His mouth was agape with horror.

Never had he thought that he would be abandoned in this way. Slowly, he contemplated the desolate scene before him. The raging fire that had engulfed almost all of Gapura was beginning to abate, leaving but a smattering of flames that hungrily consumed boards and woods alike.

Nothing recognisable of his beloved village remained, the houses lay in ruins, and the livestock had perished in droves. The rest had fled elsewhere, even the villagers’ horses were nowhere to be seen.

It dawned on him that he was all that was left of the village … he, and the lifeless bodies that lay strewed the ground, everywhere.

As if nothing else could torment him further, amidst the dread of the unknown, he was confronted by his own deceased parents.

His soul was torn asunder. The anguish was already too much for him to bear. He trembled violently at the futile attempt to suppress the pain that grew deep within him.

He collapsed to the ground, his knees giving way under the unbearable weight of his grief. His forehead soon touched the scorched earth, threw himself down, and cried. prostrating in utter defeat, crying his heart out.

He remained lying there until no more fire was left ablaze. He wept and wept until he could shed no more tears. Night enveloped the sky, and complete darkness blanketed the horizon. On the ground, he froze motionless, stolid and unperturbed. Only the dying embers kept him company. Hunger and thirst failed to rouse him from despair. Even his solah was left neglected.

Until dawn, he persisted. The morning dew soaked his body.

With a blank expression on his face, he stood up on his feet. The constant grumbling in his stomach went unattended.

He looked around again, and this time his eyes fell on a nearby river.

Onwards he sauntered, one foot in front of the other intuitively.

There, he cleansed himself before proceeding with his wuduʾ. On the riverside, he performed his Salatul Fajr before catching up Maghrib and Isya’ which he had neglected the night before.

Though only 10 years of age, the boy understood that any missed solah must be made up.

After finished the prayers, he quenched his thirst to his heart’s content with the river water.

Then he returned to the centre of the village. Grabbing a hoe, the boy began tilling the land before sunrise. He dug holes in the ground. He would only stop to grab a body for each hole he made, dragging it closer and closer until he could shove it in.

He began burying his mother, followed by his father. Then, the next body he could find. Atonements were sought as bodies were buried.

But he shed no tears, not anymore. Even as the earth covered his own parents. A sombre look was all he could muster as he apologised for his powerlessness.

The boy stopped digging when the time for solah dawned and to eat and drink to replenish himself. Food was no longer scarce, at least, now that Gapura was denuded. Much could be salvaged from the remaining ruins.

Without ceasing, he pressed on. Each swing amplified his resolve. Each strike fed the rage that consumed him. Each of the deceased fuelled his desire for revenge, reinvigorating it anew.

The ritual lasted a week until finally all 523 bodies were buried.

523 graves now laid in their place before him.

***

The wind whipped and lashed around the man and his opponent as they traded blows of equal force. The longer they fought, the clearer the appearance of his opponent became to him.

His contender, whose face was adorned with a rather thick beard and moustache, wore a grim expression. His hair was short yet neatly groomed. He donned the majestic tanjak and the clothes of a warrior, made of the finest cloth. His keris was remarkable: not of the ordinary kind, wielded only by laksamanas.

Both had been engaged in fierce combat since the wisps of dawn gave way to the radiant light of day. Occasionally they seemed to levitate through the blows they dealt and dodged as if both possessed some innate supernatural power. Neither proved to be the other’s demise just yet.

“You could last this long? No wonder you managed to defeat the big names of the South!”

Deftly, the man evaded a grab at his head, and ducked, only to be met by the enemy’s oncoming knee. The man swiftly jerked his arms to defend himself but could not entirely avert the blow. The brunt of the impact lifted him an elbow’s length above the ground.

“Yet you’re still no match for me!”

The attempt to grab his head turned into a cross-swipe. Promptly, the man raised one side of his arm and leg to protect his head and chest from perishing. However, the rapid attack, brimming with sheer force, pierced through him and flung him to the side before he came to a halt.

Resistively, the man rose from the ground, hand and knee supporting him.

The laksamana assumed an opening silat stance as if taunting him to fight. His steps, disciplined and measured, betrayed no overt weaknesses.

The man breathed deeply as a series of deliberate, rhythmic gestures followed. He concentrated and tightened his left hand to the front of his chest while extending his right hand outward. His four fingers straightened; the thumb folded into the palm. He observed the enemy intently, his gaze stern.

He and the uninvited guest exchanged blows for a while until he broke the silence:

“Ready to end this clash?”