TOKER.TOP - The sky darkened as I stepped onto the narrow dike of the village rice paddies. In the distance, Menoreh Hill loomed, shrouded in a thin veil of mist. Heavy clouds hung low, ready to release their burden at any moment. Thunder rumbled faintly, splitting the damp air that clung to the fields.
Father stood on the dike, his worn blangkon perched on his head. In his hand, he held a bundle of dried chili, long since plucked from its stems. He waved at me to come closer.
“Hurry, son. We need to burn these before the rain starts.”
I hesitated, my feet squelching against the slippery mud. Father’s face looked more serious than usual. There was something in his demeanor — an unfamiliar gravity that unsettled me. I stayed silent, but unease gnawed at my chest.
I piled the chilies in the center of the dike. The earthy scent of wet soil mingled with the sharp aroma of crushed chili. This time, the amount we were burning was far greater than ever before.
“Father, why so much?” I asked, glancing at him.
He met my gaze briefly, his eyes sharp but weary. He took a deep breath as though he were about to say something long buried.
“Because this will be the last time, son,” he replied tersely, his voice heavy.
His words unsettled me.
“The last time for what?” I pressed, hoping for clarity.
Father’s eyes turned toward Menoreh Hill, now nearly swallowed by mist. “There are things left unfinished, and tonight, I must see them through.”
I didn’t understand. His eyes, however, held a story too profound for words. My hands began to sweat. What did he mean? Why was he so serious? Wasn’t burning chilies just a routine task?
“Before you were born,” he began, “I wasn’t the man you know now. I was harsh, selfish, and unkind. My life was mine alone, and I didn’t care if others suffered because of me. If their fields dried up due to my greed or their hope was snuffed out, it didn’t matter to me.”
I froze. It was hard to imagine the gentle man I knew as Father had once been like that.
“But one night,” he continued, “everything changed. It was during a drought that lasted for months. I deliberately blocked the irrigation channels to divert water to my own fields. That night, I saw children crying because their families had no rice to eat. One boy looked at me with eyes filled with hatred. That night, I dreamed of shadows.”
“Father…” My voice barely escaped as a whisper.
“Those shadows have haunted me, son. Every time I close my eyes, I see their faces — angry, desperate, and full of resentment. I know I can’t erase what I’ve done. But I want you to live free of the burden of my sins.”
I studied Father’s face, the lines etched deeper beneath the dim sky.
“But we don’t have to do this alone, Father. There must be another way…” I tried to interject, but he shook his head slowly.
“This is not something you can help with, son,” he said gently. “It’s mine, not yours.”
The smoke began to rise, curling into the thickening air. Thunder roared louder, occasionally lighting up Father’s timeworn face. My hands trembled with the chill of fear. Was this real? Why did it feel like something immense was happening, yet I couldn’t grasp it?
“Father, we need to go home. The rain is coming soon,” I urged, my voice firm, trying to bring him back to reason. Yet he remained unmoved.
“Let the fire burn first,” he murmured, almost to himself.
The smoke grew darker, heavier. Then, it began to take form. A massive shadow emerged from the rising plume, towering over the coconut trees at the edge of the field. Its shape was indistinct, its body gaunt like charred branches, but its eyes… its eyes burned red, like embers.
I froze, my body rooted in the mud. I wanted to run, but my legs wouldn’t obey. The shadow drew closer, each step pounding like a war drum in my chest.
“Father, what is this?” I asked, my voice quivering.
“This is a debt, son. A debt that has never been paid.”
The shadow advanced, as though seeking to merge with Father. I tried to pull him back, but he only looked at me with a gaze I couldn’t decipher — resolute, yet filled with profound regret.
“This shadow doesn’t belong to you, son. You’re like a young stalk of rice — too new to be burdened by the sins of a spoiled harvest.”
I gripped his hand tightly, hoping to pull him away from the shadow. “Father, you don’t have to do this alone. We can face it together!”
But Father only smiled. “You don’t understand now, son. But one day, you will. This is the only way to let you grow freely.”
His body slowly dissolved into the smoke, merging with the shadow. At last, both vanished into the roaring flames. The rain began to fall, cold and heavy, soaking my face. I collapsed to my knees on the dike. Ashes and embers spread before me as if everything that had just happened was nothing but a nightmare.
I knelt there, letting the rain wash over me. What did it all mean? Why did Father have to face it alone? Why couldn’t I help him? I wondered, but the answers came slowly, like the rain seeping into the soil. Father wanted me to be free — free from sins and burdens that weren’t mine to bear.
The wind carried Father’s voice, faint but clear in my ears, “Be the new wind, son. A wind that brings growth and hope.”
I gazed at the drenched fields. Father was gone, but his legacy remained — not as a burden, but as a reminder. With trembling hands, I scooped up the wet soil from the dike, clenching it tightly.
“I’ll be the new wind, Father,” I whispered, rising to my feet with newfound resolve. There would be no more running. I would tend these fields and sow the seeds of goodness he left behind.
Comments
Post a Comment