Nusantara Throne - Senandung Kebangkitan
Ruswara
The king's adviser hummed to himself as he stared at the dusty rontal sheets piled up on his room table. He wore a dull robe of dark brown, scented flowers and a mixture of agarwood oil. As soon as he saw Ruswara sitting on a chair by the wooden door of his room, he stopped, and looked at Ruswara with a sad look.
“Mahamantri Ruswara,” she said and bowed.
“Sorry when my arrival interrupts your morning Mpu Moro.”
Mpu Moro shook his head slowly, turning a thin smile as if the sorrow on his face was difficult to extinguish, “It's great to see you visiting in this simple room.”
“Even better than undue luxury.”
The residence of the king's advisor was indeed narrow, the room had no windows facing out of the palace. It sounded very stuffy, but the coolness of the room was light. In the corner of the room stood a closet containing a pile of rontal and ancient books about the history of Tarlingga.
Mpu Moro poured a pitch-black herbal medicine drink into his cup, he nodded slowly, his face turned wrinkle withstanding bitters. “To be honest I prefer simplicity, although the king often offers me a magnificent room.” Mpu Moro then closed the door and turned it off, “Hamba sure the arrival of Mahamantri is not to stop by to enjoy the room belongs to this simple parent.”
Ruswara was happy to hear it, at least she did not need to mince words any longer.
“There's something I want to ask.”
While tasting his mouth, Mpu Moro wiped his lips, leaving a black stain mark on his woven cloth. “Please Mahamantri.”
“This past few weeks, I have often asked and reviewed the books of our country. Do you think this country is really cursed?”
A throbbing speed approached Mpu Moro, he tried to cover up his shock. In the dim light of the room candle, he stared at Ruswara silently behind his bulging white eyebrows. The son was an adult, not a child he remembered always whining asking tales of winged horses.
Mpu Moro sighed, his eyelids loosened, “Before leading to the curse, do you believe in the existence of another creature, Mahamantri Ruswara?”
“You mean another creature?”
“Other creatures, demons, and demons,” Mpu Moro said. “Have you thought or imagined, how did this continent before my lovebirds protect humans from those creatures?”
Ruswara knew the story, but it was never his favorite, because what he saw was the opposite. Many times he concluded the story was just a mere fairy tale told to scare the little ones.
“Is this a fairy tale?”
Mpu Moro refused to answer, his finger seemed to tremble small. Mpu Moro carefully searched the heaps of books, until he found a book so old, as if it were a book that no one wanted to read. Slowly he opened the rontal page and his fingers stopped on a page that was very outdated. With a serious look he read out the core of the pallawa nicks slowly.
“Hundreds of years ago, in the East lived a demon named Banaspati, he lived from the depths of the Kakahan mountains. Born from a river of lava and extremely hot magma. Banaspati lives from eating life, coolness and enjoyment. The longer Kakahan mountain is unable to provide food for him, then he went down to the mainland, destroying fields and houses like lava that sweeps the gravel of the road. The more greedy he was the more hungry he was until finally the East became a barren place, as if life was reluctant to pull over in this land.”
Mpu Moro paused, his throat became dry, then he downed his earth peg again before continuing.
“The figure of the goddess named Sri Sandhana is worried that the existence of Banaspati will threaten the life of the continent, she came down from the kahyangan in Madewa to expel Banaspati. She was a very beautiful goddess, her hair was green with eyes as liquid silver. He has a two-edged heirloom spear named Mustika Tarlingga. The demon, Banaspati wrathfully challenges the goddess to defeat him at the top of Mount Kakahan. Nahas, with his heirloom weapon, Sri Sandhana stabbed Banaspati until he was pushed down into the dark earth with a mustika spear, it is said that the heirloom spear is still stuck in the body of the pigeon and make it fall asleep until now”, Mpu Moro spoke as he touched the soft rontal that has been wrinkled.
“The victory did not make him rejoice, the barren land remains barren, the dead are still dead. With great sadness Sri Sandhana cried, her tears dripping down the slopes of Kakahan turned the barren mountain area into a lush, green and cool mountain. Her glass-clear tears shed dry crusts in every crevice of the mountain, flooded the farmlands, grazed the soil, and even the trees grew lush fruitful throughout the month. The first nations began to worship the goddess, pray and build temples of worship, and glorify her name hoping that joy will continue to grow as fertility given the goddess.”
Mpu Moro then turned the pages of the book again carefully, unfortunately the weathered sheets began to tear because of sticking, Mpu Moro pasrah sad.
“In that fertility, created the land of Tarlingga, a name that was lifted from the scepter of the Goddess. Until the time the land of Tarlingga grew in its heyday, humans began to forget the goddess.”
Mpu Moro stopped for a moment as if he was reluctant to continue his story. His voice was now very slow almost to whisper, Ruswara found herself coming forward to listen.
“The ancestors of Tarlingga broke the promise of the goddess, betrayed the Goddess Sandhana, to make her angry. The goddess strongly denounced the bloodshed over the land of Tarlingga. The warning was not heeded, the rulers divided their lands like a group of dogs fighting over bones. Each one claimed his throne and greed began to emerge, until finally the war broke out, blood spilled flooding the green grass. In the polemic, Sri Sandhana was disappointed, she flew home to kahyangan, leaving the greedy humans in the civil war. It did not take long, the green grass in Tarlingga again dried up, the trees fell molt, and the cool wind turned into a hot wind.”
From the corner of his eyes, Ruwara saw a tear point coming out from Mpu Moro's wrinkled eyelids. “How about Banaspati?”
“Live, Hide, or sleep. Some verses in the past say that the Banaspati lost its power, but the mustika spear lost its meaning when the goddess was not on this earth. In another story, it is said that Banaspati is waiting for revenge. No one ever knows for sure, O benevolent prince.”
Even though Ruswara was already a young man, the story still made him shudder.
“Then when barren air and death filled Tarlingga, King Manjaya was determined to reunite the unity at Tarlingga, in the hope that Goddess Sri Sandhana would forgive the sins of the betrayal of the ancestors. What power, the drought of some regions so severe, the rulers died on their own land of victory, plunged by greed. At that time King Manjaya became very fragile and lived in remorse, even though he loved his people so much, regret was like a disease that was difficult to cure.”
Mpu Moro closed his book, with a sigh engap he stood up, rubbing the spear carving that became the symbol of the banner of Tarlingga on the wall of his room.
“When King Mahardhika stood claiming to be the ruling king in Emerald. King Manjaya willingly knelt down, in his lowest self-esteem he let himself lick the feet of the nobles of the archipelago for the safety of the people of Tarlingga.”
Once again his gaze was fixed on the carving on his wall, “Symbol has lost its meaning, Mahamantri,” he tried to wipe his tears with a handkerchief. “In the end, at my very old age, I failed to become an advisor as I used to be, while I was still sitting next to your grandfather's badge slap, as well as your father's badge slap.”
Ruswara is sad, “It is still not too late, I can save this country once again.”
“Then there was hope, down from the expectations out there, but now they are gone sir, their desires have been lost as his body is already buried in the barren land of no man.”
“Is there any way to undo the curse?”
“Hamba sense no,” Mpu Moro shook his head. “When your grandfather set out on his quest to find the existence of Dewi Sri Sandhana, he found the Kakahan Mountains were just a mountain full of death. Nothing you can find other than a bunch of dried trees, animal carcasses and bones.”
The door was knocked tight, followed by other sounds that followed the knocker. “mpu! Mpus! You're inside? The king mpu, the king!”
Mpu Moro moved frantically, as he walked bent over, he opened the doorstop. The courtier bowed when he found Ruswara in the advisor's room.
“What's up? Deliver,” said Mpu Moro his breathing felt heavy.
“The king fell down and coughed up blood, the healers were worried he would die.”
An hour earlier outside the palace. The dawn broke without fog, the air was stuffy and arid arrived until morning. Mahendra along with four loyal guards of the king darted into the hut houses along the side of the village. With wild wrath, he dragged the owners of the house who refused to pay tribute that afternoon. Some furious residents were unable to hide the look of hatred from his face. When a hint of hatred was seen from Mahendra's eyes, the foolish prince went on a rampage.
“They're very suspicious movements, arrest and enter the prison!”
“Do Not Sir! Servant please!” isak the wife when she saw her husband being dragged by force.
Mahendra observed his ragged subjects, “It should be they are poor and thin, but behold, some look healthy and clean, it could be that he is a spy.”
“Hamba knows absolutely nothing really!” pinta the man nodded.
“Since when did the mouse claim to have hollowed out rice barns?” he said he kicked the man.
The pediati he brought was full of many spoils. Until the horse neighs tired of pulling the teak-wooded pedicure. “Tracing other houses, the spy must still be in this village!”
Residents lurked from the small windows of his house. Pain, pain and sorrow covered their faces. It was as if the long drought was only a small part of the torment that was shed for life in this arid country.
“Our swords will no longer carry them, Mahamantri Mahendra,” said the soldier after tying up the inhabitants and raising them on the second pedati.
Mahendra walked clumsily, he then counted, “Seven people, what among them includes spies?”
“Not yet to be ascertained,” soldier chuckles.
Looking at the boisterous crowd around him, Mahendra arrogantly looked at the people. Although many of them were crying and grimacing, he did not care, Mahendra then said loudly.
“Whoever among you, husband or wife, or brother, I hear of a rat hiding on the land of this land. Now that forgiveness is there, come out and show yourself, then I will set these losers free.”
They were silent unmoved, only hoarse cries could be heard and that was enough to make Mahendra sick.
“I'll give you until dawn tomorrow. In the name of the king, if none of you confess, they will remain in the dark prison of the palace until they regret their lives, and their bodies will dry up. “
Once again within minutes Mahendra silently observed. However, his mannerism only made him feel like a fool that became a pitiful spectacle. “Making them out of the nest will just be a waste of time, take them!”
The guards mounted the horses and smashed the horse towards the palace. They walked down the barren country roads, galloping horse steps echoing in the seedy narrow alleys. The villagers went aside to give him a way while making a cynical grin.
After they arrived at the gate of the palace gate, the soldiers rushed down the accumulated tribute spoils. Welino galloped out from inside the palace, running around looking at the peculiarity that seemed from inside the hall.
“Possibly I caught a full moon,” he replied while trying to laugh.
“For the sake of my blood, this is an exaggeration Sir, on what basis do you judge that view on them?”
Welino climbed the pedati, seeing the men lying in the rope. Their faces looked lethargic, the crusts of tears dried up on the cheeks.
“They are just a husband struggling to support his family, set them free,” Welino said in a word.
“I have the right to judge it, using my own way.”
“But not with terror,” Welino pulled his keris, about to break the mine that binds the bodies of the men.
“Stop! Don't you ever do that Welino the worn-out spear.”
Welino raised both hands, she went down the pedati and sheathed her dagger again. His expression becomes hard to read, “When you close the curtains of the sky of this country with hatred, one day a shadow will come hunting you in the midst of the dense darkness, Mr. Mahendra.”
Welino turned around and walked away. He noticed their gazes on his back as he rode the steps towards within the palace. Laughter rang out from behind, but Welino did not turn her head.
Instantly in the hall rumbled, ladies and gentlemen running around with the palace healers. Announce something while screaming, “Sang king, the king critical!”
The fragrances of medicinal herbs filled the room with heavy air. The hot air in the room was stifling. King Sanjaya was lying on a canopied bed. Beside Queen Dyah Wuri's bed, her hair was tangled as if she had just woken up, looking at her with the umpteenth sobbing. While Ruswara was pacing around the window of the king's wide open room. The ladies-in-waiting roamed, carrying rolls of cloth, warm water and dried medicinal leaves. While near the door of the king's room, Mahendra arrived by splitting the crowd of soldiers in front of the door.
The king looked pitiful, his face as pale as milk, with blue eyelids creasing. From the corner of the seedling, reddish-brown stains became stuck to the king's gray lips, making the room smell of blood and death.
“My son,” the king called out in a raspy, coughing attacks back at the splashing of viscous blood. “Close.”
Ruswara and Mahendra moved closer. Ruswara propped her body up on the canopy pole of the king's bed, while Mahendra inched a sneak, sliding Ruswara's body away.
“What makes my father look like this, healer?” Mahendra was still in disbelief staring at King Sanjaya lying down while gasping.
“His body can't stand Master, the king's drunken habit, destroying his organs,” said the healer shook his head.
“Arak, and stupidity,” the king whispered raucously. “All my fault.”
They tried their best to relieve the king's cough. Physicians have fed it with herbs made from dried turmeric grinds, lemon droplets, cents and cumin. But not enough at all. The bandages on the king's table had blackened with blood. The smell of his blood was very rancid and nauseating.
“But, son,” whispered King Sanjaya. “My body is rotting. In the end I will also follow in the footsteps of my ancestors to torment heaven with the damned demons.” The king's faint smile was terrible, his teeth were dark red, his tongue purple and blackened, a foul smell wafted from his sigh.
“Baginda, you should not talk anymore, with the condition of your body, talking will further torment yourself,” healers commemorate subtly.
“Silence,” cetus Raja Sanjaya, make his cough come back, this time snot mixed with blood out through both nostrils. “Leave me with my two sons.”
“Baginda,” now Mpu Moro reluctant.
“Come out,” hardik Raja Sanjaya with the rest of his power is disappearing. “Do I need to haunt you with my frame until you understand what my last command is?”
Mpu Moro raised his body, with a limp step he moved leading to the king's door. Queen Dyah, with the ladies and gentlemen, followed Mpu Moro, looking anxiously at her husband for the last time.
“Keparat, the time has come for me to hand over this rotten taktha to one of you,” The King coughed again. “The oldest son who is as stupid as I am, and one more of my youngest son who is stubborn and ugly.”
Ruswara tried to wipe the blood coming out of the king's nose. While Mahendra grasped the king's fingers, hoping that the king would continue his words.
“We live on the cursed land, until whenever it will always be like that. My father or I are both useless, there was a time when I dreamed back to my childhood, where I saw tiger humans living guarding this country,” said King Sanjaya muttered.”
“My Cinderella has been extinct their father has been finished off by Mahardhika,” Mahendra said.
“No!” King Sanjaya coughed, his voice sounding painful. “One day they will return, save the Emerald, when my love rises somewhere, please my children, find the staff of Mustika Tarlingga, this country must stand in their support to destroy Mahardhika.”
For the first time Ruswara cried, in the last moments unable to look at the face full of regret of the king. Why does man always realize his mistakes and regrets when death will pick him up, he said softly in his mind.
King Sanjaya looked wearyly at Ruswara, “I should have listened to your mother, those arak-arak would have indeed sent me to hell. There's a reason why I hate you my ugly son. Your nature reminds me of my father, of my grandfather, of the former kings, I cannot be like them, but you can.”
King Sanjaya raised his hand, he pointed at Ruswara in a weak and slow motion.
“This testament I say first and last, after my death, engrave in the ejection sheets. I hereby appoint Ruswara to act as regent and successor of my takthaku as is the duty of the king in bequeath his throne in the first nation. upon my death.”.
“Ayahanda, that's impossible,” a pulse of anger flows in Mahendra's mouth. “It reneges on the tradition of Tarlingga, I am the first son!”
“Don't wander near my death boy. You're as dumb as I am, even more stupid than me, wouldn't deserve my date slap occupied by someone with an attitude like mine for the second time.”
Mahendra grabbed the king's hand, his fingers squeezed strong, Ruswara could see Mahendra's hand veins protruding. “Daddy said it was just a joke, tell me you're joking about your death!”
“I am indeed a bad king, even gods know death is worth me, but I never joke at my command even if it is an order that will kill my own people,” in a husky voice full of sorrow King Sanjaya said. King Sanjaya's sigh slowed down along with a faint blood-covered smile. “Rushvara I entrust this kingdom to you, you will not disappoint me, you will succeed.. Because the blood of my father and true leader Tarlingga flows within you.”.
Mahendra gripped the king's fingers even stronger, and shook him with a fairly swift bang, “This can't be father!”
The king's gaze began to empty, his fingers were numb, “May the gods forgive me.”
He started to close his eyes, looking relaxed and calm. In the next seconds, the king's breath stopped. He died on his bed in the room, in the room of the kings of Tarlingga who stood looking at the glory of his land from the great window of the past.
The ladies rushed back, followed by the healers. They hurriedly wiped the warm blood from the king's nose, wiped the king's forehead, even closed his mouth and eyes.
“There is the last will from the king.” Ruswara said to Mpu Moro who came last, the old man had trouble blending in the room.
“True!” sidelines Mahendra grumbled, until his voice echoed in the king's room. “Command the engravers of the book, the king has decided that this throne will be handed down to me! I am Mahendra, as the king of Tarlingga replacing my father. Prepare a funeral for the king,” he does not give a pause.
“Wait kakahanda!”
“Service, get Ruswara out of this room!” he pointed at several bodyguards including Welino. “You think I'm not fed up with your attitude? This youngest forced his father to make him king, I am really disappointed in you my ugly sister, at the death of father, you acted like a hungry dog.”
“Let you Mahendra!”
“Eject, not imprison! This afternoon my sister proved it, and I saw it with my own head!”
The bodyguards moved nervously as if puzzled by the events happening so quickly. However, the order remains the order, their loyalty refers to the heir, even the figure of Mahendra who is none other than the eldest son of the king becomes evidence that strengthens his words.
Ruswara thrashed in a soldier's arms. No matter how strong his body was, he was unable to take off the lock of four Mahendra bodyguards, with a gasp of breath, he said raucously, “You are indeed the bastard Mahendra, one day your lies will pluck out your own tongue.”
“Save your words to you dissident.”
The four bodyguards directly dragged Ruswara out of the room, letting her thrash around. Mahendra managed to sing a sharp smile, when he looked down pretending to cry over the body of the king.
“Cursed be my brother, may the gods forgive you father.”
“For the sake of the patron god, it is not proper to do so before the body of the late king, o mahantri,” cetus Welino, his voice as if drifting in the grief of the room.
“Call me Sire, no longer mahamantri,” Mahendra corrects. “I did the right thing I did. A king must take a stand against defiance.”
Those words twisted in a room crowded with people. The queen could not speak just watching the king's body freeze, her mind filled with memories of the past when the king was still a sane king.
In the walls of the desert country, a king died. On that barren land too, a soul full of regret escaped to kahyangan, welcome torment or mind? Only the gods decide. However, far from the ground, far away, the figure lay, covered in sleep, waiting for the vengeance to awaken his long slumber.
***