Chapter 2

“Bang, did you hear that before dawn?”

Sagara stopped with his spoon just inches from his mouth. His eyes narrowed.

“Hear what?”

Niskala nodded quickly.

“I heard a man clearing his throat from the kitchen. Right after we finished our zikir, Bang.”

Sagara tried to recall what had happened before dawn. After praying and reciting his zikir, he had continued with his tadarus in the bedroom. Meanwhile, Niskala had disappeared somewhere. The moment he finished folding his prayer mat, his younger brother had hurried out, leaving him alone in the room.

“I didn’t hear anything. But maybe it was Grandma getting breakfast ready in the kitchen, right?”

“Don’t joke, Bang. Do you think I’m a little kid?” Niskala scoffed. “I clearly heard a man’s voice. *Ehem. Ehem. Ehem.* Three times in a row. His voice was deep and heavy.”

Sagara’s face suddenly went pale.

Something flashed through his mind.

Only for a moment.

A deep voice.

Three throat-clearing sounds.

Then a room he vaguely recognized.

Sagara blinked.

The memory vanished before he could grasp it.

Yet suddenly, he felt uneasy.

“Enough. Let’s not talk about it anymore. We’d better finish eating. After that, we can visit Abah and Bapak’s graves.”

Niskala said nothing. He merely gave a small nod and returned to his meal.

But he no longer ate with the same appetite.

Every now and then, his eyes drifted toward the kitchen, only a short distance from where they sat.

The spoon in his hand paused.

Something was still bothering him.

Something he no longer wanted to tell Sagara about.

Niskala eventually lowered his gaze and forced himself to keep eating, even though the uneasiness refused to leave.

—

“Nyi, Niskala and I are heading out for a while. We’re going to visit the graves.”

No answer.

Sagara was certain that only a few seconds earlier, Nyi Rukmini had been busy in the kitchen. Or perhaps she was in the backyard, he thought. There was a door in the kitchen that led directly outside.

Nyi Rukmini kept several animals back there—laying hens, ducks, and a few Ayam Cemani. She also raised several goats in a pen farther behind the house, closer to the villagers’ plantations.

“We’re leaving now, Nyi. Assalamualaikum.”

Still, no answer.

Sagara and Niskala finally decided to leave. They did not want the day to get too late. The cemetery was quite a distance from the settlement of Dusun Getihan, near the teak forest.

As they passed the pair of banyan trees standing firmly like twin guardians of Nyi Rukmini’s house, Niskala slowed his steps.

A chill suddenly crept up the back of his neck.

His skin prickled.

He glanced at the two trees, standing roughly two meters apart. Long roots hung from their trunks and spread across the earth, making the trees look even older and more foreboding.

Niskala shuddered.

He had never heard any strange stories about those trees.

And yet, for some reason, ever since he first saw them, he had been unable to shake an unsettling feeling.

As though...

something was watching him.

Niskala quickened his pace without saying a word.

He did not want to look back.

—

Sagara and Niskala reached the cemetery after about twenty minutes on foot. It was not particularly far, but the steadily rising road made every step feel heavier.

The cemetery had no clearly defined boundaries. There was no gate, fence, or sign marking where the burial grounds began. Only rows of graves scattered without any apparent order—some lined up together, others standing alone at irregular distances.

Yet there was one thing that made Niskala uneasy.

Every gravestone was covered with black cloth.

“Which ones are Bapak and Abah’s graves, Bang?”

The question made Sagara realize that he himself did not really know exactly where his father and grandfather had been buried.

The last time he had come to Dusun Getihan, he had still been in junior high school. After that, they had never returned to the village.

Back then, there had only been a handful of graves here.

Now, he had no idea how many more there were.

Sagara tried to piece together his childhood memories.

Vaguely, he remembered that near Bapak’s grave there had been a small stream, no more than a meter wide, with a gentle current flowing over tiny stones. The water had been crystal clear.

Not far from it stood a large banyan tree, its branches sheltering his father’s grave.

Sagara scanned the area.

Then he found it.

The great banyan tree was still standing in the same place.

And sure enough, a small stream ran along the edge of the cemetery, not far from its roots.

Sagara’s gaze then fell upon two graves standing side by side, slightly separated from the others.

“There. Over there.”

—

The sun was climbing higher when Sagara and Niskala decided to return to their grandmother’s house.

Along the way, Niskala gradually slowed his steps.

Suddenly, he felt the atmosphere around them change.

Only now did he realize that Dusun Getihan had something peculiar about it—something he had failed to notice when they first arrived.

Houses stood in rows along both sides of the village road. Almost all of them shared a similar European-inspired design, with two massive pillars supporting the front verandas.

Nearly every yard had a banyan tree.

Though not every house was like that.

Some were much simpler. Their owners seemed just as simple and warm-hearted, greeting the two unfamiliar young men whenever they passed.

“Why do the people with simpler houses seem friendlier than those who live in these huge ones?” Niskala wondered aloud.

Sagara merely gave him a faint smile.

“Bang, don’t you notice? Those big houses, like Grandma’s, feel so quiet. The atmosphere is completely different from the simpler ones.”

Sagara looked around.

“Ah, that’s just your imagination.”

Before Niskala could answer, a young man suddenly appeared from around the bend.

His hair was long and tangled. His clothes were worn and slightly tattered. He wore a plain white T-shirt torn in several places and a pair of black culottes that looked filthy, as though they had not touched a drop of laundry water in years.

“Careful, young men.”

The stranger stopped a few steps in front of them. His head tilted slightly as his eyes lingered on Sagara before shifting to Niskala.

“It’s been a very long time since you two came home.”

Sagara frowned.

“Have we... met before?”

The strange young man let out a soft chuckle.

“I’m not the one you’re supposed to remember.”

He slowly pointed toward the houses behind them.

“This place is.”

Niskala stared at him in confusion.

“What does that mean?”

The strange man looked at Sagara again. The smile slowly faded from his face.

“This place still remembers you.”

He gave a quiet laugh and scratched his tangled head.

“Don’t stay here too long, young man. Some memories are better left buried.”

He walked past them.

But before he had gone very far, he stopped and looked back.

“Especially if you’re not the only ones who remember.”

He burst into laughter and continued walking away.

Suddenly, a stone flew through the air and struck the ground near his feet.

“You damn fool, Ujang Belegug! Get out of here! Go! Don’t bother our guests!”

A middle-aged man stood not far away, waving his hand angrily as he chased the young man off.

The young man, who apparently went by the name Ujang, merely chuckled. He slowly moved away, walking off without showing the slightest offense.

Sagara and Niskala remained rooted to the spot.

Neither of them understood what the strange young man had meant.

“Ah, you two must be Nyi Rukmini’s grandchildren from the city, right?”

The man approached them.

“Hmm... I remember you. You’re Sagara, aren’t you?”

He shook hands with both brothers.

“Yes, that’s right, Pak. You’re... Pak Kosim?”

Sagara’s face lit up as the memory of the man who had once helped them slowly returned.

“That’s right, that’s right. I’m Kosim. So you do remember me after all.”

Pak Kosim chuckled.

“Come on. Come over to my house for a while.”

Sagara and Niskala happily accepted the villager’s invitation.

They chatted on the veranda of his modest home, enjoying hot coffee and freshly fried snacks.

The easy conversation made them lose track of time. Before they knew it, the sun had climbed higher, its heat growing increasingly intense.

Eventually, they said their goodbyes.

But after they had taken only a few steps from Pak Kosim’s house, something caught the corner of Niskala’s eye.

The young man from earlier.

Ujang.

He was leaning against the trunk of a banyan tree across the road, his legs

casually crossed. Smoke curled from between his lips.

Ujang was watching them.

Their eyes met.

Niskala instinctively slowed his pace.

But Ujang merely smiled.

Then, without breaking eye contact, he took another drag from his cigarette.