Chapter 5 — The First Death
Darto’s body was found three days later. That morning, two woodcutters were following a stretch of river few villagers ever visited. At first, they thought something was caught between the rocks. But as soon as one of them got closer, he screamed. A human body. Darto was lying on his back among the wet rocks. He was still wearing the same clothes he’d had on when he last went into the forest. His pants were caked with mud, and both hands rested at his sides. There were no wounds. No blood. No broken bones. There wasn’t even any sign that an animal had attacked him. But Darto’s face left everyone who saw it speechless. His mouth was open. His eyes bulged. His face was frozen in an expression of such deep terror that it looked as if the fear still clung to his body. As though, before he died, Darto had seen something truly horrifying. Something he hadn’t had time to escape. News of the discovery spread quickly throughout the village. By noon, dozens of villagers had gathered on the riverbank. Some stood far away, unwilling to approach the body. Andi arrived with Uncle Wirya. The moment he saw Darto’s body, Andi felt sick to his stomach. He remembered the night the bamboo basket had been found in front of the house. He remembered the voice calling his name from the forest. And he remembered the black figure standing behind the fire. Andi turned away. Then his eyes fell on Darto’s right hand. There was a black mark on the palm. It looked like a burn. But the skin around it was undamaged. Not blistered. Not peeling. Just one small patch that had turned pitch-black, as if something had burned the inside of the skin without touching its surface. The doctor from the district arrived that afternoon. He examined Darto’s body for a long time. He checked for a pulse that was no longer there, his pupils, his skin, and several other parts of his body. After nearly half an hour, the doctor stood up and sighed. “It looks like he was burned,” he said. A villager frowned. “But there aren’t any other burns.” The doctor shook his head. “I don’t know.” “So what caused his death?” The doctor looked at Darto’s body again. “That’s what I can’t explain.” No one said a word. Andi stood among the villagers. He looked at Darto’s hand again. Then he noticed something that had been hidden by the mud. A thin black line ran from the palm to the wrist. Andi stepped closer. His heart pounded. The line looked like a symbol. A small circle with three lines extending from it like tongues of flame. Andi had seen that symbol before. He was sure of it. But he didn’t know where. The symbol filled his thoughts all the way home. That night, he sat at the dining table with Uncle Wirya. “Uncle.” “Hmm?” “Darto’s hand.” Uncle Wirya stopped chewing. “What about it?” “There was a symbol.” His uncle’s expression changed. “What kind of symbol?” Andi drew it on the table with his fingertip. A circle. Three lines. Like fire. Uncle Wirya stared at the invisible lines. For a long time. A very long time. Then he stood up. “Never draw that again.” “Why?” Uncle Wirya didn’t answer. He walked to his room. A few minutes later, he returned with an old wooden box. It was covered in dust and looked as if no one had touched it in years. Uncle Wirya set it on the table. His hands trembled as he opened the latch. Click. Inside were several old things. Photographs. Letters. Newspaper clippings. A yellowed ID card. And a book with a leather cover that was almost falling apart. Uncle Wirya held the book tightly. Andi saw the name written on its first page. SURYA WIRYANA. “Who’s Surya?” Uncle Wirya didn’t answer right away. He stared at the name as if he were looking at someone who had been gone for a long time. “My brother.” Andi frowned. “You’ve never told me about him.” “There’s nothing to tell.” “Why did you keep this book?” Uncle Wirya looked at him. “Because some things are better off dying with the person who wrote them.” Andi picked up the book. Strangely, his uncle didn’t stop him. He opened the first page. Old handwriting filled the yellowed paper. Some of the ink had faded, and several pages were covered in what looked like water stains. The first few lines were almost impossible to read. But one sentence was still clear. The fire doesn’t burn the body. Andi turned the page. Below it was another sentence. It burns the name. Andi fell silent. He read the sentence again. “What does that even mean?” Uncle Wirya remained silent. Andi turned to the next page. There were several names. Some had been crossed out. Some had been circled. A date appeared beside each name. Andi swallowed. The next page made him hold his breath. Because there, written down, was a name he knew all too well. His father’s name. Beside it was a date: 1987. Andi looked up. “Uncle...” Uncle Wirya was standing by the window. He didn’t turn around. “Did my father see that fire?” There was no answer. “Uncle!” At last, Uncle Wirya said, “Don’t go on.” “But why is Dad’s name in this book?” “Because your father once went to the same place.” “Repo Hutan?” Uncle Wirya closed his eyes. “And he wasn’t the only one.” Andi stared at the page. Suddenly, he realized several other names had been crossed out in black ink. Some were dated 1987. Some, 1988. Others had no date at all. “Who were they?” Uncle Wirya still had his back to Andi. “People who never came home.” Andi felt the back of his neck grow cold. Then a soft sound came from outside. Knock. Knock. Knock. They both turned. Outside, Repo Hutan was black and lightless. Andi slowly stood up. Then a small fire appeared among the trees. Orange. Floating. Uncle Wirya closed his eyes. The color drained from his face. “It’s started again.” Andi looked at him. “What’s started?” His uncle didn’t answer. The fire moved slowly. Closer and closer. Its light slipped between the trees and reflected in the window glass. Then something appeared behind it. Something much larger. The black shadow stood among the trees. Tall. Thin. Faceless. And this time, Andi saw something that made his blood run cold. One of the creature’s hands was raised. On its palm was the same symbol as Darto’s. A circle with three lines like tongues of flame. Andi stepped back. “On its hand...” Uncle Wirya opened his eyes. He saw the figure. Then whispered, “It’s chosen its next name.” Andi looked at his uncle. “Who?” Uncle Wirya didn’t answer. He only looked toward the book still open on the table. On the last page, black ink slowly began to seep through, forming a name. The name appeared letter by letter. ANDI.