Raka's left cheek was still swollen in the morning.
The mark from Kertra's slap the day before had left a bluish-red stain on his dirty skin. If he opened his mouth too wide, the gum he had bitten the day before still bled a little. It tasted salty.
He woke before sunrise, just as he had the day before. But this time, it wasn't because of rats. Outside the embankment hut, there was a tapping sound he recognized.
Elder Agra was already sitting on the rice-paddy embankment beside the old buffalo, which was still tethered. His black bamboo staff lay across his thighs. Beside him was a small banana-leaf bundle.
Kertra, who had also just woken from the mat, saw Elder Agra and immediately grew wary. His hand reached for the wooden sickle handle in the corner of the hut.
“Don't,” Raka said softly to Kertra. “He's... my teacher.”
The one-eyed Elder Agra looked down at Raka from the embankment, then at his swollen cheek.
“Not bad,” Elder Agra said. His hoarse voice was quiet. “The swelling is even. That means whoever slapped you didn't hesitate. If he'd hesitated, the swelling wouldn't be even.”
Kertra lowered the sickle handle slightly, though he remained suspicious.
“What do you want now, old man? You've already left this boy to suffer enough since yesterday. His foot is still wounded.”
Elder Agra didn't answer Kertra. He looked at Raka.
“Do you still want to learn, Grave Boy?” Elder Agra asked. He used the name people at the charcoal stall had given Raka. Not Lord. Not Wulung.
Raka stood on feet still wrapped in teak leaves. He limped toward the embankment and sat cross-legged in front of Elder Agra—not on the embankment, but below it, in the mud. His position was lower.
“Yes,” Raka said.
“You failed yesterday. You said your father's name. The seven-day condition starts over from zero. Still willing?”
“Yes.”
Elder Agra nodded and tossed the banana-leaf bundle into Raka's lap. Raka opened it. Inside was only cold white rice, without salt, salted fish, or anything else. Just white rice.
“Eat this. Only this. From today until sunset tomorrow. You may not eat anything else. You may not drink anything except plain water from the ditch, drawn by your own hands. That's the price.”
“The price for what?” Raka asked.
“For the first lesson,” Elder Agra replied. He stood, his staff tapping the ground. “Not a fighting technique. Techniques are easy. You can already punch and kick like a drunk fighting cock. What you can't do is see.”
“See what?”
“See people. Your father taught you to see when a fighting chicken was about to strike. I'll teach you to see when a person is about to lie, steal, or become afraid. That's the most expensive knowledge in the market. More valuable than a kris.”
Kertra, listening from the hut, gave a short laugh.
“Knowledge of seeing? Old man, don't fool him. He's hungry. Just let him work in my rice paddy.”
Elder Agra wasn't angry. He merely glanced at Kertra.
“Your son,” Elder Agra said to Kertra, “said three days ago that he'd stolen cassava, even though he hadn't. Why? His shoulder rose slightly when he lied. His eyes darted left. People who often lie to protect someone else always do that.”
Kertra fell silent. His face reddened.
Elder Agra turned back to Raka.
“Come with me to the market. Bring that white rice of yours. Don't eat it yet.”
The Wringin Anom market was crowded that morning, even though an execution had taken place only four days earlier. A farmer's life didn't stop because a noble had died. The smells of salted fish, sweat, and wet earth mingled in the air.
Raka walked behind Elder Agra, his foot wrapped in teak leaves and causing him to limp. His torn blue silk shirt, covered in buffalo filth, made people turn and stare. Several women closed their baskets tightly.
“That Grave Boy is still alive...”
“Don't get close. He'll ask for something...”
Raka lowered his head. In the past, whenever he came to the market, everyone had moved aside because they feared his horse. Now they moved aside because they were disgusted and afraid of bad luck.
Elder Agra stopped at the corner of a slightly raised wooden stall, where basket carriers usually rested. From there, the entire market was visible.
“Sit,” Elder Agra said.
They sat on the ground. Elder Agra took Raka's white rice and placed it in front of him.
“Hold out against your hunger until you can see who is hungry,” Elder Agra said. “Look at those people. Don't look at their faces. Faces can lie. Look at their shoulders. Look at their ankles.”
Raka watched the market. Dozens of people passed by: basket carriers, women carrying baskets, children chasing chickens.
“The woman carrying a basket of bananas over there,” Elder Agra said quietly. “Look at her shoulders. The left one is lower. That means the basket is unevenly weighted. It's not filled entirely with bananas. There's a stone underneath to make the scale heavier. She's trying to deceive people.”
Raka looked. It was true. The woman's left shoulder was lower.
“Now the man in front of the palm-wine stall. Look at his ankles. His toes are pointed toward the exit, not the stall. He doesn't want to buy palm wine. He's going to run after leaving his debt behind. Look at how he keeps gripping that pouch. He's afraid.”
Raka began to see. The knowledge he had once used with fighting chickens worked the same way with people. Tense shoulders, restless ankles, hands gripping a pouch too tightly.
His stomach growled loudly because he still hadn't eaten the white rice. The smell of snail satay from the next stall stabbed at his nose. The white fast was torture.
Then his eyes stopped on a child.
A small boy, perhaps nine years old. He was thin, his cloth ragged, his bare feet covered in wounds like Raka's had once been. The boy stood in front of Auntie Sari's fruit stall—the same woman whose bananas Raka had once stolen without paying. In Auntie Sari's hand was a king banana she had just arranged.
The boy wasn't looking at the bananas. He was looking around. His shoulders were raised high, almost to his ears. His breathing was short. His ankles wouldn't stay still, his toes turning left and right as he searched for a way to escape. His hands opened and closed into fists.
“He's going to steal,” Raka whispered without realizing it.
Elder Agra glanced at him.
“Why?”
“His shoulders are raised. He's afraid. His feet won't stay still. He's looking for a way to run. His hands are sweaty. He keeps wiping them on his cloth.”
Elder Agra nodded.
“Good. Now see who he is.”
The boy finally moved. His hand snatched a small banana cluster from the edge of Auntie Sari's stall while she was distracted serving a customer. Then he ran. He limped because his foot was wounded.
“Hey! Thief! Little thief!”
Auntie Sari shouted. Two market laborers immediately gave chase.
The boy tripped over a root in the middle of the market and fell. The bananas dropped to the ground. People immediately surrounded him, some of them ready to kick.
Raka stood up on reflex. His foot, wrapped in leaves, hurt, but he limped toward the crowd.
“Don't kick him!”
The people turned to look at Raka, the Grave Boy in clothes covered with buffalo filth.
Raka crouched in front of the terrified, crying boy, who was clutching the bananas that had fallen to the ground. The boy's face was dirty and covered in snot.
Raka recognized that face. A memory from three years ago surfaced.
This boy was Auntie Darmi's son. She was the woman who had snatched Raka's leather shoes on the road down from his house. The woman who had thrown stale rice onto the ground for him at the market stall. The boy Raka had once ordered to lick the pavilion floor simply because he had spilled the dirty water from washing Raka's feet.
The boy recognized Raka too. His eyes widened in fear when he saw him.
“Please... don't whip me again, Lord...” the boy sobbed, hugging the bananas tightly. “My mother is sick... She hasn't eaten for two days...”
The crowd fell silent. Auntie Sari, who had been about to get angry, also fell silent when she saw Raka kneeling in front of the boy.
Raka stared at the bananas on the ground. Bananas he had once stolen without paying simply because he wanted them. Now this boy had stolen the same thing because his mother was sick.
Elder Agra stood behind the crowd with his black bamboo staff, watching Raka. He didn't help. He waited.
What would the Grave Boy do? Defend the thief's child by invoking his dead father's name, or do something else?