Chapter 9: Dawn in Sangkal Putung

“Yes,” the young man replied. “But how did you know, Kiai?”

“I only guessed,” said the masked man. “Widura’s forces would need your help. Without it, disaster may come. But with your presence, perhaps it can be avoided.”

“Why would my presence make such a difference?” Agung Sedayu asked.

The masked man exhaled deeply. “Is it not true that with you, Widura will be warned of the coming danger? And who among them could stand against the son of Ki Sadewa?”

Agung Sedayu bowed his head. A strange stir passed through his chest, but the man continued, “Now, go. There is still time.”

Sedayu’s mind snapped awake. He remembered his brother’s words. Untara would be furious if he failed to arrive at Sangkal Putung in time. “Very well, Kiai,” he said. “Let us go at once.”

“Us?” the masked man chuckled. “No, only you will go. I will not.”

“You must come too,” Sedayu urged.

“I have no business there,” the man answered curtly.

Sedayu fell silent. Without realizing it, his eyes wandered to the distant randu alas tree. A shiver prickled across his skin, but he dared not speak it aloud. The masked man would surely scoff—call him the son of Ki Sadewa and laugh it off. “Hmph,” Sedayu sighed.

Still, he said, “I’ll be too late.”

“Perhaps,” said the masked man. “Take my horse. Ride fast, and you’ll reach Sangkal Putung before the first light of dawn. Those who hunger will strike then, when the first rays touch the village.”

Sedayu’s brow furrowed. The masked man knew everything—exactly as Untara had said before they parted. As he opened his mouth to speak, the man simply gestured to the waiting horse. “Go now. Ride.”

Without waiting for a reply, he suddenly dashed northward.

“Kiai! Kiai!” Sedayu called, but the figure vanished around the bend.

Only the wind carried the man’s whisper, unheard by any but himself: “If I didn’t force you this way, Sedayu, you’d gladly wallow in that ditch all night.”

Indeed, Sedayu could no longer linger. He climbed from the trench and approached the horse. It stood calmly where it had been left. He hesitated, but there was no other choice. In his heart, a strange gratitude stirred—for his life, for the horse, and even for the masked stranger who defied understanding.

A duty awaited him now. Sangkal Putung.

Gently, Sedayu reached for the horse’s mane. It twitched its head, but allowed the touch. It was tame enough.

“Come,” he whispered. “Take me to Sangkal Putung.”

Swinging into the saddle, Sedayu pressed his knees into the horse’s sides. The beast surged forward with a burst of speed. The path stretched across open fields, and in the distance loomed the dreaded bend at the randu alas.

Fear clawed at his spine, but he urged the horse on.

The curve neared—only a few dozen paces now. Sedayu shut his eyes, lay flat against the horse’s back, and lashed it onward as if they both fled the one-eyed demon said to haunt that place.

The horse veered sharply. Sedayu felt the drop of the path beneath him. The bend was behind him. He opened his eyes—his body intact, his eyes untouched.

He dared not look back. “Maybe the demon feared me,” he thought. “Because I’m Ki Sadewa’s son.” But then he recalled—neither had the Hawks of Jalatunda been harmed.

The road sloped down toward a quiet hamlet—Kali Asat. He barely noticed it. Soon, the path bent again, this time leading straight to Sangkal Putung.

Relief softened his breath. The distance narrowed with every beat of hooves. His thoughts turned to the masked man.

“How I wish his words were true,” he mused. “If I truly had the power he imagined. If I were invincible—even greater than Kiai Gringsing. I’d wander the land, stamping out lawless bands who torment the weak. I’d slay them all.”

“No,” another voice in him protested. “Even the wicked fear death. If I kill them, I bring sorrow to their families. I’ll spare them—if they change.”

But then another part argued, “Yet they’ve done worse than killing. Should they not suffer the same?”

He answered himself, “If I stoop to their level, what am I?”

He remembered his father’s tale: of a wealthy merchant who was forgiven a great debt by the king, only to deny mercy to a poor man who owed him mere coins. When the king heard of it, his wrath was great. The merchant was thrown into bondage, repaying what he refused to forgive.

“Yes,” Sedayu concluded. “The Lord will not forgive our wrongs, if we refuse to forgive others.”

Yet disappointment soon followed. “I’ve never defeated anyone,” he thought bitterly. “Never saved a soul. What is there for me to forgive?”

“If only…”

Suddenly, a shrill cry shattered the air. Sedayu flinched—but it was just a bird returning to its roost. A wild egret, calling as dawn approached.

“Almost morning,” Sedayu muttered. He pressed his mount faster.

Ahead, the village appeared like an island in a sea of green. Lamps glowed faintly through wooden slats, and at the far end of the path stood the northern guard post.

Sedayu galloped straight for it. He knew his uncle’s men would be there. He feared no hawks tonight.

The guards heard him coming and quickly readied themselves. A horse at this hour could only mean one thing.

“Who goes there?” called a lean man with a sharp nose, stepping forward.

“Agung Sedayu,” he said. “I must speak with Ki Widura.”

“What business have you?”

“It concerns his safety—and yours.”

The man exchanged glances with the others. Then he nodded. “Escort this young man.”

Still mounted, Sedayu followed two guards. But one held back.

“Walk ahead,” said the first.

Sedayu hesitated. The second guard remained behind him—watchful. He realized the procedure. It was custom here that a visitor dismount at the gate.

“Oh, forgive me,” he said, and leapt down. “I was in haste.”

“Leave the horse,” the leader said. “Come.”

Flanked front and rear, Sedayu was led through narrow lanes. They passed low stone fences, quiet homes, and sleeping trees until they reached a wide courtyard. A tall gate stood closed.

The lead guard knocked.

No reply—only answering knocks from inside. Four in a row.

Sedayu didn’t understand. Then the guard knocked again—two pairs of three.

The gate opened.

“Who is it?” came a voice.

“North patrol,” the guard answered. “We bring a guest for Ki Widura.”

“At this hour?”

“Yes. Speak to him yourself.”

Sedayu stepped forward. He forced calm into his voice. “I must speak with Ki Widura. It cannot wait.”

“Is it urgent?”

“Very.”

The inner guard looked up. The morning star shimmered above the northeast horizon. Still, he remained cautious. “Who are you?”

“Agung Sedayu.”

The guard frowned. “We don’t know that name.”

Sedayu’s heart sank. If Widura didn’t hear this now, his brother would be furious.

Just then, someone approached from the yard.

“What is it?” the newcomer asked.

The guard turned. “Good evening, Ki Demang. This young man requests to see Ki Widura. I’ve asked him to return at dawn.”

Ki Demang stepped forward. He studied Sedayu’s face. “What message do you bring?”

Sedayu hesitated. Could he reveal it to anyone but Widura? Then it struck him—he had to prove himself.

“I bring word from my brother, Untara.”

The name rang out like a gong.

“Untara?” Ki Demang echoed.

“Yes. I am his younger brother.”

“Ah,” said the Demang, bowing. “Forgive us. We did not know. Your brother’s name carries weight here. That is enough.”

Sedayu nodded, pride stirring in his chest. Such was his brother’s name.

“Come, young master,” said Ki Demang. “Let us wake Widura. If your message is as grave as you say, it must be heard.”

He led Sedayu across the wide yard toward the pendopo. Yet Sedayu could feel footsteps behind him—still under guard.

“This house is mine,” Ki Demang said softly. “And this land is rich and peaceful. That is why Pajang placed Widura here, even though the battle lines lie far away.”

Sedayu walked in silence.

“Pity,” the elder continued. “That Jipang and Pajang had to clash in bloodshed. Arya Jipang was not cruel by nature, but his advisors were greedy and reckless. They stoked his fire until it consumed him. And now, his followers are desperate—like wounded beasts.”

He paused.

“And now, everywhere, we see vengeance. Tell me, young one—when brothers raise swords against each other, who truly is to blame?”

Sedayu had no answer. Only a whisper in his heart: Why must we fight at all?