The Bloodstone
by Pratiwi Juliani

Translated from Indonesian into English by Rain Chudori

The leaves of the rubber trees that lined the entire street leading to Rantau have yellowed. The August sun has scorched the forest. On their roots, the bones of scattered leaves have fallen, mingling with the withered grass. It was a hot afternoon, and everyone on the bus has closed their window blinds. Their faces have turned yellow, like the dying leaves in the forest. The thin blue curtains hung across the window only adds to an already strange complexion. 

Suddenly, the bus collides with a huge pothole on the street. The passengers jumped, but the bus kept going, as if nothing had happened. Gemilang draws the curtains and looks outside, in search of the pothole. She sees nothing. She turns her gaze forward. The air was shrouded in a thin yellow-tinged dust. Fine dirt flew about, clinging to everything: on the leaves, on the walls of the ranger huts, on the tip of everyone’s nose. Gemilang knows what she saw. She also knew that after passing through the rubber forest, the bus would enter the city. But the forest is long and filled with hills. When the monsoon came, the forest was covered in dust and collided with landslides. 

The yellow dust that covered the forest air slowly turned gray. Grayer and darker. Black smoke filled the cloud. Gemilang straightened her back. She hoped that other people would witness what she had seen. They did. There was the smell of smoke.

"Fire, fire!"

The bus slowed down and finally stopped, after the driver saw another car that had parked to the side. The locals ran towards the burning forest plots. The bus passengers lifted their curtains, watching a crowd of small hands carrying buckets of water in the hopes of taming the hunger of the fire. The sky above them began to redden. The sky was black and red. The dry leaves and grass lit up like thousands of matches. The trunks of rubber trees became a bonfire.

Gemilang closed the window blinds. The bus was moving again, very slowly. Sirens wailed in the background. Traffic stopped once again. Cars pulled aside to make way for fire trucks. The sirens still wailed, one after the other, and still Gemilang watched from behind the curtains. The forest had now completely turned red. It didn’t seem like fire anymore. It was now colour. For a moment, the forest had turned into a still painting.

The bus crawled forward. The fire came back to life. It was moving, blazing. It swerved, spitting black smoke into the sky. The front tire of the bus fell into another pothole as the traffic came to a halt once more. Now the passengers were sitting slightly sideways. Water was flowing from the fire trucks hose. The streets were flooded with murky water. The faces of the people outside the bus were drenched in sweat, their feet were wet with water and dirt. The traffic moved again. The bus made it through the hole.

"Someone threw a cigarette butt on the street.

“Hot weather. It’s too hot to set fire to dry leaves.”

"Someone burned the forest."

“It was a fire spirit. They should hold a ritual to drive it out of the village."

Gemilang took her water bottle. It was empty. She swallowed. The bus has returned to their journey. The red twilight has passed. The driver turned the lights of the bus. Once again, he sky turned black, but this time it was completely dark. Dark and cold. Night has fallen on the forests of the hills.

Mascinta sat on a wheelchair. Her body, which was gradually growing thinner, was wrapped in a silk dress. Gemilang sat on the floor, trimming the old woman's toenails. They were in the centre of a large hall in the house. The hall felt even larger after they pushed all of the furniture to the side to make space for the wheelchair. Surrounding them were wooden cabinets with glass windows filled with old ceramics

“I see your mother every night. I know she’s coming for me."

"How is she?"

"Beautiful. Lovely clothes."

"And did you see my father too, Grandma?"

"No, he does not come to me. Maybe he comes to his mother’s dreams. Or his father's. Maybe he’ll come for them."

Gemilang took her grandmother's right arm, pressing it slowly to feel her pulse.

“Will you come to my house in Jakarta? There are more doctors available there."

“I want to die here. I'm not sick, I'm old. I’ll be 89 years old this year."

"Who says you’re dying? Some people live to 100."

"I know how old I am. That's why I called you here."

Gemilang retrieved her hand from Mascita.

"There's something I want to give you. It was your mother’s. Now it’s yours."

"Is it an object?"

"It’s jewelry. It has a story. You loved hearing stories when you were little."

"Yes, yes. Those stories. I still remember."

"You remember?"

"Yes. They’re deep in my memory."

"You always wanted to sleep next to me because you wanted to hear my stories. Isn’t that right?"

"Yes. Yes."

"I haven't told you every story."

Her grandmother was asleep, her head tilted to her left shoulder. Gemilang slowly closed the window next to Mascinta to keep the wind out. Gemilang heads to Mascinta’s room to find a blanket. Gemilang walks past a woman, slightly younger than Gemilang, reclining on a sofa in the living room. A distant relative who has been living there with her grandmother. The television was on.

When she returned, Mascinta was still asleep on her wheelchair. Gemilang slowly slid the sarong between her shoulders, lifting her grandmother's drooping head and sitting her slightly upright. She then covered her aged body with the blanket.

Gemilang brings a chair to sit by the open window. From there, she could see through the rubber forest, a fenced field — the place where her parents were buried. There were also the graves of her grandfather and two elders, as well as the graves of three other relatives of his grandmother. The village is surrounded by a rubber forest and other large trees, older than the rubber trees. Kasturi trees, mangosteen, gandaria, trees so large that you could not wrap your hands around their trunk. During the monsoon, when small storms arrive in the evening, fruits will fall onto the ground, like beads from a necklace that has snapped. Soon after dawn, the children will pick up the fruit before they leave for school, competing with the teenagers heading to the fields for work.

No one has ever questioned whether the fruit they ate grew from the bodies of the dead that lied under the earth. Here, grief is an eternal holding that casts its shadow over its families. They buried their sorrows in their own land, in their own gardens. As they saying goes, anyone has the right to receive God’s bounty. But these were not like the large trees whose fruits blossomed from the blessings of God.

“When did Grandma start talking about her death?”

Azizah's expression turned somber. "Recently. At first I thought it was because she was getting senile. But then she kept asking for you to come home. That made me quite scared.”

The shutters rattled as the wind grew stronger. The yellow leaves moved in unison with the weeds. The gentle earth traveled through the wind. Dirt clung to Gemilang’s eyes and lips, blurring her sight and offering the taste of sand in her mouth. She closed the window while Azizah helped. In the summer, hot window would bring dust all through the afternoon, and the evenings would grow cold and harsh.

"Is it Maghrib yet?" Mascinta asks, waking up.

"Not yet. Soon." Azizah replies. Gemilang was still trying to lock a window with a latch. Azizah comes over to help her.

Azizah immediately walks over to Mascinta and pushes her wheelchair further into the room. Gemilang finally closes the window. When all the windows had been closed, the room fell into darkness. Forgetting where all the light switches were, Gemilang looked around the room. The only thing she could spot was the ceiling light, attached to the fan. Gemilang pulled one of the ropes connected to the switch. The fan started to spin. Gemilang pulled the string once again to turn off the fan, but it only spun harder. The rest of the afternoon heat swirled. Gemilang pulled the string of another switch, and the light finally came on. The ceiling light had a red bulb. The whole room glowed red. The rotating fan casted dark shadows into the red light. Shades of black and red circled the room in an unending cycle. Gemilang felt nauseous. The light changed colours to a dim yellow. Gemilang pulled the switch once more, and the fan stopped.

The Maghrib call came faintly, so faintly that it felt like it would last forever. Gemilang went to the back of the house to check the bathroom. Her grandmother was in the wheelchair, sitting naked in a pool of water. Her entire body was wet. Drops of water dripped from her cheeks. Azizah came in with a clean towel and began to dry Mascinta's body. Mascinta smirked.

A knock sounded from the bedroom window. Gemilang sharpened her ears. The knock moved along the window into the living room. Azizah placed her bowl of porridge and went outside to find its source. Not long after, Azizah came back into the room.

"Kak, there’s a guest for you."

"Who is it?"

“Kak Jumaidi, your childhood friend. He said he accidentally saw you closing the window yesterday as he was passing the house at dusk. He was wondering whether it was really you."

"Jumaidi?"

Gemilang remembers Jumaidi, although she also remembers how Jumaidi had drowned in the village dam a long time ago. Ghosts do not knock on doors. Gemilang found him sitting on a bench on the terrace. Jumaidi was as old as she was, but she still recognised him. Jumaidi's was wearing shoes: something that the villagers rarely wore.

"Jumaidi?"

Jumaidi said that he was only staying in the village for a few days. When Gemilang asked him where he lived now, he mentioned a city that Gemilang had never heard of.

"Do you remember a friend of ours who drowned in the village dam?"

"Yes, that was my twin."

“Ah, yes. I’m sorry. I forgot. I’m sorry."

"A lot of people thought it was me who had drowned."

"Yes, you were twins."

“You were present at his funeral, didn’t you? We buried him at the end of the village.”

Gemilang nodded. She didn’t only come to his burial at the end of the village. She went to Jumaidi’s house and took a peek when his grandmother had to remove the cloth that shrouded the body.

"Did you return to school afterwards?"

Jumaidi shook his head. It seems that the wind carried the gentle earth towards them, replacing his voice. It was just a rustle, but it was there. Jumaidi stood up and walked towards the courtyard that led to the road. Gemilang chased after him and followed his footsteps.

"Go back to your house, I'm going home"

“How are you going home?"

"On foot."

"Your house is far away."

"The wind will carry me."

"The wind does not travel to your house."

“Yes, the wind carries me towards the dam. I want to go home. Take me home."

Gemila fell into silence. Jumaidi walked backwards, following the wind. A small light appeared in the darkness. It was an oil lamp on a wooden cart pulled by a cow. The carriage passed by Gemilang, the soft chime of a cow's neck echoed in the darkness. As soft as the sound of earth moving in the wind.

Batu Darah

Daun-daun hutan karet di kiri dan kanan sepanjang jalan menuju kota Rantau telah seluruhnya menguning. Matahari bulan Agustus membakarnya. Pada akar-akar mereka, berserakaan tulang daun yang telah luruh, bercampur dengan rerumputan yang meranggas. Sore itu panas, dan manusia-manusia di dalam bus masih menutup tirai jendela mereka. Wajah-wajah mereka menguning serupa dedaunan layu di hutan itu, kain tipis biru di jendela itu hanya  memberi wajah mereka warna yang ganjil.

Bus menghantam sebuah lubang besar di jalan. Penumpang terlonjak. Bus terus melaju seakan tidak terjadi apa-apa. Gemilang membuka tirai jendela bus, melongok ke belakang mencari lubang itu. Tidak terlihat. Ia mengalihkan pandangan ke arah depan. Udara diselimuti debu tipis kekuningan. Tanah halus beterbangan, melekat pada apa saja: di dedaunan, di dinding-dinding pondok penjaga hutan, di hidung orang-orang. Gemilang mengenal baik apa yang ia lihat. Ia juga tahu setelah melewati hutan karet, bus akan memasuki kota. Tapi hutan itu panjang dan berbukit-bukit, berdebu saat kemarau dan longsor jika musim hujan tiba.

Debu kekuningan yang menyelimuti udara di hutan itu perlahan menjadi kelabu. Kelabu dan semakin pekat. Hitam bergumpal-gumpal. Gemilang menegakkan punggung. Ia berharap orang lain juga melihatnya. Mereka melihatnya. Bau asap tercium.

“Kebakaran, kebakaran.”

Bus melambat kemudian berhenti mengikuti mobil lain yang telah lebih dulu berhenti. Penduduk sekitar lari menghambur menuju petak hutan yang terbakar. Semua penumpang bus menyingkap tirai, mereka menyaksikan pertunjukan tangan-tangan kecil yang menenteng ember berisi air. Berharap bisa menjinakkan api yang lapar.  Langit di atas mereka mulai memerah, hitam dan merah. Dedaunan dan rumput kering menyala seperti ribuan korek api. Batang-batang pohon karet adalah api unggun.

Gemilang menutup tirai jendela. Bus kembali bergerak namun sangat lambat. Sirene meraung-raung. Lalu lintas berhenti sekali lagi. Mobil-mobil menyingkir untuk mempersiapkan jalan bagi truk pemadam kebakaran. Sirene masih meraung-raung, bahkan bersahut-sahutan Gemilang membuka kembali tirai jendelanya. Hutan itu kini telah merah seluruhnya hingga ia seolah hanya sebuah warna, bukan api. Sejenak, hutan itu telah berubah menjadi lukisan yang diam.

Bus kembali merayap. Api kembali hidup. Ia bergerak dan menyala. Meliuk, meludahkan asap hitam. Ban bagian depan bus terperosok di lubang jalan ketika lalu lintas kembali terhenti. Kini penumpang duduk sedikit miring. Air dari selang-selang besar tangki pemadam kebakaran mulai dialirkan. Jalanan digenangi air keruh. Wajah-wajah orang di luar bus basah oleh keringat sementara kaki mereka basah dengan air bercampur tanah. Lalu lintas kembali bergerak. Bus berhasil melewati lubang.

“Seseorang membuang puntung rokok di jalan.”

“Cuaca panas, terlalu panas hingga menyulut api ke daun kering.”

“Ada yang iseng membakarnya.”

“Hantu api. Sebaiknya diadakan doa besar untuk mengusirnya dari desa.”

Gemilang mengambil botol air minumnya. Kering. Ia menelan ludah. Bus telah kembali melaju sebagaimana seharusnya. Senja yang merah telah berlalu. Supir memutar tuas lampu bus.  Langit kembali menghitam namun sekali ini benar-benar hitam. Hitam dan dingin. Malam telah turun pada hutan-hutan di perbukitan.

Mascinta duduk bersandar di atas kursi roda. Badannya yang semakin kurus terbungkus baju kurung dari sutera. Gemilang duduk di lantai, memotongkan kuku kaki perempuan tua itu. Mereka berdua berada di sebuah aula rumah yang besar, semakin luas sebab semua perkakas telah didorong ke tepi agar tak menghalangi jalan kursi roda. Lemari-lemari kayu berkaca bening dipenuhi oleh keramik-keramik lama.

“Aku bertemu ibumu setiap malam. Aku tahu dia datang menjemput.”

“Bagaimana ibu?”

“Dia cantik. Bajunya bagus.”

“Apa nenek melihat ayah juga?”

“Tidak, dia tidak ada. Mungkin dia datang ke mimpi ibunya, atau ayahnya. Menjemput mereka.”

Gemilang mengambil lengan kanan neneknya kemudian menekannya perlahan untuk merasakan denyut nadinya.

“Ikut ke rumahku di Jakarta, mau? Di sana pilihan dokter lebih banyak.”

“Aku ingin mati di sini. Aku tidak sakit, umurku yang habis. Tahun ini aku sudah 89.”

“Kata siapa? Ada yang sampai 100 tahun masih hidup.”

“Aku tahu umurku. Makanya aku memanggilmu.”

Gemilang mengembalikan tangan Mascinta.

“Ada yang ingin kuberikan padamu. Milikmu, milik ibumu.”

“Barang?”

“Perhiasan. Cerita. Kau sangat senang mendengar cerita sewaktu kecil.”

“Ya, ya. Cerita-cerita itu. Aku masih ingat.”

“Kau ingat?”

“Ya. Sangat ingat.”

“Kau selalu tidur denganku karena ingin mendengar cerita, kan?”

“Ya, ya.”

“Aku belum ceritakan semuanya.”

Mascinta tak menjawab. Gemilang menoleh. Neneknya tertidur dengan kepala terkulai ke kiri. Gemilang perlahan menutup jendela paling dekat dengan Mascinta untuk menghalau angin.

Gemilang pergi ke kamar Mascinta untuk mengambil selimut. Kerabat jauh mereka, seorang perempuan yang berusia lebih muda dari Gemilang yang tinggal di sana, tengah tidur-tiduran di kursi panjang di ruang tengah ketika Gemilang melintas di. Televisi di hadapannya menyala.

Mascinta masih tertidur di atas kursi roda. Gemilang perlahan menyisipkan sarung di antara bahu dan kepala neneknya yang terkulai agar sedikit tegak. Ia kemudian menutup tubuh tua itu dengan selimut.

Gemilang membawa sebuah kursi untuk duduk di belakang jendela yang terbuka lebar. Dari sana ia bisa melihat di antara hutan karet, sebuah tanah lapang yang diberi pagar, tempat di mana ibu dan ayahnya dikuburkan. Di sana juga ada kubur kakek dan dua datuknya, juga ada tiga kuburan kerabat neneknya yang lain.  Desa ini dikelilingi oleh hutan karet, juga pohon-pohon besar yang lain yang telah hidup lebih lama dari hutan karet itu sendiri. Pohon-pohon kasturi, manggis, gandaria, pohon-pohon besar yang tak akan sanggup dipeluk seorang diri. Musim hujan dengan badai kecil di malam hari akan merontokkan buah-buahan sebanyak gumpalan manik-manik yang putus dari benang. Segera setelah subuh buah-buah itu akan dipunguti oleh anak-anak sekitar sebelum mereka berangkat sekolah, bersaing dengan para remaja yang akan pergi ke sawah.

Tak ada yang pernah mempertanyakan apakah buah yang mereka makan itu mengisap sari dari tubuh manusia mati yang perlahan terurai di bawah akarnya? Di sini, kesedihan akan kematian dimiliki abadi oleh keluarga. Mereka akan mengubur kesedihan itu di tanah mereka, di kebun-kebun mereka. Berbeda dari pepohonan besar yang buahnya merupakan berkah dari Tuhan. Siapa saja berhak mengambil berkah dari Tuhan jika mereka mau.

“Sejak kapan nenek bilang soal umurnya akan habis?”

Raut Azizah berubah muram. “Belum lama. Awalnya aku kira karena nenek makin pikun. Belakangan semakin sering dan setiap hari minta Kak Gemilang pulang. Jadi aku agak takut.”

Daun jendela bergerak-gerak dilalui angin yang semakin kuat berhembus. Dedaunan kuning bergerak serempak ke kiri dan kanan bersama ilalang. Tanah halus yang diterbangkan angin menempel di mata dan bibir Gemilang, memberikan penglihatan yang suram dan rasa berpasir di mulutnya. Gemilang berdiri menutupi daun jendela dibantu azizah. Pada bulan-bulan di musim kemarau, angin panas menerbangkan debu di sore hari dan akan semakin keras dan dingin kala malam.

“Sudah magrib?”

Mascinta terbangun.

“Belum sebentar lagi,” Azizah menyahut. Gemilang masih berusaha mengunci satu jendela yang gerendelnya macet. Azizah membantunya.

Azizah segera mendatangi Mascinta dan mendorong kursi rodanya ke belakang. Gemilang menyelesaikan menutup jendela sendirian. Ketika semua jendela telah tertutup, ruangan menjadi gelap. Gemilang melihat sekeliling, ia lupa di mana letak sakelar lampu. Satu-satunya yang mampu ia temukan adalah lampu hias gantung yang menyatu dengan kipas angin. Gemilang menarik salah satu tali penghubung sakelar itu. Kipas angin mulai beputar. Gemilang menarik talinya sekali lagi untuk menghentikannya, kipas angin justru berputar lebih keras. Sisa hawa panas sore hari berputar. Gemilang menarik tali sakelar yang lain, lampu menyala. Lampu hias itu ternyata berwarna merah. Seluruh ruangan berubah menjadi merah. Kipas angin yang terus berputar memendarkan bayangan gelap ke dalam cahaya merah berganti-ganti. Merah hitam bergantian mengitari ruangan dengan pola lingkaran yang tak putus. Gemilang mual. Gemilang menarik tali sakelar lampu sekali lagi. Cahaya lampu berganti kuning redup. Gemilang menarik sakelar kipas angin, kipas angin berhenti kemudian.

Adzan magrib terdengar sangat lamat, begitu lamatnya hingga seakan tak selesai. Gemilang pergi ke belakang memeriksa kamar mandi. Neneknya sedang telanjang di depan kolam air di atas kursi roda. Tubuhnya basah. Butiran-butiran air menetes dari gelabir pipinya. Azizah masuk dengan selembar handuk bersih dan mulai mengeringkan tubuh Mascinta. Mascinta menyeringai.

Suara ketukan terdengar dari jendela kamar. Gemilang menajamkan telinganya. Ketukan berpindah ke sepanjang jendela menuju ruang depan. Azizah meletakkan mangkuk bubur dan pergi keluar memeriksanya. Tak lama, Azizah kembali masuk ke kamar.

“Kak, ada tamu.”

“Siapa?”

“Kak Jumaidi, teman kakak waktu kecil. Katanya dia tidak sengaja melihat kakak menutup jendela tadi senja sewaktu dia lewat di depan rumah, jadi dia tadi bertanya padaku itu kakak atau bukan?”

“Jumaidi?”

Ia ingat Jumaidi, sekaligus juga mengingat bahwa Jumaidi telah lama mati tenggelam di bendungan desa. Hantu tidak datang dengan mengetuk pintu. Gemilang menemukannya duduk di bangku teras. Jumaidi telah setua dirinya, tapi ia masih mengenalinya. Kaki Jumaidi menapak di lantai dan ia menggunakan sepatu: hal yang jarang dikenakan orang desa.

“Jumaidi?”

Jumaidi mengatakan bahwa dia hanya tinggal beberapa hari di desa. Ia menyebutkan sebuah nama tempat yang tidak pernah didengar Gemilang ketika Gemilang menanyakan di mana kini ia tinggal.

“Kamu ingat ada teman kita yang meninggal tenggelam di bendungan desa?”

“Ya, dia kembaranku.”

“Ah, ya, maaf. Aku lupa. Maaf.”

“Banyak yang mengira itu aku.”

“Ya, karena kembar.”

“Kamu hadir di penguburannya, kan? Di tanah pekuburan di ujung desa.”

Gemilang mengangguk. Ia tidak hanya ada di pekuburan ujung desa untuk penguburannya. Ia datang ke rumah Jumaidi dan ikut mengintip saat neneknya membuka kain penutup mayatnya.

“Setelah itu kau tidak datang lagi ke sekolah?”

Jumaidi menggeleng. Tanah halus yang terbawa angin mewakili suaranya. Hanya suara berdesir. Jumaidi kemudian berdiri dan berjalan ke halaman, terus hingga ke jalan raya. Gemilang mengejarnya, mengikutinya.

“Masuklah ke rumahmu, aku akan pulang.”

“Dengan apa kau akan pulang?”

“Berjalan kaki.”

“Rumahmu jauh.”

“Angin akan membawaku.”

“Angin tidak menuju ke rumahmu.”

“Ya, angin bertiup ke arah bendungan. Aku ingin pulang. Antarkan aku.”

Gemilang bergeming. Jumaidi berjalan mundur, mengikuti angin. Sebuah pelita kecil muncul di kegelapan. Pelita itu adalah lampu minyak gerobak kayu yang ditarik oleh seekor sapi. Kereta itu melewati Gemilang, menggemakan lonceng leher sapi yang demikian halusnya, yang kemudian menjadi sama halusnya seperti suara tanah yang terbawa angin. Gerobak itu berhenti pada Jumaidi, membawanya duduk di ujung kayu hitam paling belakang. Kaki Jumaidi berayun-ayun. Menjuntai.  Sepatunya yang berat kini seperti membengkak. Menjuntai dan bengkak.

Pratiwi Juliani is a novelist and screenwriter from South Kalimantan. She’s published three books, Atraksi Lumba-Lumba (collection of short stories), Dear Jane and Debu Dalam Angin (novels) Pratiwi is currently working on a novel and a head writer in a film production company.

Thank you to Rain Chudori for translating Pratiwi’s story.