The following morning, the princesses crossed the river to Pasir Putih.
Unlike their reception in Pasir Kuning, the villagers here greeted them with a mixture of suspicion and resentment. News of their arrival had already spread, and many feared that the celestial ruler had sent them to favour their neighbours.
Tok Batin Putih received them in the village hall. He was a stern man with a weathered face, and his expression revealed little as he invited them to sit.
"So, Kayangan has finally taken notice of our troubles," he remarked. "I wonder whether you have come to hear our side or merely to repeat the accusations made by Pasir Kuning."
Sejinjang's brows rose at the pointed question, but Santubong answered before she could speak.
"We have come to hear your account," she said calmly. "We will not decide who is right until we have heard both sides."
Tok Batin Putih studied her, apparently searching for any hint of favouritism. Finding none, he began to explain his village's claim.
"The river changed its course after the floods. The disputed land now lies on our side. Our farmers cleared the weeds because they believed the ground belonged to us. Instead of discussing the matter, the men of Pasir Kuning threatened them."
"Did you know that their families had cultivated the land for generations?" Santubong asked.
Tok Batin Putih's mouth tightened.
"We knew they had worked there. But that does not mean they own it forever. If the river changes, the boundary must change as well."
"Must it?" Sejinjang asked. "Or is that simply what you want to believe?"
The headman turned towards her sharply.
"Are you accusing me of dishonesty, Princess?"
"No," Sejinjang replied, meeting his gaze. "I am asking whether you have considered the possibility that both villages have a legitimate grievance. You say the land now lies on your side of the river, but the people of Pasir Kuning say their families have worked it for generations. Have you tried to find a solution that does not require one village to lose everything?"
Tok Batin Putih looked away. For a moment, his stern expression gave way to something more uncertain.
"We cannot be expected to surrender what we believe is ours," he muttered.
"Neither can they," Santubong said softly.
The words hung between them.
Santubong asked to see the disputed land. Tok Batin Putih agreed, and the headman led them towards the river with several elders following behind.
The princesses examined the banks, the remaining boundary markers, and the field where the farmers had quarrelled. Santubong knelt beside one of the weathered stones, brushing away the soil that covered its surface.
"This marker is very old," she observed.
"Older than either of us," one of the elders replied. "It was placed there by our grandfathers, though the river has changed considerably since then."
"Do you remember where the other markers stood?" Santubong asked.
The old man pointed towards a cluster of trees farther inland. "There was another near those trees, and one beyond the field. The floods carried some away."
Sejinjang walked along the riverbank, studying the land from different angles. The river had indeed shifted, leaving a wider stretch of exposed ground on one side. Yet the surviving markers suggested that the original boundary had not followed the river's changing course.
She returned to Santubong.
"If we judge the boundary only by where the river flows today, we may overlook the old arrangement," she said.
Santubong nodded. "And if we judge it only by the memories of the elders, we may overlook the changes caused by the floods."
"Then we need something both villages can accept."
"Exactly."
They spent the remainder of the day speaking with farmers, elders, and fishermen from both settlements. Some offered clear recollections of the old boundary, while others contradicted one another. The princesses discovered that the dispute had become so tangled with years of resentment that even simple facts were now treated as weapons.
By evening, Santubong had formed an idea.
"We should bring both headmen together," she told her sister as they returned to their lodging. "Not to argue over who owns the land, but to discuss how it can be used without either village suffering."
Sejinjang looked doubtful.
"Do you think they will agree?"
"They may refuse at first. But if we can show them what they stand to lose by continuing this quarrel, perhaps they will reconsider."
Sejinjang glanced back towards the river, where the last light of the setting sun shimmered upon the water.
"Then we must make certain they understand that the land is not the only thing at stake."
The meeting took place two days later on a clearing near the river, at a place that neither village could claim as its own.
Tok Batin Kuning arrived with several elders from Pasir Kuning. Tok Batin Putih came shortly afterwards, accompanied by his own men. The two headmen exchanged stiff nods but remained at opposite ends of the clearing.
Santubong stood between them, her hands folded before her.
"Thank you for coming," she began. "We have listened to both villages, examined the disputed land, and spoken with those who remember the old boundary. We have learned that the river has changed considerably over the years, and that some of the original markers have been lost."
Tok Batin Kuning crossed his arms.
"Then you must know that the land belongs to us."
Tok Batin Putih immediately bristled. "You have no proof of that."
Santubong raised a hand before the argument could escalate.
"Please. We have not gathered here to repeat the same accusations. If you interrupt one another, we will learn nothing."
Both men fell silent, though neither looked pleased.
Sejinjang stepped forward.
"We understand that both villages believe they have been wronged. But while you argue, the field remains unused. Your farmers cannot plant there, your people refuse to trade with one another, and every disagreement threatens to become another fight."
"That is because they refuse to respect our rights," Tok Batin Kuning retorted.
"And because you refuse to consider ours," Tok Batin Putih shot back.
Sejinjang drew a slow breath, resisting the urge to scold them both.
"Listen to yourselves," she said, her voice sharper now. "You have spent so long trying to prove that the other village is wrong that neither of you has asked what will happen if this continues for another year. Or five years. How many harvests will be lost? How many friendships will be ruined? How many children will grow up believing that their neighbours are enemies?"
The question silenced the gathering.
Santubong took over, her tone gentler.
"Our father sent us here because he believes both villages can live in peace again. But we cannot make that happen by ordering you to forget your grievances. You must be willing to find a solution together."
She gestured towards the river.
"The floods changed the land. Neither village caused the river to move, and neither can force it to return to its former course. You cannot settle this dispute by insisting that nature obey your claims."
Tok Batin Kuning lowered his eyes towards the ground. Tok Batin Putih remained rigid, but his expression had grown less defiant.
Santubong continued. "We propose that the old boundary be marked according to the surviving stones and the testimony of the elders. Where the evidence is uncertain, the disputed field should be shared. Both villages may cultivate it, and the harvest may be divided according to the work each contributes."
Tok Batin Kuning looked up sharply.
"Share the land?"
"Yes," Santubong replied. "Neither village should be allowed to claim the entire field when the boundary can no longer be established with certainty."
Tok Batin Putih shook his head. "And what prevents them from taking more than their share?"
"An agreement witnessed by both villages," Sejinjang answered. "The elders can oversee the division of the field and record what has been agreed upon. If either village breaks the agreement, both will know who has failed to honour it."
The headmen exchanged wary glances.
"And the river?" Tok Batin Kuning asked. "What happens if it changes again?"
Santubong considered the question.
"Then the two villages must meet again and reconsider the arrangement. You cannot expect a boundary beside a changing river to remain untouched forever. What matters is that you agree on how to deal with such changes without turning against one another."
For a long moment, neither headman spoke.
Then an elderly man from Pasir Putih stepped forward. He had listened throughout the meeting, his hands resting upon a walking stick worn smooth by years of use.
"I remember when our villages traded freely," he said, his voice rough with age. "My father would cross the river to exchange rice for fish. During harvest, we helped one another bring in the crops. No one asked which village a man belonged to before offering him a hand."
He looked at both headmen, disappointment plain upon his face.
"Now I see young men who have never known such peace learning to hate people they have never met. Is this the legacy we wish to leave them?"
Tok Batin Putih shifted uneasily. Across from him, Tok Batin Kuning stared at the ground.
The elderly man continued, "We may never agree on every matter. But if we allow every disagreement to divide us, what will remain of our communities?"
A murmur of agreement passed through the gathering. Several villagers nodded, while others exchanged thoughtful looks.
Tok Batin Kuning finally raised his head.
"I still believe the land rightfully belongs to Pasir Kuning," he said slowly. "But I cannot deny that our people have suffered because of this dispute."
Tok Batin Putih rubbed his chin, his gaze fixed upon the river.
"And I cannot deny that we have allowed our anger to go too far," he admitted. "I will agree to share the field, provided the arrangement is witnessed by both villages and the division is fair."
Santubong felt a measure of relief, though she kept her expression composed.
"Then let us begin by marking the boundary together."
The two headmen stepped towards the field. Their movements remained stiff, and neither offered the other a hand. Yet for the first time in months, they stood on the same stretch of ground without exchanging accusations.
The elders gathered around the surviving boundary stones. Together, they examined the old markers, listened to the recollections of those who remembered the land before the floods, and agreed upon the sections that could be identified with reasonable certainty. The remaining ground was divided into plots that both villages could cultivate.
The two headmen stood beside the boundary stones, each looking over the land that had been divided between their villages.
"This settlement must be honoured by both sides," Santubong said. "Neither village should take more than what has been agreed upon."
Tok Batin Kuning exchanged a guarded glance with Tok Batin Putih. Neither man offered the other a smile, but after a moment, both nodded.
"We shall abide by the agreement," Tok Batin Putih said.
"And so shall we," Tok Batin Kuning replied.
It was not a warm reconciliation, but it was a beginning.
Santubong looked towards the river, where the afternoon light shimmered across the water. The princesses had settled the dispute as fairly as they could. Whether the villagers would accept the agreement and keep their promises remained to be seen.
"We have done what we came here to do," Sejinjang murmured beside her.
"For now," Santubong replied.
The sisters turned towards the longhouse, leaving the headmen and elders to discuss the practical arrangements that would follow.