The night breeze gently wafting through Trowulan carried with it a captivating array of scents and subtle nuances that were markedly different from the usual olfactory experience. This evening, the air was thick with the distinctive aroma of kitchen smoke rising from hearths scattered around the village, intermingling with the fragrant traces of temple incense that usually lent a tranquil ambiance to the surroundings. However, this particular night was tinged with an unsettling mixture of acrid and pungent aromas that disrupted the usual serenity—a distinct smell of burning wood, charred remnants of cloth, and an elusive essence of anxiety that hovered ominously in the air. Nestled within a small, secluded valley embraced by the protective arms of a forest, there lay a village that had previously been regarded merely as a brief resting stop for the hunters who roamed the nearby woods. Yet, this humble place had undergone a remarkable transformation with the emergence of several new stilt houses, raising sprightly from the ground as symbols of hope and progress. Among these stilt houses was the abode of a man named Sengkala, whose labor and dreams had once been intricately woven into the fabric of a more illustrious past.
Almost two years had elapsed since Sengkala made the life-altering decision to relocate his family from their previous existence, which revolved around a once-thriving workshop situated near the royal city bustling with activity. Now, at just over thirty years of age, the weight of the burdens he carried bore down on him with an intensity that seemed to belong to someone much older than his years. Inside the modest yet warm wooden house, gone were the elegant displays of high-class keris and ornate spears that had previously adorned his life; the shelves had been stripped bare of their richness, replaced by rows of calloused farming tools—hoes, sickles, and instruments crafted with his own sweat and dedication. However, hidden in the shadowy recess of the dimmest room, wrapped tightly in an immaculate white cloth, lay the *Giris Pawaka*, the sole remnant of his glorious past as a master craftsman in the palace, a bittersweet marker of what once was.
As dawn approached, the gentle light of the sun filtered softly through the cracks in the bamboo walls, causing a warm glow to illuminate the face of Sengkala, who lay asleep on the floor, fatigue etched into his features after a long night spent tilling fresh soil on the hillside. His mother, Dewi Laras, stirred as the morning beckoned and, her hair now streaked with silver, reached out with a gentle touch to rouse him from sleep.
"Son, wake up," she whispered tenderly, her voice a comforting melody amidst the early morning quiet. "I've fetched water from the tap. Today, we will embark on the task of planting rice in the western field," she encouraged, her tone soft yet imbued with a firm authority that brooked no argument.
Sengkala blinked away the remnants of sleep, slowly opening his eyes, his joints protesting against the movement, yet he compelled himself to rise. "Yes, Mom. If we delay planting, then it stands to reason that our harvest will also come late. The weather has become increasingly unpredictable," he replied, fully aware of the whims of nature that loomed overhead like a specter.
Outside their humble dwelling, the lively voices of Lurah and Ki Jaka—two of his former students who had chosen to forsake the chaos of urban life for the tranquil existence offered by this village—echoed with enthusiasm.
"Bro Sengkala! The plow is prepared. We can borrow Mr. Tirta's buffalo today!" shouted the village head, delivering the good news that stirred a sense of shared responsibility among them.
Stepping out into the crisp morning air, Sengkala felt the soft, dewy grass dampen his shirt, a refreshing reminder of nature's gentle embrace. Instead of donning the leather apron he had once expertly fitted himself with, he now wore only a worn piece of cloth and a simple headband, the attire of a farmer rather than the skilled craftsman he used to be. Ki Jaka approached him, a new hoe in hand, playfully lightening the mood.
"You seem far more at home wielding this than a hammer, Bro," he teased lightly, a spark of humor evident in his tone.
Sengkala offered a faint smile in return. "Iron is iron, soil is soil. Both present their own challenges if we do not approach them with respect and understanding," he replied with a small laugh that belied the weight in his heart.
The three of them, united by camaraderie and enthusiasm, made their way down to the rice fields. A thin mist clung enchantingly to the newly cleared plots of land, creating an ethereal atmosphere that breathed life into their surroundings. In the distance, the silhouette of the temples in Trowulan emerged delicately, standing like sentinels of the past silently overseeing their humble activities with timeless wisdom.
As they began to plow the land, an urgent sound echoed across the fields as a kentongan (wooden drum) resonated from the direction of the village road, a faint yet compelling call to attention. A middle-aged man was seen sprinting toward them, breathless and frantic, urgency etched across his features.
"Sengkala! Everyone!" he gasped between breaths. "From the north…a large cloud of smoke is rising ominously. They say the army is clashing again. And...rumors are circulating that Trowulan is being surrounded by its own militia!"
The hoe in Sengkala's hand came to an abrupt halt, shock washing over him at the alarming news. "Surrounded by whom?" he inquired, his voice laced with astonishment and growing concern.
"I've heard differing accounts. Some say it's the militias opposing the oppressive tax burdens, while others speak of the prince's faction, torn by a recent power struggle. What's clear is that chaos is spilling into the streets, with city dwellers scattering in search of safety towards the south. They're emerging through the forest paths and will likely reach here very soon," the man relayed, painting a grim picture of the increasingly precarious situation they found themselves in.
Ki Jaka muttered a curse softly, reality dawning upon him. "So the riot has truly erupted."
The village head exchanged a worried glance with Sengkala, whose heart began to race. "Bro…if the royal city descends into turmoil…do you think they will recall our old workshop?" he ventured, anxiety creeping into his tone as he sought reassurance.
"Most likely, the workshop has already been consumed in flames," Sengkala replied quietly, his gaze dimmed, shadows flickering behind his eyes. "What troubles me deeply are the individuals who tend to place blame on anyone associated with the palace or who carried any semblance of power," he added with a sigh that carried the weight of the world on his shoulders.
***
As dusk fell, their worst fears began to manifest into an unavoidable reality. The dirt road encircling the village became increasingly crowded with small groups of refugees: mothers cradling their infants protectively, weary old men dragging their few possessions with evident pain, and children gazing into the distance with blank, hopeless expressions. Many of the refugees still wore clothing suited to life in Trowulan, while others sported tattered garments, remnants of a hasty escape from imminent danger.
Sengkala halted his work with an air of determination. "Lurah, Ki Jaka, please assist in directing them to the village hall. We must promptly distribute the limited food and water we can offer," he instructed, taking on the mantle of responsibility that his heart dictated.
Dewi Laras had already sensed the urgency of the moment, and she took the initiative to prepare drinking water in a large jug and several pots of porridge, her instincts guiding her actions. Meanwhile, Mpu Wira, now reliant on a bamboo stick for support, sat pensively on the porch, observing each passing face with an introspective gaze.
At that very moment, a man clad in old soldier's attire halted before Sengkala, laboring to catch his breath. Where once there had been a keris perched confidently at his waist, only an empty scabbard remained, a haunting silhouette of loss.
"You… Sengkala?" he asked hesitantly, his voice trembling as he sought confirmation.
Sengkala studied the man's face, a flicker of recognition surfacing. "You're Suradipa, the former frontline soldier, aren't you?" he replied, piecing together memories of their shared past.
Suradipa nodded, a weary affirmation. "The keris was crafted in your workshop. Once, I carried it with pride, displaying your workshop's name prominently at my side. But now, look at me," he lamented, gesturing to the vacant sheath, "I used that very keris to restrain a friend who fell into despair after losing his family to the plague…only for it to be seized by enraged soldiers. Everything has spiraled into chaos, leaving us all lost and unmoored."
For a moment, Sengkala remained silent, absorbing Suradipa's words. "What on earth is happening in Trowulan, Suradipa?" he inquired earnestly, craving clarity amidst the tumult.
"There is no longer any clear delineation of who is fighting against whom," Suradipa replied bitterly, his disappointment palpable. "The last tax burden was excessively heavy for the populace, leading the coastal soldiers to resist authority, and accusations began to fly between the two princes over who bore responsibility. Then, chaos ignited with flames engulfing the barns. The plague and famine have driven people to madness. Now, the dry wood from years of hardship is ablaze with an uncontrollable fire rooted in anger and fear."
Mpu Wira, with his voice weak yet resonant, managed to speak from the porch, echoing a somber understanding. "Is the king still residing in the palace?"
"The king?" Suradipa laughed bitterly, expressing his skepticism. "No one is truly heard anymore; no voice holds weight or significance. All that remains are cries echoing throughout the land. There are whispers that the king is unwell, others say he is imprisoned. What is unmistakably clear is that the once-solid walls are crumbling, riddled with cracks that reveal the rot beneath."
A young mother, clutching her feverish child, implored desperately, "Please…is there anywhere we can find shelter and rest this night?"
Dewi Laras immediately stepped forward, offering her empathy and compassion as she guided them towards the empty barn. "Come inside. It isn't much, but it will keep you dry tonight," she reassured them with palpable kindness.
Sengkala stood at the threshold, his heart heavy as he observed the scene unfolding before him; his once-quiet village was now transforming into a beacon of hope for those in desperate need of security and comfort. He felt like a hammer caught between twisted shards of iron, fragile and desperate, yearning to be reshaped, even as his own energy waned and fatigue threatened to overwhelm him.
***
As night descended with swiftness and gravity, the heavens illuminated the horizon to the north with a fiery glare, not from the beauty of a sunset, but from an inferno consuming the remnants of civilization, a stark representation of unbridled rage and devastation. Around the small village, several refugees gathered near a flickering campfire, exchanging fragments of nightmarish tales that seemed almost too surreal to bear.
"I witnessed it myself," an elderly man recounted, his voice heavy with the weight of memory. "The grand gate we once took such pride in has been reduced to ash by the voracious flames. The statue of the Garuda, our cherished guardian, lies shattered on the ground, marking the moment of our undoing. People wailed, proclaiming: 'This is punishment! Retribution for our unfounded arrogance!'" The tone of his voice dripped with sorrow and regret as he relayed the tragic narrative.
A young man interjected heatedly, "Do not curse the gods. The fault lies squarely with humanity, whose insatiable desires lead us to despair," he countered, acknowledging the folly of their ways.
Suddenly, someone turned toward Sengkala with a penetrating inquiry. "You are a master, are you not? Your sword still graces the waists of many in the city. Do you take pride in this?" The question struck a chord deep within him.
Sengkala inhaled slowly, trying to compose himself amid the turmoil. "There is no pride to be found in the midst of brothers turning against one another in their anguish. Yet, I cannot escape the fact that my hands once forged the very iron that now clatters in destruction," he admitted solemnly.
"Then, what will you do?" the man pressed sharply. "Will you take your own life as a form of atonement?" he challenged boldly.
Sengkala shook his head, a slow and deliberate motion to suppress the tempest of emotions. "No. Taking my own life would not absolve anyone of their suffering. Nor would it be courageous to feign ignorance of the role I played in this turmoil. All I can do now is protect as many as I can with the strength I possess, and ensure that this story is preserved, so that future generations understand that the fall of Majapahit was not solely from external attacks, but also from the insidious decay and rot allowed to flourish from within," he expressed with unwavering conviction.
Mpu Wira coughed gently, his voice rising from the porch, emanating wisdom laced with weariness. "Sengkala, fetch me the *Giris Pawaka*," he requested unexpectedly.
Dewi Laras glanced at her husband in surprise, her brow furrowing in concern. "For what purpose, dear? You have kept it hidden away for so long," she queried, uncertainty coloring her words.
"To confront the truth," Mpu Wira replied, signaling with quiet determination.
Without hesitation, Sengkala entered his home, retrieving a white cloth bundle from its shadowy corner and gently unveiling it. The gleam of the keris's steel sparkled in the firelight, its intricate patterns swirling like waves yearning to break shores anew in both beauty and potency. With reverence, he presented it to his father.
Mpu Wira reached out, his fingers wrapping gently around the hilt, eyes fixated on the blade he had painstakingly guided into existence years prior. "Look closely, everyone gathered," he addressed those encircled around the fire, their attentiveness palpable. "This is neither a god nor a demon. It is merely iron. Yet it is the hand that guides it, and the heart that drives it, that decide whether it serves as a protector or a harbinger of death."
Gently returning the keris to Sengkala, he continued, "From this moment forth, you are no longer merely a master or a former one at that. You have become a witness to history in the making. You will inscribe the tales you experience. You shall chronicle the truth that while Majapahit burns, there still exist humble individuals striving to refrain from fanning the flames," he stated with a hope-filled tone that transcended despair.
A small child, who had been quietly listening from the periphery, approached with bright eyes filled with innocent curiosity. "Grandpa... will Majapahit be lost forever?" the child asked, voice trembling with uncertainty.
Sengkala crouched down to meet the child's gaze, attempting to impart wisdom in the face of confusion. "Majapahit as a palace and its walls may be swallowed by destruction and change. But Majapahit as a lesson and experience…that is something we can preserve in our memories and hearts. If you grow up and resist repeating the mistakes of the past, it would mean that a piece of Majapahit lives on within you," he explained with a smile that radiated a glimmer of hope.
The child nodded slowly, absorbing his words though the weight of their meaning lingered just beyond comprehension.
***
As the night deepened and the village fell into a hushed stillness, Sengkala found himself alone on the porch of his home, an empty palm leaf resting in his lap, a carving knife in hand, ready to transcribe his thoughts. In the distance, the eerie red glow to the north flickered ominously, akin to the wrathful eyes of an angry giant, embodying the chaos and destruction that had besieged them.
"A new chapter," he murmured to himself, forcing clarity into his swirling thoughts and solidifying his resolve. "I once chronicled the peaceful days spent in my quiet workshop. Now, I must confront and record the turmoil as fire licks at barns and hopes alike," he said, determination entwined with trepidation.
He began inscribing letters onto the palm leaves: of the first wave of refugees who arrived bearing bitterness, the expression on Suradipa's face as he faced the loss of his storied dagger, the distressing news of the grand gate reduced to rubble. Each letter felt akin to a hammer striking soft iron—not shaping a weapon, but etching indelible memories that would linger on long after the flames extinguished.
Behind him, Dewi Laras leaned against a pillar, providing silent support as he poured his heart onto the pages. "Are you certain you wish to write all of this, Son? What if, one day, those in power discover your notes and deem you a traitor?" she cautioned thoughtfully.
Unfazed, Sengkala continued to carve his words, strengthening his determination. "If I remain voiceless, I betray those who never had the opportunity to express their sorrows. If our grandchildren one day inquire, 'How could everything unravel?' and we merely respond, 'I don't know; it just collapsed,' wouldn't that be the grandest deceit?" he asserted with a conscious clarity.
Dewi Laras sighed deeply, the weight of her own burdens palpable as she slid down beside her son. "Then write with bravery. But remember to eat sufficiently and rest. A witness who succumbs to illness cannot complete their tale," she advised with nurturing concern.
Mpu Wira's voice emerged softly from within the house, akin to a prayer woven into the fabric of their dialogue. "Also inscribe that amidst this frenzy, there were still souls striving to survive without turning against their brethren," he imparted sagely.
"Indeed, father," Sengkala replied softly, reminding himself of the value of the message imparted.
Once more, Sengkala glanced northward, grappling to comprehend and accept their current plight. The crimson light flickered, as though momentarily shrouded by passing clouds. Yet within that small village, another flame was kindled—flickering, at the end of a lontar wick, and nestled within the heart of a former master who now began to understand: at times, in periods of upheaval and uncertainty, bearing the mantle of an honest witness is far more perilous than donning the armor of a sword-wielding soldier.
Yet this was the path destiny had carved for him, and thus began a new journey demanding unwavering courage and steadfast determination.