Lawang Sigotaka

Chapter 19

The road to Wanurejo was narrow and winding, cutting through dense forests and rolling hills, the trees on either side thick with foliage that blocked out the sun. As Dimas drove, the landscape around him seemed to change subtly, as though the very air was charged with something ancient and mystical. The village lay ahead, shrouded in legend and mystery, its name whispered in the same breath as Borobudur, as if the two were inextricably linked by some unseen thread of fate.

Dimas could feel the shift in atmosphere as he left the familiar roads of Magelang behind. The air grew cooler, the sunlight dimming as a thin veil of mist began to creep in from the surrounding forest, clinging to the trees like an ancient shroud. The road, once paved and even, now gave way to rougher terrain, the asphalt cracked and worn, as if it had not been traveled in years. He could see the tops of ancient banyan trees rising above the mist, their gnarled branches twisting and curling like the fingers of some long-forgotten giant.

He slowed the car to a crawl, his senses on high alert as he navigated the increasingly treacherous path. The closer he got to Wanurejo, the more he felt a creeping unease settle in his bones. It was as if the village itself was alive, its presence palpable in the thickening air, the temperature dropping with each passing mile. The light, already dimmed by the mist, took on a strange, otherworldly quality, casting long shadows that danced eerily across the road.

Dimas tightened his grip on the steering wheel, his mind racing with thoughts of the Sigotaka and the ancient secrets that lay hidden within Borobudur. He had known this journey would take him to places far removed from the ordinary world, but nothing had prepared him for the aura of foreboding that now surrounded him. It was as if he were crossing a threshold, leaving behind the safety of the known and stepping into a realm where the rules of reality no longer applied.

The village of Wanurejo came into view as he rounded a bend in the road, its outline barely visible through the mist. The houses were old, their roofs thatched and weathered by time, the walls built from rough-hewn stone that seemed to absorb the faint light rather than reflect it. The village was small, isolated, and eerily quiet, as if the very ground on which it stood had been forgotten by the outside world.

Dimas parked the car at the edge of the village, the engine ticking as it cooled in the chill air. He sat there for a moment, staring at the cluster of buildings ahead, his heart pounding in his chest. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and woodsmoke, but beneath that, there was something else something older, a scent that reminded him of the dusty pages of ancient manuscripts and the cool stone of Borobudur.

He took a deep breath and stepped out of the car, his boots crunching on the gravel road. The mist swirled around him as he approached the village, its tendrils curling around his legs like spectral hands. The ancient banyan trees loomed overhead, their twisted roots and branches casting long, ominous shadows that seemed to move of their own accord. Dimas shivered, pulling his jacket tighter around him as he walked toward the village center.

The few villagers he passed on the road eyed him with a mix of curiosity and wariness, their faces lined with age and experience. They were a quiet people, their movements slow and deliberate, as if time itself flowed differently in Wanurejo. Dimas noticed the way they glanced at him out of the corners of their eyes, as if they knew why he was here, but did not want to acknowledge it. There was a sense of something unspoken, a shared knowledge that hung in the air like the mist.

He approached the central square, where a small market was being set up. The stalls were few and sparsely stocked, the vendors standing behind their tables with an air of resignation, as if they knew their wares were not the real reason anyone came to Wanurejo. Dimas felt a shiver of recognition the square was familiar to him, not from any prior visit, but from the stories he had heard, the legends that had been passed down through generations.