Lawang Sigotaka

Chapter 20

The sound of Dimas's footsteps echoed softly on the dirt path as he walked deeper into the village of Wanurejo. The mist, thick and persistent, curled around his ankles and whispered through the air, carrying with it the faint scent of woodsmoke and damp earth. The sun had long since dipped below the horizon, leaving the village bathed in the silvery light of a rising moon that struggled to penetrate the haze. Everything about this place felt otherworldly, as if he had stepped into a forgotten corner of the world where time moved differently, where the past and present mingled freely.

Wanurejo was unlike any village Dimas had ever visited. It was a place steeped in history, where the old Javanese houses, with their intricately carved wooden facades and moss-covered roofs, stood as silent witnesses to centuries of life, death, and everything in between. The homes were arranged in a rough circle around a central courtyard, their darkened windows like eyes that watched his every move. Even the trees, ancient banyans with gnarled roots that clawed at the earth, seemed to be alive with an unseen energy, their massive branches casting long, distorted shadows across the ground.

As Dimas walked, he became acutely aware of the villagers who watched him from the shadows, their presence more felt than seen. They stood in the doorways of their homes or leaned against the weathered walls, their expressions unreadable in the dim light. There was something about their gaze an intensity that spoke of both wariness and recognition, as if they knew why he was here, as if they had been expecting him.

The silence was unnerving. There were no sounds of laughter or conversation, no children playing in the streets, no clatter of pots and pans from the kitchens. The village seemed to be holding its breath, as though waiting for something, or someone. Dimas could feel the weight of their stares, the collective history and tradition that hung over the village like a shroud. He was an outsider here, a stranger who had wandered into their world, and though he had come seeking answers, he couldn't shake the feeling that the villagers knew far more than they were willing to share.

He passed by a group of elderly women who sat on the steps of one of the houses, their faces lined with age, their eyes sharp and penetrating. They murmured softly to one another as he approached, their voices low and melodic, speaking in a dialect that Dimas only partially understood. But he didn't need to understand the words to grasp their meaning there was a familiarity in their tones, a sense that they were discussing him, measuring him, deciding whether he was worthy of whatever secrets the village held.

One of the women, her back straight despite her years, looked directly at Dimas as he passed. Her eyes, dark and gleaming in the moonlight, held his gaze with an intensity that made him stop in his tracks. There was something in those eyes a knowledge, an understanding that went beyond the ordinary, as if she could see into his very soul.

"Selamat datang, anak muda," she said, her voice strong and clear, cutting through the thick silence like a knife. "You've come a long way to find this place."

Dimas swallowed, nodding slightly. "I have," he replied, his voice sounding small in the vast quiet of the night. "I'm searching for something... something ancient."

The woman nodded, as if she had expected this answer. "Many have come before you," she said, her tone matter-of-fact. "They all seek the same thing. But not all who seek will find. The path is not an easy one."

Dimas felt a chill run down his spine at her words. There was something ominous in the way she spoke, as if she were warning him of the dangers that lay ahead, dangers that he could not yet see. He wanted to ask her more, to press her for details, but the weight of her gaze, and the presence of the other villagers who now watched him with equal intensity, held him back.