The wild quails Wening caught for dinner weren't even half as fat as the ones Father used to keep.
The man had been so good at everything he raised—including the banana crop at the front yard and, arguably, Wening herself—that in a relatively short period of time, batches of healthy offspring could be produced by a couple of scrawny wild quail Father had initially captured.
At some point after their settling down at Jaladara Forest outskirt, the birds became their primary source of steady income. Father travelled so often to the village center due to the ever increasing demands and soon enough, he earned the title "quail guy" by the villagers.
"Quail guy" really sounded as harmless as Father's general look without his macan kumbang kris strapped on his back. He was so damn proud of the nickname too, thinking it was hilarious. Wening secretly thought it was embarrassing, but she would never in a thousand year deny the man a simple happiness. Cringe-inducing as it was.
The times Father ever looked decidedly not sad was too few and too far in between already.
Sure.
By the time they settled in the area, about eight years after Father took Wening under his wings, the man had grown significantly less sad-looking, of that she was certain. And Father's soft, genuine smile was always heartwarming when it wasn't wistful.
Still.
There were days when old grief came back and embraced Father like a lover, into which he willingly succumbed. During these days, Father would return home from the market with several bamboo tubes of tuak nectar wine instead of money. He, too, would've been at least half-drunk by the time he arrived.
If it was already so late into the night, as it had mostly been the case, Father would refrain from getting inside the house. The man wouldn't ever bother knocking. Instead, he would make himself comfortable on the bamboo divan placed in front of their little cottage and spend the night huddling with tubes after tubes of tuak wine.
On these nights, Wening frequently found herself lying awake still, though she nonetheless appreciated Father's considerate gesture.
As lingsir wengi—midnight—struck, father usually started fluting with his bamboo seruling. With an unexpected expertise, he often played a tune of longing and regrets, of ghosts from a happier past, of a shinier future he managed to grasp but didn't last.
And later, much later, only after the wistful melody had finally ceased to echo, Wening would quietly go outside to spread their thickest blanket all over Father's sprawled figure.
Come morning, Father would find Wening somewhere in or around the cottage, then give her a bleary but appreciative smile, which she would return with a silent, curt nod. No question asked, no answer forthcoming. Over the years, Father had made clear of his reluctance to share his past and Wening knew better than to speak a word about it.
Wening wished she hadn't known better. It was too late now to ask Father of anything at all. He already brought all his secrets and mystery buried along with him three hasta under.
And as far as she knew, Wening was all Father had left to mourn his passing.
There was no one else for him; no family, no friend, no other attachment. Even those fat quails he had religiously raised had all been sent to quail heaven by the same black-clad scums who razed Wening's own little heaven to dust.
Back to the present, Wening stared at her three pathetic-looking quails with a morbid sense of nostalgia. She had managed to catch the whole family of five (save two adolescent ones that she let go to continue the existence of their species), but they just came to be as scraggy as any wild animal could get. Wening couldn't even blame the poor catch on the low visibility of dusk.
Speaking of which, Wening abruptly realized just how dark her surroundings had become. Despite the rather unsatisfying hunt, she knew she just had to go back now otherwise she might actually become dinner herself.
Gathering her wits, Wening traced her steps back to the shack, banishing earlier thoughts about Kelana Klawu and any possibility of cannibalism. The man wasn't the she-demon Tataka of Jaladara, for gods' sake.
The poor birds in Wening's grip might not be a worthy offering for the likes of Kelana Klawu. But for now, this would have to do.
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Knocking on the door of her own house was just plain weird, but Wening did it anyway. She paused for several beats, waiting for an answer that never came, before finally allowing herself to push the flimsy door open and slipped quietly inside.
It turned out to be one of the wisest life decisions she ever made.
First thing Wening noticed was the total silence in the room, an absolute contrast to the cicadas-filled evening outside. The second was the flickering fire from the teplok oil lamp nailed on one of the bamboo pillars, washing its surrounding with a dim yellowish light.
The third was a curious sight of a black-beyond-measures pendekar sitting sedately next to a stiffening dead body.
Cross-legged on the rattan mat, Kelana Klawu appeared to be deeply immersed into a meditative state. It was a ridiculously perfect dhyana mudra, Wening thought absently, with his figure perfectly poised, one palm laid open and relaxed on top of another right on his lap. One would think only monks could aspire to achieve such perfection.
And now that the dirt-caked bamboo hat was out of the way, Wening could finally observe how serene the young man looked under the dim flickering light of the teplok lamp. If she stared at the lake surface-calm expression just a little bit longer, it almost felt like Kelana Klawu's ruthless killing earlier was nothing but a dream. A twisted one, yes. Absolutely. But a dream nonetheless.
Then it finally hit Wening, the ever growing gut-roiling smell of a slowly decomposing body. Only then she realized that it was already hours since the bandit met his tragic end. Combined with the all-day sweltering heat and unforgiving humidity, the dead body clearly didn't stand a chance.
On the other hand, Kelana Klawu didn't even seem to twitch. For a second, Wening had to wonder if the man was either so used to the smell he barely showed any hint of reaction, or had actually passed out sitting, considering how long the guy must have maintained the meditative pose up until now.
Apparently, it was the former. Because the black arts pendekar chose that very moment to blink his eyes open and shifted his gaze at Wening so fast, so abruptly, as if challenging her to spew a rude comment on his action.
Or maybe showing her in real time what one would have to undergo in order to walk the dark path.
Wening gulped down hard. This did not exactly cross her mind when she first decided to learn the black martial arts. A meditative session with a rotting dead body as a company was not beyond the realm of possibility, but it was still nasty as hell.
'I thought this is the perfect black arts master you've been looking for.' A mischievous, traitorous part of her mind cackled maniacally in the background. 'The nastier the better, remember?'
"What is it?" Kelana Klawu asked evenly, his voice almost toneless.
"Dinner is served uhm... outside," Wening said carefully, pointing in the direction of the front yard with some awkward hand flinging, "I thought it would be uh... nicer to eat by the fire, under the clear sky, in the open air..."
You know, somewhere fresh, which doesn't smell like a rotting corpse and abandonment.
When Kelana Klawu finally nodded and moved from his sitting position towards the door, Wening almost cried with relief. Perhaps too eagerly, she gestured at a thick dry log placed by the fire to the black arts pendekar.
Wening didn't wait to see Kelana Klawu appreciate the modest accommodation. She went ahead to retrieve the least scrawny, least singed quail she had managed to roast on a stick earlier and handed it to Kelana Klawu.
"Here," Wening said, trying not to sound too hopeful. "It tastes better than it looks. I swear."
Kelana Klawu's brow made the slightest curve upwards, hardly visible but clearly there, then stared at the roasted bird for the longest of time. His face unreadable.
As the moment dragged on, Wening fought hard not to fidget. She wasn't sure what to expect, but that didn't stop her from steeling herself for any kind of reaction. Dismissal, most likely, or maybe even cold rejection, to which Wening had no business of feeling disappointed whatsoever—
"It's been a long time since the last time I ate a bird," Kelana Klawu said in a low voice. Like it was an afterthought.
Ah. Of course. Wening dropped her gaze and promptly looked away. "I apologize."
From her peripheral vision, Kelana Klawu tilted his head to the side. His frown deepened imperceptibly. "What for?"
Wening let out a breath she barely remembered holding. Great job trying to impress the one guy she desperately wanted to study from.
"You see, I'm broke," Wening swung both hands to the side, like it wasn't obvious enough from the state of her, "my house and everything in it burned down a couple weeks ago, so I couldn't provide you with the red meat you used to eat."
"How would you know?" Kelana Klawu countered. He sounded... incredulous? "How would you know if I used to eat red meat"
"I... don't?" Wening replied, eyes still not meeting the other, "but isn't meat a staple for black arts pendekar like you?"
There was a sigh. A heavy one. And Wening was utterly compelled to raise her head and finally, finally, looked at Kelana Klawu right in the eye.
"I don't know where that comes from but it's been even longer since the last time I ate meat," he admitted. It oddly sounded sincere. Which was puzzling.
"But that couldn't be right," Wening shook her head. "What have you been eating then?"
Kelana Klawu shot her a look then. The one that said, 'why are you asking such a dumb question?'
With a thinly suppressed exhale, he finally answered. "Mushrooms, mostly. Fruits. Fish or shrimps, sometimes ..."
Wening barely registered the way her jaw had dropped in disbelief. "You're one weird black pendekar."
Kelana Klawu didn't dignify her with a response.
"But why?" Wening insisted. "You could hunt. You must be crazy good at it!"
Kelana Klawu actually surprised her by suddenly asking, "Have you killed before?"
For a moment, all Wening did was blinked. Twice, to be exact. She then waved the stick with a roasted bird she was holding and pulled her shoulders in a dramatic shrugging motion. Duh?
Kelana Klawu badly wanted to roll his eyes. Wening knew it. He didn't, though. Instead, the guy lowered his gaze, letting his head hang low, before glancing at Wening from under his long lashes. As if Kelana Klawu was trying to hide a part of him or something.
"Let me rephrase," he said, whisper like in all seriousness, "have you killed a human being before?"
Wening instantly narrowed her eyes at him. Is this some kind of a test or something?
"Uh, no," she said rather indignantly, "but I'm sure I'll enjoy it when the time comes."
Something flashed in Kelana Klawu's dark orbs, sharp and chilling, but it was gone too fast Wening could've only imagined it. But she knew it was real, and was probably not that good of a sign either, because Kelana Klawu grabbed the roasted bird from her hand—yanked, almost—and proceeded to eat it mechanically while fixing his eyes at the crackling fire.
Kelana Klawu said no more. And judging from his closed-off expression, Wening realized there was absolutely nothing she could do to salvage the opportunity she was barely aware of loosing.
There goes my chance of learning black martial arts, one part of Wening lamented miserably. The other part of her, however, giggled and taunted just shy of her auditory range. 'Looks like someone is in a deep, deep shit...'
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Word count: 2038
Chapter picture courtesy of:
Hand-colored lithograph of puyuh or common quail (Coturnix communis) by English naturalist John Gould, published within the original first edition of Birds of Great Britain (1862-1873). *
In Indonesia, the endemic Phasianidae species is "puyuh-gonggong jawa" (Arborophila javanica), found mostly in the western and eastern part of Java island. **
Source:
* www.panteek.com/GouldBirdsBritain1862/pages/jgb53-2c1.htm
** https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chestnut-bellied_partridge
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to be continued...
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