As the first light of dawn began to break over the quaint village nestled within the serene embrace of the valley, a soft, almost ethereal glow enveloped everything in sight, signaling the arrival of a new day, typically filled with aspirations and rejuvenated spirits. However, this morning, the sun's rays struggled to pierce through an oppressive shroud of thick fog that was intermingled with acrid smoke drifting in from the north, creating a heavy, foreboding atmosphere that seemed to seep into the bones of the village's inhabitants, intensifying their anxiety and uncertainty about the days that lay ahead. The once charming and peaceful village, a place where serenity prevailed and conflict was a rare disturbance, had etched itself into a formidable fortress of survival. Vigilantly constructed barricades of thorny bamboo encircled the entire perimeter, serving as a desperate measure of protection against any threats, while shallow trenches filled with murky water collected from the gutters and rain overflowed, augmenting these defenses. On one side of the village, a well-established guard post loomed atop a small hill, where the spirited young men and women of the village, embodying a sense of duty and watchfulness, tirelessly took turns watching the surroundings, standing as sentinels to safeguard their home against any impending danger.
The population, which had previously hovered around a modest count, had swelled dramatically to nearly 400 souls, a diverse tapestry of humanity woven from local farmers who toiled diligently in their fields, war refugees fleeing the destruction of the Trowulan region, former soldiers who now found themselves with no battlefield to return to, and families who had been uprooted in the face of escalating tensions. Within this backdrop of turmoil, Sengkala emerged as the de facto leader, a figure burdened with the weight of responsibility, situated inside the main village hall, where a palm leaf map lay sprawled on a pandan mat before him, serving as both a strategical guide and a testament to the challenges they faced. While he projected a façade of strength and resilience, it was an undeniable reality that his shoulder bore the marks of war, expertly wrapped in clean cloth by the compassionate hands of Dewi Laras, an embodiment of care and devotion that infused him with an inner strength that he desperately needed.
Despite the throbbing pain emanating from his unhealed wound, Sengkala maintained a commanding presence, issuing directives in a voice that resonated with authority to Ki Jaka, the man tasked with managing the village's vital logistics. "I need you to recount our food supplies immediately," he stated, his gaze firm and unwavering. "We have rice stored sufficient for two weeks, contingent upon rationing our daily portions," he continued, carefully mapping out potential substitutes, "but we can also diversify our meals with sweet potatoes and corn harvested from the southern fields. For our water supply, we will draw from the spring at the precipice above—be mindful, and under no circumstances should you touch the river water, as it has become tainted by the bodies swept downstream." Ki Jaka, nodding with a sense of urgency, committed these commands to memory as he hastily wrote them down on a palm leaf, though an unease gnawed at him from within. "All instructions have been noted, sir. However, a pressing concern remains—our medicinal supplies are dwindling alarmingly. The plague continues to plague our new refugees, and although the wise Ms. Sari endeavors to assist the women tending to the sick, it is disheartening that our current stock of medicinal plants, specifically betel leaves and turmeric, is woefully insufficient."
As the sun climbed higher in the sky, illuminating the strain on the faces of the villagers, Lurah had just returned from his nocturnal patrol, his expression weary as he reported, wiping beads of perspiration from his brow. "Sir, I bring alarming news: two groups of bandits have been sighted moving through the northern woods. Though they have yet to launch an attack, our scouts confirm they are amassing forces in the eastern forest, numbering an estimated fifty armed men, wielding dangerous weapons ranging from spears to the infamous keris, which they have stolen from innocent souls." The tension etched itself deeper into Sengkala's brow as he studied the map, his finger tracing the weak points of their defenses. "Reinforce the barricades on the eastern flank of the village immediately. We must set up spiked bamboo traps along the likely paths they'll traverse. Suradipa," he called, locking eyes with a former soldier, "gather twenty of our bravest former soldiers; have them placed on standby at the hill. If the enemy approaches, signal us with the three fires as a warning." With unwavering resolve, he added, "As night falls, I will dispatch messengers south to the neighboring village to appeal for food and medicine. Bear white cloth as a symbol of peace and trade our crops for what we desperately need."
Within this atmosphere thick with growing anxiety, Dewi Laras emerged from behind, carrying a pot of thin corn porridge, her gentle demeanor offering a momentary reprieve. "Please eat first, son. Your wound is concerning; it appears to be swelling again. If you fall ill, who else among us will take the mantle of leadership?" Sengkala managed a faint smile that belied his weariness as he accepted the bowl, his spirit lifted by her presence. "Mother, during times like these, it is no longer solely about one individual. This village has come to embody its own heart and soul, woven together in solidarity."
In a quieter corner of the hall sat the venerable Mpu Wira, leaning heavily on his cane for support, his voice rich with experience and wisdom. "While the heart of the village is indeed commendable, let us not forget the equally pressing concern of our stomachs being filled." He paused, crafting his next words carefully. "I received troubling tidings from the refugees: In the outside world, Wikramawardhana has declared victory, while Purwawisesa is retreating to the east with the remnants of his troops. Meanwhile, the bandits have divided into two factions, preying relentlessly on anyone caught in their path." Sengkala nodded gravely, internalizing the unfolding scenario. "That elucidates precisely why we have always abstained from aligning ourselves with any singular faction or camp. Our unwavering stance is one of neutrality, a commitment forged in the desire to preserve life, rather than engage in a futile struggle for power."
With noon approaching, an expansive gathering was orchestrated in the village hall, where all the able-bodied adults seated themselves in a circle, their bodies cross-legged and ready to absorb the impending instructions. In juxtaposition, the children were cared for attentively in the barn, while the women diligently coordinated the preparation of meals meant to sustain the village. Amidst these collective efforts, Sengkala raised his voice, commanding attention as it echoed throughout the gathering. "Listen closely, everyone! The catastrophic conflict in Trowulan rages on, showing no signs of abating. The fires of unrest continue to spread, and bandits lurk perilously close. Nevertheless, let us remind ourselves that our safety remains assured only as long as we stand united. Henceforth, I have instituted new regulations: guard shifts will now occur every two hours, food rations will be reduced by half, and the allocation of medicine will be prioritized for the wounded, children, and the elderly. Should any of you find disagreement with these measures, now is the time to voice your concerns."
Among those present, a former soldier named Suradipa raised his hand with urgency. "I concur with the new measures, Mpu. However, if the bandits launch their attack tonight, how exactly do you suggest we respond? Our arsenal is painfully limited. Are the wooden spears we possess sufficient to combat their lethal blades?" Calmly, Sengkala addressed the concern, infusing his words with a sense of assurance as he replied, "This evening, we will craft emergency spears from bamboo; we'll sharpen them and fuse them with the remaining pieces of iron. I will personally instruct my students in the creation of these vital tools. And if the time for battle arrives, let us not sacrifice ourselves in a fight to the death; instead, we will execute a strategic retreat towards the forest, utilizing the traps we have so carefully fashioned. Remember, our goal is to survive, not to fight like fools to the end."
A mother among the refugees, her face lined with worry, added her voice to the discussion. "Why shouldn't we flee south immediately? The safety of all our lives is at stake!" Sengkala took a moment to carefully consider her words, weighing the options before responding with thoughtfulness. "Yes, it's true that we could venture south, but do you understand the peril posed by the steep mountain terrain that lies ahead, Mother? With 400 souls to navigate such treachery, how many might potentially succumb to the dangers therein? Here, we have a reliable water source, cultivable gardens, and a fort that offers crucial protection. Bear with me for just three more days, and I have faith that assistance will come."
After a productive meeting concluded, spirits felt revitalized as an organized division of tasks became evident. Sengkala led the effort to scavenge scraps of metal from an old workshop, demonstrating the process of transforming these remnants into spearheads to bolster their defensive capabilities. In an open field, surrounded by intrigued eyes, he heated small fragments of metal over a roaring bonfire, meticulously hammering them into pointed shapes atop a stone base. "Observe closely, Lurah. These weapons, though simple, are sharp enough to penetrate flesh without the need for embellishments. This is the tool that will ensure our survival in dire times."
Lurah gave the makeshift spear a test run, observing the promising results. "This looks impressive, sir! I'm confident we can craft fifty spears by nightfall." Enthusiasm rippled through the gathered crowd, kindling their sense of hope once more.
As night descended quickly upon the village, veiling it under a dark, moonless sky, the chilling wind carried the acrid stench of smoke. The guard post stationed atop the hill issued a warning signal, a plume of smoke curling into the night—enemies had been spotted. Sengkala wasted no time, ascending the hill to meet Suradipa, who relayed the most recent intelligence. "There are approximately thirty bandits, Sir. They carry torches and appear to be inebriated while approaching from the east." Sengkala peered through a set of rudimentary bamboo binoculars, and with a steely resolve, directed, "Conduct a slow retreat, everyone. Allow them to walk directly into the traps we have laid."
Excited shouts echoed from below, the bandits demanded, "Surrender your homes! Hand over your provisions!" However, their bravado quickly gave way to panic as the first anguished screams pierced the air when the bamboo traps struck, ensnaring the legs of three unsuspecting bandits. Fear surged through their ranks, while from their fortified barricades, the villagers retaliated with a relentless barrage of arrows. Leading the charge with remarkable bravery, Sengkala, alongside Suradipa and Lurah, surged forward, penetrating the enemy's defenses and striking decisive blows to reclaim their home. "For the village!" Sengkala roared defiantly, the blade of *Giris Pawaka* gleaming as it reflected the movement of the enemies' flickering flames. With a decisive thrust, he found the arm of the bandit leader, forcing them into retreat.
Though the battle was swift, it was not without cost: ten bandits were either slain or wounded, yet the village bore the toll as well, with three of its brave soldiers injured and one life lost in the struggle.
As dawn emerged the following day, the air still heavy with the remnants of tension, Sengkala gathered the survivors, his voice echoing with a blend of triumph and caution. "This night, we emerged victorious. However, do not let your guard down, for tomorrow may bring another threat to our door. Take a moment to celebrate this hard-won victory; share the meat the bandits left behind to prepare a hearty soup."
Ki Jaka approached Sengkala, an urgent blend of hope and trepidation etched on his face. "Brother, the messenger from the south has returned: aid in the form of food will arrive in two days. But he also carries grim tidings: Purwawisesa has dispatched spies to hunt for those he deems traitors—your name lies among them."
With an unwavering spirit, Sengkala turned his gaze northward, where the last of the embers still flickered faintly. "Let them come. We shall endure. They will be ensnared here in our defenses."
To those unfamiliar with the landscape, this village may appear as a tiny speck on a ravaged map, yet for its inhabitants, it represents a sanctuary worth defending at all costs. Although the strength of the village was undeniably growing, Sengkala remained acutely aware that this marks merely the beginning of an ongoing saga filled with relentless trials and tribulations. On the porch that night, deep in contemplation, he inscribed meticulously on a palm leaf, documenting each detail of his tumultuous journey through life. "Day 7 of our exodus: The village remains steadfast, yet the grip of history tightens around us. We are not heroes; we are simply survivors, navigating these treacherous waters together."
This new chapter signifies the inception of Sengkala's arduous journey as the leader of the village, a veritable fortress that must remain resolute against the ceaseless threats posed by marauding bandits and the looming specter of starvation, while the shadows of his past linger ever closer, unwavering in their pursuit.