Beneath The Banyan Tree

Niskala’s breathing was still ragged. Slowly, he tried to steady himself and ease the tightness in his chest while continuing to whisper *istighfar*.

Sagara pulled aside the curtain covering the window. He wanted to make sure of what his brother had actually seen—or felt.

But there was nothing outside.

Sagara turned. Niskala seemed to be calming down.

“Are you feeling better, Dek?”

Niskala’s body seemed to lose all its strength. He leaned his back against the wall and wiped the sweat from his forehead with the end of his sleeve.

Sagara sat down beside him and gently patted his brother’s shoulder.

For some reason, Ujang Belegug’s warning kept echoing in his mind.

Perhaps that eccentric, strange man really did know something they didn’t.

Before Sagara could think any further, Nyi Rukmini appeared from the kitchen carrying a tray with both hands. Two cups sat on it, steam rising from their surfaces.

“Sit on the sofa. Drink this warm tea.”

The old woman placed the tray with the two cups of tea on the glass-topped table.

Despite standing in the middle of a rural settlement, Nyi Rukmini’s house was remarkably grand. The furnishings were anything but cheap. Its architecture was distinctly old European, even more imposing than the house they had back in the city.

And yet, the house felt slightly damp and gloomy, despite the fact that Nyi Rukmini seemed to take meticulous care of it.

Sagara helped his brother over to the sofa, its cushions remarkably soft. Once Niskala was seated, he picked up one of the cups and scooped up a little tea with a spoon, bringing it to his brother’s lips.

A bitter, astringent taste immediately spread across the back of Niskala’s tongue.

He nearly spat it out, but stopped when he caught the sharp look in Nyi Rukmini’s eyes.

“Don’t spit it out. Endure it. It’s for your own good.”

Nyi Rukmini rose and left her two grandsons.

Her footsteps were slow and unsteady as the old woman made her way toward her own room.

A moment later, the sound of a door slamming reverberated through the house, so loud that it sounded as though the door had been violently thrown shut.

Where had a woman in her sixties found that much strength?

Sagara and Niskala stared at each other.

This house... even this dusun... seemed to be hiding far too many strange things.

—

Sagara was already preparing to lie down on the bed. It was getting late. Dusun Getihan was eerily quiet.

Meanwhile, Niskala was still staring at the white-painted ceiling, illuminated by the dim light hanging directly above them.

“Bang, while we’ve been here, have you ever heard the call to prayer?”

Niskala turned toward his brother, who was still sitting on the edge of the bed.

Sagara turned to face him. His gaze grew distant as he tried to recall everything that had happened since they arrived in Dusun Getihan.

His heart skipped a beat.

Only now did Sagara realize that his brother was right.

He had heard the *adhan*.

But the call to prayer had not come from the dusun where they were staying.

It had sounded so far away, from somewhere deep beyond the village. Faint, almost swallowed by the distance.

And yet, throughout their journey home and during their stay at Nyi Rukmini’s house, Sagara had never seen a mosque or *musala* anywhere around the dusun.

Then...

where had that call to prayer really come from?

Before he could find an answer, Sagara flinched at the faint sound of a broom scraping against the ground outside. Niskala reacted the same way. He quickly sat up in bed.

“Grandma’s sweeping this late at night, Bang?”

Niskala glanced toward the bedroom window, its curtains still open. But all that could be seen was the thick darkness outside.

Sagara shrugged.

He got up from the bed and walked toward the window. He wanted to make sure of what was actually happening outside their room.

Sagara drew the curtain aside, then pulled most of it shut, leaving only a narrow gap through which he could peek.

He was startled to realize that Niskala had already crouched down directly beneath his chin.

“Astaghfirullah. You scared me.”

“Ssst, Bang! She’ll see us!”

The two brothers peered through the narrow gap between the curtains.

Sure enough, they could make out the faint figure of a woman sweeping scattered leaves toward a banyan tree.

But...

what was that lying between the banyan’s sprawling roots?

The two pairs of eyes peering from behind the curtain narrowed, trying to make out what was there.

An offering had been placed on a medium-sized bamboo *tampah*.

It was impossible to tell what else was arranged upon it. But two things were clearly visible: a cup of coffee and a dead *Ayam Cemani*.

A candle burned beside it, illuminating the woven bamboo tray and casting just enough light for its contents to be seen faintly from a distance.

“An offering, Bang. What’s it for?”

“How would I know? But it must be for some kind of ritual.”

Sagara’s heart skipped a beat.

Their minds immediately returned to Ujang Belegug’s mysterious warning from earlier that afternoon.

“Bang...”

Niskala’s voice trailed off.

“Hmmm...”

Sagara’s gaze remained fixed on the figure outside.

“I’ve got chills, Bang.”

Sagara lowered his head and glanced at his brother, still crouching beneath the window.

“What’s wrong?”

Niskala was beginning to look unsettled.

“There, Bang. There...”

He pointed outside.

“In front of Grandma. Look, Bang.”

Sagara turned his gaze toward the spot Niskala was pointing at.

“What?”

He saw nothing except the offering placed among the banyan tree’s sprawling roots.

“T-T-There’s a black creature, Bang.”

Niskala’s voice trembled.

“It’s e-e-eating the offering.”

Sagara narrowed his eyes.

Again, he saw nothing.

All he could see was Nyi Rukmini, now kneeling in front of the offering. Her palms were pressed together against her chest. Her eyes were closed, while her lips moved silently, reciting something they could not hear from where they were hiding.

“Bang, close the curtains.”

Niskala’s breathing grew increasingly labored.

“It’s looking at us. Its eyes... they’re glowing red.”

Niskala suddenly stumbled backward, his face filled with terror.

Sagara quickly pulled the curtains shut.

He then crouched down and helped his brother back toward the bed.

“Keep saying *istighfar*, Dek. Don’t let your mind go blank.”

Sagara slowly rubbed his brother’s back while quietly reciting verses used in *ruqyah*.

“Bang... let’s just go home.”

Niskala’s face was

pleading. His voice was almost a whisper.

“Be patient, Dek. Just hold on for now. Remember Mom.”

Niskala fell silent.

The mention of their mother made him lower his head.

—