Lawang Sigotaka

Chapter 29

The path through the forest finally opened up, and Dimas found himself standing at the edge of Tuksongo. The village seemed to materialize out of the mist, emerging from the thick greenery like a mirage, its humble buildings nestled among towering trees that reached up to the sky like ancient sentinels. The air was still, heavy with the scent of damp earth and wood smoke, carrying with it a faint, almost imperceptible hum that seemed to resonate deep within his bones.

Dimas paused at the threshold, feeling a shiver run down his spine. There was something different about this place, something intangible yet palpable. Unlike Wanurejo, which had been alive with the quiet energy of its people and their traditions, Tuksongo was enveloped in a deep, almost sacred silence. It was as if the village itself was holding its breath, waiting, watching. The silence was thick, the kind that seemed to listen more than it spoke.

The village was modest small wooden houses with thatched roofs dotted the landscape, their walls weathered and worn by time. Unlike the grandeur of Borobudur, Tuksongo held no obvious signs of splendor. There were no ornate carvings, no towering structures to proclaim its significance. Instead, there was a quiet humility to the place, a sense of reverence that seemed to seep from the very earth beneath his feet.

Dimas took a deep breath, letting the air fill his lungs. It was different here, thicker somehow, each inhalation carrying with it the weight of centuries, of lives lived and lost, of stories whispered and forgotten. The ground beneath his feet was uneven, a patchwork of dirt and stone paths winding through the village like veins, each one leading deeper into its heart.

He took a step forward, then another, his footsteps silent on the soft earth. The village was still, almost unnaturally so, the only sound the distant rustling of leaves in the breeze. As he moved deeper into Tuksongo, he could feel the air grow heavier, the atmosphere thickening around him like a shroud. There was a rhythm to the place, a beat that seemed to pulse just below the surface, a slow, steady thrum that matched the cadence of his own heart.

Dimas's eyes darted around, taking in every detail. The houses, though humble, were meticulously kept, their doors adorned with intricate patterns woven from palm leaves and flowers. Small altars sat outside nearly every doorway, their surfaces covered with offerings fruits, flowers, bowls of rice, and incense sticks still smoldering, their smoke curling into the air like ethereal fingers reaching for the sky. There was a sense of continuity here, a feeling that time moved differently in Tuksongo, as if the past and present were woven together in a delicate tapestry that defied the usual flow of hours and days.

He could feel the weight of unseen eyes upon him, the villagers watching from the shadows of their doorways, their gazes cautious, curious. There was a stillness to their observation, a calm that spoke of deep understanding, of wisdom passed down through generations. They did not approach him, did not speak, but he could sense their presence, their awareness. They knew why he was here. Perhaps they had been expecting him.

He continued forward, his footsteps echoing softly in the quiet. As he walked, he couldn't shake the feeling that he had crossed some invisible threshold, that he was no longer in the same world he had left behind in Wanurejo. Tuksongo felt different older, deeper, as if the very ground he walked on held secrets that stretched back through time, secrets that were waiting to be uncovered.

There was a spiritual resonance here, a sense of something greater lurking just beyond the edge of perception. The air was thick with it, charged with an energy that made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. He could feel it in his bones, in his blood, a deep, thrumming pulse that seemed to vibrate in harmony with the beating of his heart. It was as if the village itself was alive, not in the way of Wanurejo's bustling life, but in a quieter, more profound sense a living bridge between the worlds of the seen and unseen.