Chapter 6: The Search

In the left sentong, Ki Tanu Metir quickly cleared away the pile of harvested rice stalks. Gently, he helped Untara lower himself into a large woven basket.

“Curl up in there, my boy,” he whispered. “And try to breathe as best you can.”

Untara growled softly, pained by both the movement and the shame. But he understood. Perhaps this was the only way to save both himself and the old man. If his wound healed in a few days, he would return and deal with the Hawk of Jalatunda properly.

Ki Tanu worked quickly, layering the rice stalks back over him. Carefully, methodically, he covered the wounded officer, bundle by bundle. Within the basket, Untara closed his eyes. Breathing became difficult, but still possible.

Just as Ki Tanu finished the last layer, a thunderous knock shook the front door. A harsh voice called, “Old man! Open this door!”

Untara’s heart pounded. So it was true—Alap-alap Jalatunda had come. But at least his brother had already left. For that, he could still feel a measure of gratitude.

Ki Tanu Metir froze in place. For a few moments, he stood motionless, every muscle taut with tension. Another pounding crash struck the door.

“He! Open up, Ki Tanu!” came the growl.

There was no escape now. Steadying himself, the old man shouted from the sentong, “Yes, yes, I’m awake! Just a moment!”

Shuffling toward the front, Ki Tanu deliberately dragged his feet, letting his wooden sandals clack on the floor as if he had just awoken. But the pounding came again—so hard it nearly broke the door.

“I haven’t got time to wait!” the voice roared from outside.

“Yes, yes,” Ki Tanu called back. “I’m coming.”

Moments later, the door creaked open, revealing a group of armed men who surged into the house. Two others followed, pushing in a short, stocky man ahead of them.

“Kriya?” Ki Tanu gasped. The small man grinned nervously, his face pale with fear.

“Yes, Ki Tanu,” he stammered. “They dragged me here while I was checking the ditches. I thought the rain would flood the fields… I was closing the dam when they found me.”

“Stop babbling,” one of the soldiers barked, shoving him forward. “That monkey didn’t go back to Jati Anom. They’re wounded—they must’ve come here for treatment.”

“Who?” Ki Tanu asked, feigning confusion.

A young man stepped forward, eyes sharp like a bird of prey.

“We’ve met before, old man,” he said coldly. “But this is my first visit to your home.”

“Yes, yes,” Ki Tanu replied quickly. “I’ve heard your name, young master. Aren’t you the Hawk of Jalatunda?”

“Who calls me that?” the young man asked. But his voice hinted at pride behind the menace.

“I don’t know,” Ki Tanu replied. “Perhaps your reputation birthed the name on its own.”

The young man chuckled softly. “Good. Since you know me, don’t interfere with my work.”

“No, of course not,” Ki Tanu said at once. “I will help however I can.”

From within the sentong, Untara could hear every word. His heart beat faster when he heard the name—Alap-alap Jalatunda. In better condition, that young man would not have worried him. But now, he was helpless. Still, his fingers reached for the hilt of his keris. If anyone found him and dared to touch him, he would strike. Even a small scratch from his warangan-coated blade would be lethal—unless the antidote was known.

Then he heard the Hawk’s voice.

“Ki Tanu,” the young man said, “I’m searching for someone. I wounded him in a fight, and he fled. I believe he came here to be treated. Tell me—has anyone visited you tonight?”

Ki Tanu paused. He had to weigh his response. But the Hawk grew impatient.

“Answer me!” he barked.

Ki Tanu shook his head. “No, young master. No one has come.”

The Hawk laughed. “You’re a famous healer. Anyone wounded would come to you. Why not tell me where he is? What do you gain by lying?”

“I’d tell you if I knew,” Ki Tanu answered. “But who is this man you seek?”

“Don’t pretend ignorance. His name is Untara. He’s a threat—to us, and to you.”

“Untara?” Ki Tanu echoed, eyes wide. “No one by that name has come.”

“Don’t lie to me,” the Hawk snapped. “Just hours ago, I struck his shoulder. He couldn’t have gone far. My men searched the road to Jati Anom. He had to have come here.”

“I swear, young master,” Ki Tanu replied, “I’ve seen no one.”

The Hawk’s gaze narrowed. His eyes gleamed dangerously, like a falcon’s fixed on prey. Slowly, he stepped closer.

“You’re an old man,” he said, voice low. “Don’t you want to enjoy the rest of your years? Then answer me truthfully. Where is Untara?”

Ki Tanu trembled. But he replied, “He’s not here, truly.”

The Hawk’s lip curled. “I met him at the forest’s edge. He tried to flee. I wounded him in single combat. But then, with the help of another, he escaped. That’s why I’m sure—he must have come to you. My scouts found no trace toward Jati Anom. He’s here.”

“No, young master,” Ki Tanu said again. “He is not.”

“Hey! You, monkey!” the Hawk suddenly snarled at Kriya. “Speak!”

He shoved the man forward again.

“Did you see anyone on horseback enter Pakuwon?”

“I—I heard hoofbeats,” Kriya stammered.

Chapter: The Search for Untara

Suddenly a fist struck Kriya’s face, sending the small man tumbling to the floor. “Mercy!” he cried.

“You saw two riders on a single horse at the bend, didn’t you?” roared the voice of the Hawk of Jalatunda.

Kriya fell silent. His eyes turned toward Ki Tanu Metir, and in them shimmered a fear far deeper than the pain of the blow.

The short, small man was in a terrible bind. He could not deny what he had seen—he had already blurted it out under the beating of clubs and hilts. Yet he couldn’t bring himself to repeat it in front of Ki Tanu Metir. Not because the old man was cruel like these bandits—on the contrary, it was because Ki Tanu was so good, so revered in their village. When the villagers or their children fell ill, it was always Ki Tanu who came, night or day, to tend to them. Kriya simply could not bring himself to betray such a man.

But dread surged again in his chest as he saw the Hawk of Jalatunda stepping closer. Kriya shrank into himself, curling his arms protectively over his head. “Mercy,” he whimpered.

The Hawk laughed—a cruel, mocking sound, like a child delighting in the fear of a trapped animal. “Why won’t you repeat what you said? Are you scared of this old man?” He jabbed a finger toward Ki Tanu.

Kriya looked once more at Ki Tanu Metir. The old man’s usually serene face was tight with worry.

Then Ki Tanu spoke, quietly but clearly: “Kriya, speak the truth.”

Kriya hesitated, unsure what the old man meant.

“Tell this young lord what you saw,” Ki Tanu repeated.

Trembling, and with great reluctance, Kriya finally said, “Yes, I saw someone riding a horse.”

The Hawk snarled. “So now you speak! And?”

“Y-yes, two people… on one horse…” stammered Kriya, flustered.

The Hawk turned toward Ki Tanu with a sneer. “You hear that, old healer? The hunchback’s tongue has started to work again.”

“I heard,” Ki Tanu answered calmly. “But just because someone entered the village doesn’t mean they came to my house. What if they continued on to Glagah Legi or Gedawung?”

The Hawk frowned but barked, “You’re the only healer in this village.” His eyes suddenly flared. “Where is he?”

Kriya flinched.

Untara, hidden in the sentong, grew restless. What would they do to a man as old as Ki Tanu? But what surprised Untara even more was Ki Tanu’s answer—calm and unwavering: “If you don’t believe me, young lord, search the place.”

The Hawk’s eyes swept across the room. “Lies!” he shouted.

Then, from among his men, a thunderous laugh rang out—deep and fearsome, unlike the Hawk’s sharp voice. “Hey, little Hawk,” came the voice, “you’re being too soft. Don’t waste time. Search the whole house.”

Ki Tanu’s heart skipped a beat. Untara, too, was shaken. Anyone who dared call the Hawk of Jalatunda ‘little Hawk’ had to be someone of great authority—or greater ferocity.

The Hawk himself stiffened, then nodded. “Fine,” he growled. “Search every corner. Bring Untara to our guest—brother Plasa Ireng.”

“Plasa Ireng.” The name echoed like thunder in Untara’s mind. His pulse quickened. Plasa Ireng was a name that spread fear like wildfire. A trusted warrior of Jipang, he was more violent and merciless than even Arya Penangsang. “So he’s here… when I’m too weak to face him,” Untara thought bitterly. Had he been at full strength, he would have welcomed such a foe with open arms.

The Hawk’s men fanned out. They overturned every corner of the house. They opened cupboards, tore aside mats, peeked into bamboo crates—even ventured into the side chambers with torches.

In the left sentong, they saw only a pile of harvested rice bundled in a large basket. No sign of a wounded warrior. No trace of Untara.

Outside, Plasa Ireng laughed again, his voice like rolling boulders. “The horse came here,” he called. “But I saw its tracks leaving too.”

The Hawk rushed out. By torchlight, he crouched to inspect the ground.

“Bring Kriya out here!” he shouted.

Kriya was shoved forward again and dragged to the Hawk, who was still bent over the horse tracks.

“Hunchback!” the Hawk barked. “You saw them come. You must have seen them leave.”

“Y-yes… I saw them…” Kriya stammered.

“Why didn’t you say so earlier? Were you trying to play games with us?” barked Alap-alap Jalatunda, pressing the tip of his blade against Kriya’s small belly.

“No, no!” Kriya nearly whimpered.

“Or are you part of Untara’s gang?” Alap-alap Jalatunda pressed further.

“No,” Kriya gasped.

“Then why are you protecting him?” the young hawk demanded. He had to show a savagery equal to Plasa Ireng’s.

“I didn’t know the horse that came was the same one I saw leaving the village,” Kriya tried to explain.

“Why? Was there a difference?” The question came so fast that Kriya couldn’t think. The answer tumbled out of his mouth: “There were two when they came. Only one left.”

“Ha!” The answer stunned them all. Even Kriya himself looked shocked. Ki Tanu Metir’s brow furrowed. There was no more denying it. Yet he remained unnervingly calm.

Alap-alap Jalatunda burst into laughter, and Plasa Ireng joined him, his voice like a thunderclap. “One fled, and the wounded one was left behind.”

Untara grew restless. Not for himself—but because Ki Tanu Metir might now be in grave danger. Alap-alap Jalatunda, eager to earn praise from Plasa Ireng, might do something reckless. And Plasa Ireng was far crueler than Arya Penangsang himself.

“You miserable old man!” Plasa Ireng suddenly roared. “I’m tired of this child playing at soldiering. Untara is a dangerous man. I’ve tried to face him in the field, but he always slipped away. His name haunts every battlefield! Now show me where he is.”

He turned to Alap-alap Jalatunda. “Hand Untara over to me. Go find the other one.”

“He already left,” Alap-alap Jalatunda muttered.

“Then squeeze it out of this little rat where he went! Take my horse. Hunt him down and bring him back—or bring me his head and leave it near Sangkal Putung!”

The orders flowed like a storm. Each one more terrible than the last.

Untara’s heart surged. For a moment, he forgot the pain of his wounds. Then he heard Alap-alap Jalatunda insist, “Untara is my fight. I want to finish what we started.”

Plasa Ireng frowned. “You wounded him?”

“I told you already.”

“In a fair duel?” Plasa Ireng asked sharply.

“Yes,” the youth said.

Plasa Ireng laughed coldly. “Don’t try to fool me. I know who Untara is. And I know who you are, Pratanda. You fear the other one too, don’t you?”

Alap-alap Jalatunda’s face flushed. Still, he held his tongue, though fury boiled inside him. “Don’t belittle me. I fought them both and won.”

“Say that again, and I’ll slap the lies from your mouth,” Plasa Ireng growled. “Take my horse. Find the one who fled.”

He turned to Kriya. “Which way did he go?”

Kriya, thoroughly terrified, replied quickly, “South.”

“Then?”

“At the fork, he turned west.”

“Good. Go after him. Take the path past Kali Asat.”

Alap-alap Jalatunda didn’t move.

“Go!” Plasa Ireng roared.

The young hawk didn’t dare disobey. He rushed toward the path in front of Ki Tanu’s home. Moments later, the thunder of hooves echoed into the night.

Untara’s heart hammered. His mind turned to Agung Sedayu. Had he escaped? Was he now in mortal danger?

Desperate, Untara tried to shift beneath the pile of rice stalks. Pain exploded through his shoulder. Blood trickled from his wound. He had to calm himself.

Then came Plasa Ireng’s voice again: “Old man, don’t think I’m as soft as that crybaby hawk. If I ask you where Untara is, you answer. Or I’ll rip your mouth open and burn this place to ashes. Where is he?”

Untara stirred again, unwilling to let the old man suffer. But his body refused to obey. Pain and blood loss clouded his mind. His vision dimmed. Darkness crept in.

Yet through it, he heard Ki Tanu Metir answer, calm as still water: “I’m sorry, Lord Plasa Ireng. I cannot tell you.”

“What?” Plasa Ireng bellowed. “You dare defy me? Don’t throw your life away for that savage.”

“He is in my home,” Ki Tanu replied. “And therefore, his safety is in my hands.”

The statement shocked everyone. Even Untara was stunned. But he couldn’t let the old man bear this alone. He tried to rise again—but the dizziness overtook him. His mouth opened to cry out, but only silence escaped.

Then, everything faded.

The night still ruled the earth. Above, stars flickered through clouds drifting on the southern wind. The air was cool and damp.

---

Down the rocky path toward Sangkal Putung, along the route past Kali Asat, a lone horse galloped. Its rider, Agung Sedayu, urged it forward—though not at full speed. He was no skilled rider, and fear gnawed at him. Not just fear of what lay behind, but of the haunted road ahead.

He remembered tales of the one-eyed genderuwo haunting the bend at the great randu alas. His skin crawled.

But a deeper fear drove him: the terror of his brother, Untara. The order he had received had placed him on a path between two deaths. Whether he stayed or ran, he might not survive.

When he reached the long stretch of fields called Bulak Dawa, the moon emerged through the clouds. Its dull red light spilled over the green rice fields, reflected in puddles left by the rain.

Sedayu glanced at the sky. The dim moonlight gave him some comfort. Yet even that stirred another fear—the fear of being seen.

Far to the east, a dark forest stretched southward like a slumbering giant. Agung Sedayu quickly turned his eyes away.

He was thankful that his brother had told him to take the western path. Though longer, it was less dangerous. Fewer beasts prowled there.

Still, each hoofbeat echoed like a death knell in his ears.

But then, Sedayu’s eyes caught sight of the looming figure at the end of the path—a giant randu alas tree, standing like a guardian of the night. Without realizing it, Sedayu tugged at his reins, slowing his horse to a halt. To his panicked mind, the silhouette of the tree seemed to twist and shift, taking the shape of a hulking giant with wild eyes, gazing hungrily at him. No—worse still, the rustling leaves transformed into a ghostly pale face, the dreaded one-eyed genderuwo.

Sedayu almost cried out in terror, but no sound escaped his lips. He pulled harder on the reins until his horse stopped completely.

His chest heaved. His breath rasped through his throat as fear swelled inside him like a rising tide. He thought about turning back—back to the safety of Pakuwon village. But then came another fear, far sharper than ghosts or demons: the fury of his brother. If he returned empty-handed, Untara would be waiting… and he would show no mercy.

“Oh…” a helpless moan escaped his throat. He felt like the most wretched creature alive. His brother, the man who once shielded him from every storm, had now pushed him into the maw of death. Tears welled in his eyes.

“Mother… Father…” he whispered.

But even that whisper frightened him. If his long-dead parents suddenly appeared now, he would surely drop dead of fright.

Yet without knowing it, his terror was drawing something worse toward him—a true danger, not from stories or shadows, but from steel and blood.

---

Behind him, pounding like thunder, came another horse. The rider: the Hawk of Jalatunda.

While Sedayu trembled under the shadow of the randu alas, the Hawk was riding like the wind, full of hunger and confidence. At first, he had doubted the boy he pursued. Could he be a trap? Could he be as dangerous as Untara claimed? But then he remembered how Sedayu had reacted during the skirmish at Sendang Gabus.

The Hawk smirked.

“If the boy truly had any power, he would’ve taken the eastern road,” he thought. “But no. Kriya said he went west. That makes him prey.”

He spurred his horse faster.

“I’ll make a fine trophy of this boy,” he muttered. “Better than wounded Untara. If I take his head and toss it at Sangkal Putung, even Widura will tremble.”

He laughed to himself as his horse galloped harder, hooves hammering the rocky path toward Kali Asat.

Meanwhile, Agung Sedayu sat frozen, a statue atop his horse. His emotions burned like wildfire—fear, shame, helplessness. The silence of the empty fields seemed to mock him. And then… he heard it.

Distant, but unmistakable.

Hoofbeats.

Someone was following him.

He raised his head slowly.

“A horse,” he whispered. “But who?”

His thoughts raced.

“Could it be Kakang Untara?” he asked himself, before shaking his head. “No… he’s too wounded.”

He swallowed. Another possibility came to mind.

“Is it… the Hawk of Jalatunda?”

The name alone sent a chill through his bones.

But then he tried to calm himself. “No… the Hawk wasn’t riding a horse.”

But fear clouded his logic. “What if… what if he found my horse?”

The idea rooted itself, blossoming quickly into certainty.

“That’s it,” he thought. “The sound I hear—it’s my horse… with him riding it!”

Terror took over. His legs trembled.

“Where can I hide?” he asked himself, glancing around. Only rice fields and open earth. But then he spotted it—a deep irrigation ditch.

Without hesitation, Sedayu leapt down. He fell hard in the muddy path, scrambling to his feet, and staggered into the ditch. His clothes were soaked, clinging to him like a second skin. But he no longer cared.

With a trembling hand, he grabbed a stone—and threw it at his horse.

The beast neighed, startled, and broke into a wild run, galloping toward the dreaded tree at the bend.

At that moment, the Hawk of Jalatunda appeared on the road behind him.

In the pale moonlight, the Hawk saw the fleeing horse ahead. “Is that his horse? Is he trying to escape?” he snarled.

But he couldn’t see clearly whether anyone was on it.

For a heartbeat, doubt flickered.

“Could it be Untara?” he asked himself. “No matter.”

“I am the Hawk of Jalatunda!” he shouted aloud. “Let no man—wounded or whole—stand in my way!”

His voice echoed like a battle cry. Then, a shrill whistle split the night—the cry of a hunting hawk.

His steed responded, thundering down the path in pursuit of the lone horse.

In the cold water of the ditch, Sedayu watched it all. Watched the dark figure chase after his own riderless horse.

He didn’t move. He couldn’t. The terror had frozen him from head to toe.

His heart beat so loudly, he thought the Hawk might hear it.

The hoofbeats faded. The Hawk and his mount disappeared down the bend.

The ghost stories meant nothing now. The great tree no longer looked like a ghost. He could even see now that the white ring he had feared was simply the bare branches.

But a new fear filled him—what if the Hawk returned?

That thought made him shudder all over again. His breathing quickened. Then suddenly, without thinking, Sedayu climbed out of the ditch.

And ran.

Ran like a madman back toward Pakuwon.

“Let Kakang kill me,” he whispered. “Better that than fall to the Hawk…”

He wanted to flee. Anywhere. Away from both Untara and the Hawk. But where could he go? Where would he survive?

No answers came.

As he neared the end of the long field path, just before he turned—

Another horse.

He stopped dead in his tracks.

Where was it coming from?

He turned.

The bulak dawa was empty. But the hoofbeats grew louder.

Panic surged again. He flung himself into another ditch—this one curved, harder to reach.

He barely made it before the rider arrived.

But this time, the rider saw him.

The horse reared and stopped, hooves skidding. The rider’s silhouette loomed above the ditch.

Agung Sedayu held his breath, eyes just above the waterline.

Then came a voice. Low. Grim.

“Who’s hiding in the ditch?”

And at that, Sedayu’s heart nearly stopped.