The cart continued to move slowly, cutting through the undulating waves of grass. The three young men were now huddling together behind the driver's seat. Their gazes were fixed straight ahead, following a small shadow that had slowly been growing larger. At first appearing only as a black dot on the horizon, little by little its shape began to take form. Its roof soared high like a tower reaching into the sky. Its stone walls looked robust, like arms supporting a structure—a sight they were witnessing for the very first time, standing solitary in the middle of the vast Lataran Ijo.
The twilight sky slowly turned a dark reddish-black, while a scatter of starlight began to twinkle. The remaining sunlight swept across the expanse of grass, rendering the shadow of the building ever clearer. The cart drew closer until they finally realized that the structure stood atop a towering, giant rock cliff.
Their eyes slowly tilted upward. Part of their bodies leaned forward beside the driver, who still held the reins. They stared in awe at a towering, giant snail shell. Its color reflected the golden-yellow rays of dusk, revealing ancient lines and wild plants growing in its crevices—a sign that the building was ancient indeed.
There were round windows encircling every section of the snail's body. Some were glaringly bright, reflecting the lingering light of the sun almost setting over the western horizon.
Agniran's gaze locked onto a giant iron rope anchored into the slightly curved ground, binding and securing the body of the building. The giant iron rope spread out to several points around the cliff; some were fitted with pointed dark red flags fluttering in the wind, while others had lanterns hanging from them. It was as if the giant iron rope was holding back the ancient, giant shell to keep it from shifting.
As they drew closer to the foot of the cliff, the cart began passing a row of wooden posts towering almost twice the height of a human being. On each post, a long dark red flag hung downward, fluttering gently in the evening breeze. Painted in the middle of the cloth was a symbol that was entirely unfamiliar to Joko and Handoko.
But not to Agniran.
His gaze instantly froze. That symbol... was the same. Exactly like the carving adorning the golden metallic plaque that Wandarimo had once secretly handed to him. Subconsciously, his fingers fumbled through the contents of his otok belt pouch, where the plaque was still securely kept.
The row of flags repeated around the base of the cliff, as though guiding every wanderer who had succeeded in crossing the vast expanse of Lataran Ijo toward a spiral path that wound slowly up to the peak of the rock.
Handoko's face was transfixed, gazing up at the giant shell anchored at the tip of the massive cliff rock. "Whoa... Sir, what kind of building is that?"
Without turning around, the driver replied, "A resting place for wanderers."
Somewhere inside, Solor held the frame of a round window with both hands. His gaze surveyed Lataran Ijo far below from the height. He turned around, stepped over to the concave wall opposite him, and then leaned back out to look down at Lataran Ijo stretching far below.
In the distance, there were only two horse riders moving toward the cliff. He looked back at the round window beside him, but what he was searching for was not there.
"Thank goodness... it turns out those three young men aren't coming here..."
He walked toward the center of the concave room, standing near a table strewn with several books, scrolls, lanterns, and a few maps. His hand moved as if he were counting on his fingers. "And here I thought Wandarimo had gone mad, handing his plaque to just anyone."
Solor now descended the stairs from that room.
"Well then, what kind of intuition would it be if Wandarimo actually knew..." A short man of Solor's height greeted him. His head was covered with a black blangkon with small gold sumping ornaments behind his ears. His grey beard was neatly twisted. "...that the boy was going to become a prospective Crescent Moon Wanderer?" His eyes narrowed as he looked at Solor, who had just stepped off the bottom stair.
"It's not just a matter of whether that boy is going to become a Crescent Moon Wanderer, Mak..."
Solor's sandals slowly stepped onto the floor as he looked at the short man. "I'm confused by my own dream..."
The short man in the black blangkon walked over carrying a wooden box containing all sorts of potions, approaching Solor. With their almost identical height and attire, their eyes met at a very close distance. "Your dream is terrifying..."
Solor walked toward a dark red armchair in front of curved display shelves following the concave wall—the spot where all kinds of merchant wares were displayed. "At first, I thought so too, Mak..."
"I thought maybe the boy was just chosen by Wandarimo..."
"But when it came to that dream of mine, it made me think differently..."
"Because if you compare them side by side, the characteristics of becoming a Crescent Moon Wanderer are completely reversed..."
Solor jumped and sat onto the elegant wooden-carved armchair with its dark red cushion. "I'm actually scaring myself trying to interpret my own dream, Mak..."
The man with the gold sumping placed the wooden box of potions onto the round table in the middle of the concave room. His fingers dextrously arranged the bottles. "I swear, Lek, that dream of yours is terrifying..."
"Just hearing your story was enough for me to realize..." His eyes narrowed at Solor. "That it's like a warning of some sort..."
While trying to sit relaxed, Solor slowly shook his head. "...Please no, Mak."
"No..."
"I hope... it never comes to that..."
The short man with the sumping turned. "Well, nobody hopes for that to happen, Lek..."
Solor looked up at the hanging lamp made of a large conch-shell-shaped glass, glowing softly right above the short man.
"Well, now it all depends on him... If that boy actually arrives here, it means that whatever Wandarimo felt was indeed true..." Solor looked at the busy short man's face. "That the boy is truly no ordinary youth..."
The fingers of the man with the sumping were busy pasting paper labels onto the potion bottles. He looked at Solor. "Look here, if he really had a feeling about the boy... what kind of feeling was it? How could it be so fast—it hasn't even been a day since the Year of Panandha, yet how could he already say that boy is no ordinary youth?"
"I don't know, Mak, what he intends."
"In any case, if that boy actually reaches this place, it means it's serious—that Wandarimo's intuition was right."
"And this could be connected to my dream."
A slip of paper was brought close to the eyes of the man in the blangkon, nearly touching his nose as he tried to read the writing. His grey beard and mustache twitched as he spoke, "Why do you think that way...? Then why would Wandarimo ask that boy? Unless it was really important, why send his disciple all the way here?"
He raised his index finger and tapped the air. "What could the reason be, tell me?"
Solor got up from the sofa and walked over. "And how could he even dare to hand the plaque over to that boy?"
Now he stood beside the man with the gold sumping, both of them staring at the row of potion bottles. "It means Wandarimo's intuition must be really strong..."
The man with the sumping was still busy sticking paper slips onto several bottles. "As for the plaque issue, that's that, Mak. I've already been trying to cut down on my customers."
"I've reduced the members."
"Because for years now, I've been receiving warnings that the batik business here must be closed down forever..."
Solor, standing beside him, turned his head, his fingers touching one of the potion bottles. "I never expected the Alliance could act like this." His eyes stared at the thick, magenta-colored liquid behind the glass. "If they order it closed forever, is the Alliance trying to break the ancient agreement?"
The man with the sumping stopped his movements. "Exactly..."
"There's something even worse, Mak..." Solor reached into his otok belt pouch, then slowly placed a piece of pale yellow stone onto the table, right in front of the man in the blangkon.
The rough-textured, pale yellow stone fragment was irregularly shaped. Some of its crystal-like surfaces appeared hard, occasionally catching the soft glow from the hanging lamp above and casting a faint gleam that made it seem alive amidst the dimness.
The eyes of the man with the sumping narrowed as he leaned close to the stone, until the tip of his large, pointed nose almost touched it. He examined it for a moment, then his fingers grabbed the stone and brought it up to his nostrils.
"Hmm... Is this sulfur stone?"
"Sulfur?" Solor responded, looking at him hesitantly.
The man with the sumping walked away, leaving Solor and the potion table behind. He stopped in front of a drawer beneath the curved shelves following the concave wall. He opened the polished wooden drawer, his hands busily searching for something.
He pulled out a scroll, then walked back toward Solor, who was still standing beneath the conch lamp.
"Look at this..." He unrolled the scroll and pointed his index finger at an illustration of crystal-like rocks painted in brownish tones. "This stone... is just like the one here." The man with the sumping narrowed his eyes at Solor with a serious expression. "This is just like the one in..."
Now his face drew even closer, until his large, pointed nose almost touched Solor's cheek as Solor stared fixedly at the drawing.
"...Lemah Angker."
Both of Solor's eyes traced every detail of the drawing before him. It depicted a beautifully drawn giant tree, surrounded by ink-drawn crystals that seemed to be worshipping the tree.
Solor's face flushed, his expression filled with sorrow. "This is... the Night Tree," he uttered softly.
The hand of the man in the blangkon reached out, gently stroking Solor's shoulder to soothe the turmoil in his chest.
Slowly, Solor looked up. His eyes were transfixed on the glinting light swaying gently from behind the shell-shaped glass lamp hanging above them. The swaying light seemed to pull at the threads of his memories, carrying his mind back home.