The village hall grounds were packed, but the atmosphere was completely different from the night Sekar went into a trance. This time, the villagers had gathered because of an official invitation from the subdistrict office, and at the front stood a neatly dressed man in a suit, wearing a smile far too wide for a small village like Karangtengah.
“Bukit Kemuning,” the man said, pointing toward a large map spread out in front of the villagers, “will be transformed into an integrated nature tourism area. There’ll be trekking trails, scenic overlooks, and even plans for cultural performances of your own—lumping horse dance performances could become the main attraction, staged every weekend for tourists.”
His name was Angkara, head of tourism for the subdistrict. His voice was convincing, full of figures about jobs, village revenue, and roads that would be repaired.
Andini sat in the back row with her mother, feeling something cold creep up the back of her neck the moment the name “Bukit Kemuning” was mentioned.
That hill—the same hill where the old dance studio stood, where the Closing Movement was supposed to be performed.
“When will construction begin, sir?” one of the villagers asked.
“Next month,” Angkara replied confidently. “We’ve already prepared the heavy machinery. The only thing that needs to be cleared first is the old dance studio at the top of the hill—we’ll relocate it to a more strategic site, closer to the main road, so tourists can access it more easily.”
“Relocate it,” Andini’s mother whispered bitterly beside her. “He means tear it down.”
Andini felt her chest tighten. She turned toward Pak Marto and Mbah Kartareja, who were sitting in the front row. Both their faces were equally pale, but neither of them dared to speak in front of the subdistrict official.
After the meeting broke up, Andini caught up with Mbah Kartareja, who was walking slowly toward the exit with the help of his cane.
“Mbah, that hill—it’s where the Closing Movement was supposed to happen, right? If they tear down the studio—”
“If that sacred ground is disturbed,” Mbah Kartareja cut in, his voice heavy, “Branjangan’s anchor could break completely. Not merely loosen, as it has now.”
“And what happens if the anchor breaks?”
Mbah Kartareja stopped walking and stared at Andini for a long moment before answering. “Eighty years ago, the plague spirit wasn’t an ordinary disease. It was a hungry spirit, one that could only be defeated because Branjangan sacrificed his own freedom to contain it. If that bond breaks, the spirit won’t die, Nduk. It will only fall asleep. Waiting.”
The afternoon wind suddenly felt colder than usual.
“We still have a month,” Mbah Kartareja continued. “But if Angkara truly tears apart that hill before someone completes the Closing Movement…”
He didn’t need to finish the sentence. Andini already understood what he meant.
That night, Andini returned to the dance studio—this time without hesitation, without pretending she was merely curious. She found Branjangan already waiting in the same place, as if he had known she would come.
“Did you hear about Angkara?” Andini asked directly, without preamble.
Branjangan nodded slowly. “I can feel it. Every time someone intends to touch this ground the wrong way, I can feel it, like a fresh wound on a body that’s been sick for a long time.”
“Mbah Kartareja said that if this hill is destroyed before the Closing Movement is completed, your anchor could break completely. The plague spirit you defeated before could rise again.”
“That’s right,” he replied calmly, though Andini could see something tense beneath that calm.
“Why didn’t you tell me about this from the beginning? About the deadline?”
“Because I didn’t want you to decide because you were being forced by time.” Branjangan looked straight at her. “I already told you, Andini—I don’t want to repeat what happened to Nyai Kartika. If you choose to complete the Closing Movement, I want it to be purely because it’s what you want. Not because you’re pressured by time, or by the fear of losing your village.”
“But now I am being pressured by time,” Andini’s voice rose, a mixture of anger and fear she could no longer hide. “Do you think I have the luxury of taking my time deciding while Angkara has already prepared the heavy machinery?”
Branjangan seemed to lose his words. He stared at Andini for a long time, his jaw tightening as if he were holding back something he desperately wanted to say but didn’t dare.
“Then,” he said at last, quietly, “let me find a way to stop Angkara. You don’t have to decide anything tonight.”
“How? You’re a spirit who can only appear in this dance studio.”
“I can do more than appear here,” Branjangan replied, his eyes glinting with something new—not anger, but determination. “I still have old power that I haven’t used in the past eighty years. I simply haven’t had a reason to use it again.”
Andini stared at him, her heart pounding—not from fear, but because of something else. Something that had begun growing since their first meeting in this dance studio, something she hadn’t dared give a name.
“Don’t do anything stupid,” she said softly.
Branjangan gave a faint smile, one that, for the first time, looked truly alive—not merely a shadow from eighty years ago.
“I’ve been waiting for eighty years, Andini. I know exactly how to survive without doing anything stupid.”
Outside the dance studio, unbeknownst to them, a pair of eyes watched from behind the trees. Baskoro, who had secretly followed Andini that night, stood frozen as he listened to the conversation he had just witnessed.