WABAH DATANG | EPS 7

WABAH DATANG

Pagi itu, jumlah anak yang sakit bertambah. Bukan lima, tapi delapan. Di rumah-rumah, tangis terdengar sayup-sayup. Warga mulai panik. Beberapa ibu membawa anak mereka ke balai desa, meminta Nini turun tangan. Nini memeriksa satu per satu, wajahnya semakin tegang. "Gejalanya sama. Diare berat, muntah, demam." Dia mencium bau yang keluar dari tubuh anak-anak itu—bau anyir yang samar, familiar tapi mengganggu. Mbok Ranti datang dengan ramuan darurat, tapi jumlahnya tak cukup. "Kita butuh lebih banyak bahan," katanya. "Daun jambu, kunyit, temulawak, dan madu kalau ada." Laras, yang membantu merawat, mengangguk. "Aku cari ke dapur."

Di tengah kepanikan, seseorang maju. Joko—remaja kurus dengan wajah pucat yang sejak datang jarang bicara. Matanya sembab, mungkin karena sakit yang dideritanya sejak di perjalanan. Tapi hari ini, ada tekad di wajahnya. "Nini... aku boleh bantu?" Nini menatapnya. "Kau tahu obat?" Joko mengangguk malu-malu. "Waktu di perjalanan, banyak yang sakit. Aku... aku belajar dari nenekku. Dia dukun di desaku." Nini mengerutkan dahi, lalu mengangguk. "Bantu aku ramu. Cepat."

Seharian itu, Nini dan Joko bekerja berdampingan. Joko menunjukkan pengetahuannya—ramuan mana yang harus ditumbuk halus, mana yang cukup direbus, berapa takaran yang pas untuk anak-anak. Tangannya cekatan meski kadang berhenti karena batuk. Nini mengamatinya dengan rasa kagum yang tumbuh. Anak ini sakit-sakitan, tapi pengetahuannya tentang tanaman obat... luar biasa. Saat mentari mulai condong, ramuan siap. Nini dan para ibu memberikannya pada anak-anak yang sakit. Satu jam berlalu. Dua jam. Lalu, satu per satu, anak-anak itu mulai tenang. Muntah berhenti. Demam turun. Warga yang menunggu di luar balai menghela napas lega. Joko duduk lemas di pojok, wajahnya pucat kelelahan. Laras mendekat, meletakkan tangan di bahunya. "Kau hebat, Joko." Joko tersenyum tipis. "Nenekku yang hebat. Aku cuma ingat ajarannya."

Malam harinya, Nini dan Mbok Ranti duduk di pondok, menghitung stok ramuan yang tersisa. "Kita harus produksi lebih," kata Mbok Ranti. "Ini baru delapan anak. Kalau wabah menyebar..." Nini mengangguk. "Besok kumpulkan bahan. Kita buat stok lima puluh porsi." Dia menoleh ke arah Joko yang masih duduk lemas di pojok. "Joko, mulai besok kau resmi jadi asistenku." Joko terkejut. "Tapi Nini... aku cuma pengungsi. Aku..." Nini memotong. "Kau punya pengetahuan. Kau punya hati. Itu lebih penting dari asal-usul." Joko menunduk, matanya berkaca-kaca. "Terima kasih, Nini."

Keesokan harinya, suasana desa berubah. Bukan hanya karena anak-anak mulai pulih, tapi karena warga asli mulai memandang Joko dengan hormat. Beberapa ibu datang membawa bingkisan kecil—singkong rebus, telur rebus, sekadar ucapan terima kasih. Joko menerima dengan malu-malu, tangannya gemetar. Darman, yang lewat, berhenti sejenak. Matanya menatap Joko, lalu dia mengangguk pelan. Tanpa kata, itu adalah pengakuan. Pengakuan bahwa pengungsi bukan lagi sekadar "mereka", tapi bagian dari "kita".

Pak Teguh memanfaatkan momentum. "Kita harus cegah wabah datang lagi," katanya dalam pertemuan dadakan di balai desa. "Sumur kita cuma satu, terlalu padat. Air gampang kotor." Baran mengangguk setuju. "Harus gali sumur baru. Minimal dua titik." Kusno, yang ikut dalam pertemuan, mengangkat tangan. "Saya tahu tempat dekat sungai. Tanahnya lembap, pasti ada mata air." Pak Teguh tersenyum. "Bagus. Besok kita mulai gali."

Sore harinya, puluhan warga—asli dan pengungsi—bekerja bersama menggali sumur. Yang satu di dekat sungai, yang satu di timur desa, dekat ladang baru. Keringat bercucuran, tapi semangat tak padam. Bahkan Darman ikut membantu, meski canggung awalnya. Laras membawakan air minum, Aryan dan Buyung membantu membawakan alat-alat kecil. Di sela istirahat, Kusno berkata pada Baran, "Dulu, di desaku, kami punya sumur tiga. Tapi dihancurkan pasukan Serigala Malam." Baran mengerutkan dahi. "Serigala Malam?" Kusno mengangguk, wajahnya gelap. "Mereka perampok. Tapi lebih dari itu—mereka bayaran. Siapa pun yang bayar, mereka kerjakan." Baran menyimpan informasi itu dalam hati. Musuh baru? Atau ancaman lama yang kembali?

Malam turun. Sumur pertama hampir jadi—tinggal memperdalam sedikit lagi. Tapi Nini tak bisa tidur. Sepanjang hari, pikirannya terganggu oleh sesuatu. Bau anyir di tubuh anak-anak itu... dia pernah menciumnya sebelumnya. Tapi di mana? Tiba-tiba dia teringat. Perang Besar. Saat pasukan kerajaan meracuni sumber air desa yang diduga menyembunyikan anggota Klan Matahari. Bau itu sama. Anyir, samar, tapi khas. Nini bangkit, mengambil lampu minyak, dan berjalan ke sumber air—sumur lama yang jadi pusat wabah. Dia menunduk, menciduk air dengan tempurung, menciumnya. Bau anyir itu masih ada. Samar, tapi ada. Lalu dia meraba bibir sumur. Jari-jarinya menemukan sesuatu—bekas hitam, seperti arang tercampur lemak. Dia mendekatkan ke lampu. Matanya membelalak. Itu bukan kotoran biasa. Itu jejak sihir. Sihir hitam. Seseorang sengaja meracuni air.

Nini berdiri, jantungnya berdegup kencang. Matanya menyapu kegelapan. Siapa? Siapa yang punya kemampuan ini? Dan kenapa? Di antara pengungsi, hanya Mbok Ranti yang bisa sihir. Tapi Mbok Ranti bersamanya sepanjang hari. Lalu siapa? Pikirannya melompat pada kemungkinan lain—mungkin bukan dari dalam desa. Mungkin dari luar. Tapi jejak ini baru, tak lebih dari dua hari. Berarti pelakunya masih di sini. Masih di Dusun Karang. Nini berjalan cepat ke rumah Baran. Dia harus memberi tahu. Tapi di tengah jalan, dia berhenti. Di kejauhan, di balik pohon randu, dia melihat bayangan. Sesosok lelaki membungkuk, membuang sesuatu ke semak-semak. Nini mematikan lampunya, bersembunyi di balik pohon. Lelaki itu menoleh, wajahnya setengah gelap. Tapi Nini cukup mengenali—Kirun. Pengungsi pendiam yang tak pernah menonjol. Dia melihat Kirun berjalan cepat, menghilang di antara rumah-rumah. Nini menunggu beberapa saat, lalu mendekati semak yang dimaksud. Dengan hati-hati, dia mengambil bungkusan itu—kain usang berisi sisa-sisa bubuk hitam. Dia menciumnya. Bau anyir yang sama. Nini memejamkan mata. "Jadi ini pelakunya."

Di rumahnya, Kirun duduk termenung. Tangannya gemetar. Dia tak tahu kalau Nini melihatnya. Dia pikir malam ini aman. Tapi di dadanya, kegelisahan menggerogoti. Bahan racunnya hampir habis. Tapi dia belum mendapat informasi cukup. Masih banyak yang harus dicari tahu: di mana anak Klan Matahari disembunyikan? Siapa orangtuanya? Dan seberapa kuat kekuatan desa ini? Dia mengeluarkan buku kecilnya, menulis dengan arang: "Percobaan pertama: wabah. Respon desa: cepat tanggap. Ada dukun lain selain Nini. Muda. Perlu diwaspadai." Lalu dia menyembunyikan buku itu, merebahkan diri. Di luar, angin malam bertiup, membawa bisik-bisik peringatan yang tak dia dengar. Di balik jendela, Nini sudah pergi. Tapi dia akan kembali. Besok. Dengan Baran. Dengan kebenaran.

THE PLAGUE COMES (English Version)

That morning, the number of sick children increased. Not five, but eight. In houses, crying could be heard faintly. Villagers began to panic. Some mothers brought their children to the village hall, asking Nini to intervene. Nini examined them one by one, her face growing tenser. "Same symptoms. Severe diarrhea, vomiting, fever." She smelled the odor emanating from the children's bodies—a faint rancid smell, familiar yet disturbing. Mbok Ranti arrived with emergency herbal mixtures, but there wasn't enough. "We need more ingredients," she said. "Guava leaves, turmeric, ginger, and honey if available." Laras, who was helping care for them, nodded. "I'll look in the kitchen."

In the midst of panic, someone stepped forward. Joko—a thin teenager with a pale face who'd rarely spoken since arriving. His eyes were swollen, probably from illness he'd suffered during the journey. But today, there was determination on his face. "Nini... may I help?" Nini looked at him. "You know medicine?" Joko nodded shyly. "During the journey, many got sick. I... I learned from my grandmother. She was a shaman in my village." Nini frowned, then nodded. "Help me prepare the mixtures. Quickly."

All that day, Nini and Joko worked side by side. Joko demonstrated his knowledge—which herbs needed fine pounding, which just needed boiling, the right dosage for children. His hands were skilled even though he occasionally stopped to cough. Nini watched him with growing admiration. This boy was sickly, but his knowledge of medicinal plants... extraordinary. As the sun began to tilt, the mixtures were ready. Nini and the mothers gave them to the sick children. One hour passed. Two hours. Then, one by one, the children began to calm. Vomiting stopped. Fevers dropped. Villagers waiting outside the hall sighed in relief. Joko sat weakly in a corner, his face pale with exhaustion. Laras approached, placing a hand on his shoulder. "You're amazing, Joko." Joko smiled faintly. "My grandmother was amazing. I just remembered her teachings."

That night, Nini and Mbok Ranti sat in the hut, counting remaining herbal supplies. "We need to produce more," Mbok Ranti said. "This was just eight children. If the plague spreads..." Nini nodded. "Tomorrow gather ingredients. We'll make fifty portions." She turned to Joko, still sitting weakly in the corner. "Joko, starting tomorrow you're officially my assistant." Joko was surprised. "But Nini... I'm just a refugee. I..." Nini cut him off. "You have knowledge. You have heart. That's more important than origins." Joko looked down, eyes glistening. "Thank you, Nini."

The next day, the village atmosphere changed. Not only because the children were recovering, but because natives began looking at Joko with respect. Some mothers brought small gifts—boiled cassava, boiled eggs, just tokens of thanks. Joko received them shyly, his hands trembling. Darman, passing by, stopped for a moment. His eyes looked at Joko, then he nodded slowly. Without words, it was recognition. Recognition that refugees were no longer just "them", but part of "us".

Pak Teguh seized the momentum. "We must prevent another plague," he said in an emergency meeting at the village hall. "We only have one well, too crowded. Water gets contaminated easily." Baran nodded in agreement. "We need to dig new wells. At least two spots." Kusno, attending the meeting, raised his hand. "I know a place near the river. The soil is moist, there must be a spring." Pak Teguh smiled. "Good. Tomorrow we start digging."

That afternoon, dozens of villagers—natives and refugees—worked together digging wells. One near the river, one east of the village, near the new fields. Sweat poured, but spirits remained high. Even Darman helped, though awkwardly at first. Laras brought drinking water, Aryan and Buyung helped carry small tools. During a break, Kusno said to Baran, "Back in my village, we had three wells. But they were destroyed by the Night Wolves." Baran frowned. "Night Wolves?" Kusno nodded, his face dark. "They're bandits. But more than that—they're mercenaries. Whoever pays, they do the job." Baran stored that information in his heart. New enemies? Or old threats returning?

Night fell. The first well was almost finished—just needed deepening a bit. But Nini couldn't sleep. All day, her mind was troubled by something. That rancid smell on the children's bodies... she'd smelled it before. But where? Suddenly she remembered. The Great War. When the kingdom's army poisoned the water source of a village suspected of hiding Sun Clan members. The smell was the same. Rancid, faint, but distinctive. Nini rose, took an oil lamp, and walked to the water source—the old well that was the plague's center. She bent down, scooped water with a coconut shell, smelled it. The rancid smell was still there. Faint, but there. Then she felt the well's rim. Her fingers found something—black residue, like charcoal mixed with fat. She brought it close to the lamp. Her eyes widened. This wasn't ordinary dirt. It was a trace of magic. Black magic. Someone deliberately poisoned the water.

Nini stood, her heart pounding. Her eyes swept the darkness. Who? Who had this ability? And why? Among the refugees, only Mbok Ranti could do magic. But Mbok Ranti was with her all day. Then who? Her mind jumped to another possibility—maybe not from inside the village. Maybe from outside. But this trace was fresh, no more than two days old. Meaning the perpetrator was still here. Still in Dusun Karang. Nini walked quickly toward Baran's house. She had to tell him. But halfway there, she stopped. In the distance, behind the kapok tree, she saw a silhouette. A man bending, throwing something into the bushes. Nini extinguished her lamp, hid behind a tree. The man turned, his face half-dark. But Nini recognized him well enough—Kirun. The quiet refugee who never stood out. She saw Kirun walk quickly, disappearing among the houses. Nini waited a moment, then approached the bushes in question. Carefully, she took the package—worn cloth containing remnants of black powder. She smelled it. The same rancid odor. Nini closed her eyes. "So this is the perpetrator."

In his house, Kirun sat brooding. His hands trembled. He didn't know Nini had seen him. He thought tonight was safe. But in his chest, anxiety gnawed. His poison ingredients were almost gone. But he hadn't gathered enough information yet. So much still to find out: where was the Sun Clan child hidden? Who were the parents? And how strong was this village's power? He took out his small book, wrote with charcoal: "First attempt: plague. Village response: quick reaction. There's another shaman besides Nini. Young. Must be watched." Then he hid the book, lay down. Outside, the night wind blew, carrying warning whispers he didn't hear. Behind the window, Nini had left. But she would return. Tomorrow. With Baran. With the truth.

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