence then. But now?

The sun tilted west. Laras was washing clothes in the small river, accompanied by some native women. They whispered. "Poor Wati, pregnant and her husband died on the road." "Yes, but don't be too kind. We'll run short ourselves." Laras stayed silent, continuing to wash. But her heart stirred. Amid their chatter, Sri—a young farmer's wife—suddenly said, "But Aryan is kind too. I saw him sharing cassava with a refugee child." Laras stopped moving. Her heart stopped briefly. "What do you mean?" Sri smiled innocently. "Yes, behind the hall. Aryan with that orphan boy. Buyung, right?" Laras forced a smile. "Ah... yes, they're playing." But inside, a wave crashed. Aryan was too visible. This was dangerous.

Dusk fell. Laras hurried home, intending to talk to Aryan. But at the doorstep, she saw Nini already sitting on her porch. The old shaman stared at her with sharp eyes. "Laras." Nini's voice was heavy. Laras felt her legs weaken. "Nini... what's wrong?" Nini patted the seat beside her. "Sit." Laras sat. Her hands were cold with sweat. Nini was silent for a long while, then spoke softly, "Your son keeps feeding refugee children." Laras defended him. "He's kind-hearted, Nini." "It's not about kindness," Nini cut in. "It's about how he knows those children are hungry. Without ever speaking to them. Without ever seeing them. Laras... your son isn't normal." Laras paled. "What do you mean?" Nini looked directly into her eyes. "You know what I mean. He's been different since birth. I told you, keep it secret. But now... in public, he's starting to show it."

Laras wanted to cry. But she held back. "I just... I can't bear to see hungry children, Nini." Nini sighed deeply, sounding like the night wind. "I feel the same. But Laras, there's something more important than pity. Your son's survival. If people find out... you know how villages treat those who are different." Laras imagined. Darman and his group. They already hated refugees. What if they knew there was a "magical" child? They could burn him alive. Or expel him. Or worse. "What should I do?" she whispered. Nini stood. "Control him. Don't let him be too conspicuous. Feed those children, but not through Aryan." Laras nodded obediently. Nini stepped down from the porch. In the distance, at the now-quiet village hall, an old woman stood. Mbok Ranti. Her eyes narrowed, watching Nini walk home.

Night deepened. Mbok Ranti couldn't sleep. She left the hall, sat on a stone near the banyan tree. Her eyes followed Nini's silhouette disappearing at the village edge. Her heart pounded strangely. Thirty years. Thirty years ago, on the Great War battlefield, she saw Nini fall, pierced by an arrow. She herself closed Nini's eyes, prayed for her. But earlier today, she saw Nini walking safely. "Am I dreaming?" she whispered to herself. But she knew it wasn't a dream. Nini was alive. Nini was here. In Dusun Karang. And behind all that, Mbok Ranti remembered the secret they'd guarded together. The Sun Clan. The entrusted child. Suddenly her breath caught. That child—probably grown now—was in this village. Then she looked toward Baran's house, where Aryan lived. "Oh God..." she whispered. "Could it be..."

Inside her house, Nini sat cross-legged before a small altar. A candle burned dimly. She opened a wooden box, took out a palm leaf manuscript—the same one Mbok Ranti had seen. On it was drawn a sun symbol with seven rays. The symbol of the Sun Clan. The clan considered enemies of the kingdom thirty years ago. The clan massacred to near extinction. The sole survivor—a baby boy entrusted to Baran and Laras. Aryan. Nini closed her eyes. "Forgive me, Ranti," she whispered. "I had to hide this. For that child's sake." But outside, Mbok Ranti was already approaching Nini's house. Her steps were slow, heavy, full of questions. In her hand, she also clutched the same palm leaf. The sun symbol glowed faintly in the pale moonlight.

A knock at the door. Nini startled. Who would come this late? She rose, opened the door slightly. Outside stood Mbok Ranti, eyes glistening. "Nini..." her voice trembled. "You're truly alive." Nini was silent. Speechless. Mbok Ranti continued, "Thirty years ago, I saw you die. I buried you, Nini. But you're here." Nini looked down. "Forgive me, Ranti." Mbok Ranti shook her head. "That's not what I want to know. What I want to know... why did you hide? And..." she raised the palm leaf in her hand. "Is the Sun Clan child here?" Nini paled. In the distance, from Baran's house, Aryan's soft laughter echoed in his sleep. The night wind carried that laugh. And the two old shamans stood frozen, at the doorstep, on the first night that would change everything.

At the guard post, Baran sat brooding. He didn't know what was happening at Nini's house. What he knew was, tonight he felt strangely anxious. Not because of the refugees, not because of Darman. But because of his son. Aryan. The boy who always talked in his sleep. Tonight, Aryan murmured, "Buyung... don't be afraid... I know you're sad..." Baran closed his eyes. "Protect him, whatever happens," he whispered to a God he wasn't sure he believed in. Outside, the moon hid behind clouds. Dusun Karang sank into darkness. And in that darkness, seeds of change began to grow—whether into a sheltering tree or a deadly poison, no one yet knew.

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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