Three days after what happened at the village hall grounds, Andini recklessly went alone to the dance studio where lumping horse dance rehearsals were usually held, even though her mother had warned her repeatedly not to go near the place until the village elders found a way to “calm” whatever had happened to Sekar.
She only wanted to know. She wanted to see for herself the bamboo horse props that had always been nothing more than performance props passing before her eyes, without her ever truly paying attention to them.
The dance studio was deserted. A thin layer of dust covered the rows of woven horses hanging neatly on the walls, their red and black paint faded by time. Andini touched one of them, feeling its rough surface beneath her fingers.
“You’re not afraid,” a voice said from the corner of the room.
Andini spun around, her heart pounding. In the corner of the studio, sitting cross-legged atop an old wooden daybed, was a young man wearing an old-fashioned striped lurik shirt and a batik headcloth. Strangely, his face looked familiar—as though she had glimpsed it in an old black-and-white photograph belonging to her grandmother, which she had always assumed was simply a picture of a male dancer performing in an ordinary show.
“Sampeyan ... Ki Branjangan?”
“Just Branjangan,” he said with a faint smile. “‘Ki’ is a title people gave me after I died. When I was alive, I was just an ordinary young man who loved to dance.”
“You said yesterday that you would wait until I chose for myself.” Andini stepped a little closer, even as common sense screamed at her to back away. “Why? Wouldn’t it be easier if you just forced me? You’re a spirit who’s been waiting for eighty years.”
“Because I’ve seen what happens when someone is forced,” Branjangan replied, his eyes turning distant for a moment. “Not to you. To your grandmother.”
Andini fell silent.
“Nyai Kartika didn’t run because she was a coward,” he continued softly. “She ran because her own family—including Pak Marto’s ancestor—forced this obligation on her so relentlessly that she never even had the chance to learn what she truly wanted. I don’t want to repeat that same mistake with her granddaughter.”
“So you really will wait? Even if that means your bond grows weaker and weaker?”
Something changed in Branjangan’s face, something he couldn’t hide despite having spent eighty years as a spirit who appeared calm on the outside. Weariness. A weariness that had built up over eight decades.
“I’ve already waited this long,” he said. “A little longer won’t kill me. But forcing you—that could kill a part of you.”
Before Andini could answer, hurried footsteps sounded outside the studio.
“Andini!”
A young man appeared in the doorway, breathing hard as if he had just run from the far end of the village. Baskoro—her childhood friend, the son of Pak Slamet, the gamelan player—stood there with a pale face, his eyes darting from Andini to the corner where Branjangan sat.
But as soon as Baskoro looked toward the wooden daybed, his expression shifted to confusion.
The corner was empty.
“Why did you come here alone?” Baskoro stepped inside, his voice a mixture of worry and anger. “Your mom told my mom last night. You know this is dangerous, right? Do you know what happened to my dad when he was young?”
Andini glanced at the now-empty corner, then looked back at Baskoro. “I just wanted to see the studio. I’m fine, Bas.”
“My dad said the same thing before he went into a trance he couldn’t control,” Baskoro said, moving closer. His voice softened, though the tension remained. “He’s never told me the details, not even now. But I know one thing—after that incident, he never wanted to step inside this studio again for the rest of his life.”
Andini felt a weight in her chest at his words. She knew nothing about Baskoro’s father’s past, but the fear in her friend’s eyes was real, not imagined.
“I promise I’ll be careful,” she said quietly.
“That’s what people always say before something bad happens.” Baskoro stared at her for a long moment, then let out a heavy sigh. “Come on, let’s go home. Your mom’s looking for you.”
Andini nodded and followed Baskoro out of the studio. But in the doorway, she turned once more toward the corner of the room that had been empty moments ago.
For a fraction of a second, she saw him—Branjangan standing there, not chasing her, not forcing her, only watching her leave with an expression she found difficult to read. Relief and loss at the same time.