Raka froze.
Four figures stood beyond the greenish light. A faceless woman in the middle. Three other figures beside her. And one of them had his father's face.
Raka's heart pounded so hard that his ears rang.
“Father…” he whispered.
The figure did not move. It simply stood straight among the trees, wearing the same clothes as on the night of his father's funeral: a white shirt and dark sarong.
But something was wrong.
His face was too pale. His eyes did not blink. And his smile… was too wide.
“Raka,” the figure called softly.
His father's voice. Exactly.
Raka took one step forward before realizing what he was doing.
The black root bracelet around his wrist immediately grew hot.
He remembered one important thing.
Faces could be worn. Voices could be borrowed.
Raka stopped.
The figure wearing his father's face smiled wider.
“Have you forgotten how to call your father?”
The words pierced Raka's heart. A longing so powerful welled up inside him that his eyes began to burn.
Yet when he tried to remember his father's real face, the image blurred.
The forest had taken part of his memory.
“My father never smiled like that,” Raka whispered.
The figure's smile slowly disappeared.
Its head tilted to the left. Then to the right.
The same movement as the faceless creature outside the forest.
The faceless woman let out a soft laugh.
“Good. You still remember a little.”
The greenish light around them pulsed faster.
Bayu appeared behind the figures, kneeling with his hands clutched to his head.
“Mas… it hurts…”
Raka was about to run, but the ground beneath his feet moved.
Black roots emerged from the surface and coiled around his ankles.
He fell flat on his face.
Whispers from dozens of voices rose through the gaps between the roots:
“Forget…” “Forget…” “Forget…”
Raka struggled. The roots were cold and slick, like the bodies of giant worms.
The figure with his father's face stepped closer.
Each step made no sound.
“Why did you come back, Raka?”
“For Bayu!”
“Bayu has already been chosen.”
“No!”
The figure crouched in front of him.
From up close, Raka saw something horrifying.
His father's facial skin did not fit together perfectly.
A thin black line showed along the neck, like a mask sewn onto someone else's body.
And white mist seeped out through the gap.
Raka fought back nausea.
“You're not my father.”
The figure was silent for several seconds.
Then, in a voice that had turned hoarse, it said:
“I am the memory of your father.”
The faceless woman added, “And memories are easier to wear than bodies.”
The roots coiled tighter around Raka's legs.
The cold crept upward to his knees.
Suddenly, he felt something disappear again.
He tried to remember the sound of his father's laughter.
Nothing.
He still knew that his father had once laughed, but he no longer remembered what it sounded like.
Panic slammed into him.
“No… no…”
The faceless woman raised her hand.
Flashes of memories appeared in the air like shards of glass.
Little Raka being carried by his father. Raka being taught to fish. Raka being scolded for coming home late.
One by one, they shattered into black dust.
“Stop!” Raka screamed.
“Each step inward costs you one memory,” the woman said calmly. “You've gone too far.”
Bayu suddenly screamed.
His body jerked backward. Black mist poured from his mouth like smoke.
“Mas! I'm starting to forget my name!”
Raka's eyes widened.
That was what the forest had been waiting for.
If Bayu forgot his own name, he would become one of the faceless creatures.
Raka bit his lip until it bled and pulled a small knife from his bag. He hacked at the roots wrapped around his leg.
The root screamed.
It truly screamed, like a human being in pain.
The green light flickered wildly.
The faceless woman took one step back.
“The blood of the pact…”
Raka managed to stand. His legs trembled, but he kept moving forward.
The figure with his father's face blocked his path.
“If you keep going in, you may succeed in bringing Bayu out.”
Hope flared in Raka's chest.
“But,” the figure continued, “you won't remember that he's your younger brother.”
Raka's step faltered.
Bayu cried in the distance.
“Mas… don't leave me…”
The faceless woman spread both hands.
The mist around them parted.
Raka saw something beyond the trees.
An old pavilion stood in the middle of the green light.
Hundreds of faceless white masks hung in front of it.
And beneath the pavilion, someone sat cross-legged with their back to them.
Their hair was long.
Their body was wrapped in black cloth.
The gamelan music had been coming from there.
The figure struck the saron slowly.
Ting...
Tung...
Then, without turning around, it spoke in the voice of a very old woman:
“The first child has come.”
The faceless woman bowed her head respectfully.
And the figure in the pavilion continued:
“Take him to the Second Circle before he remembers too much.”