WAITING IN THE SILENT VALLEY

Whispers from Mount Lawu

Mount Lawu rises with quiet majesty above the valley where my family and I live, its silhouette etched against the sky like a guardian watching over generations. Beyond its breathtaking beauty, Lawu is steeped in myth and mystery—revered not only by locals but by seekers and storytellers from across Indonesia and beyond.

It is said to be the oldest mountain in the archipelago, a plateau straddling the border between Central and East Java. According to American researchers, its peak once lay beneath the ocean floor—a testament to the ancient forces that shaped this land.

But Mount Lawu is more than geology. It is a legend.

The mountain draws visitors not just for its scenic trails, but for the haunted aura that clings to its slopes. Tales of strange encounters and inexplicable events ripple through the climbing community, passed from one trekker to another like sacred folklore. For those of us who live in its shadow, Lawu is not just a mountain—it is alive. It listens. It chooses.

Many believe the mountain can sense the intentions of those who approach. Some are welcomed with peace; others are turned away by sudden storms or eerie signs. Figures have been seen—not imagined, but witnessed—appearing without warning, vanishing without a trace. To us, this is not superstition. It is true.

Our ancestors still guard this mountain. Though unseen by the naked eye, their presence is felt by those with a sharpened sixth sense—those chosen to glimpse the veil between worlds. Climbers speak of visions, whispers, and paths that shift beneath their feet. Even rescue teams, seasoned and skeptical, have shared stories from their time guarding the Seven Summits of Java—stories they cannot explain.

So many questions swirled in my mind, but no answers came. I stood frozen behind the brittle wooden window, peeking through the small gap left by a loosened nail. My breath caught in my throat.

There he was.

A man—tall, broad-shouldered, pacing slowly beneath the jackfruit tree. His boots thudded against the earth like echoes from another time. He wore what looked like ancient armor, rust-colored and heavy, with straps across his chest and a cloak that fluttered slightly in the mountain breeze. His presence was commanding, yet eerily silent. He didn’t knock. He didn’t speak. He simply walked, as if guarding something unseen.

I shivered, not just from the cold, but from the weight of something I couldn’t explain. The ivory starling’s visit earlier that evening suddenly made sense. That little bird hadn’t come by accident. It had delivered a message—one I hadn’t fully understood until now.

An unexpected guest.

But this was no ordinary visitor. He didn’t look like a hiker or a lost traveler. He looked like a sentinel from another realm, a spirit of the mountain perhaps, or a guardian from the stories whispered by elders around smoky fires.

I wanted to wake my father, to shake Rudy and Adrian, to call out to Mother. But something held me back. A strange calm settled over me, as if the mountain itself had wrapped me in silence. I watched the man move with purpose, yet without urgency. He paused, turned toward the house, and for a moment, I thought his eyes met mine through the tiny gap in the wood.

I gasped and stepped back.

Had he seen me?

I waited, heart pounding, but he didn’t approach. Instead, he sat again on the bamboo bench beneath the jackfruit tree, his posture straight, his gaze fixed on the horizon. The mist thickened around him, swallowing his figure until he became a shadow among shadows.

I stood there for a long time, unsure whether to be afraid or honored. Mount Lawu had sent a message—and I had received it.

The mountain doesn’t speak in words. It speaks in wind, in birdsong, in footsteps that echo through the night. It listens to your thoughts, your fears, your intentions. And sometimes, when it chooses, it answers.

I returned to my bed, pulling the blanket tightly around me. The snoring of my father and brothers filled the room like a lullaby. Rara stirred beside me, her tiny hand reaching for mine. I held it gently, grounding myself in the warmth of family.

Outside, the mountain watched. And beneath the jackfruit tree, the guardian waited.

I stood frozen behind the window, my eye still pressed to the brittle gap in the wood. The armored figure beneath the jackfruit tree had stopped pacing. He now sat motionless, as if waiting. The mist thickened around him, curling like smoke from an unseen fire. I could no longer see his face, only the outline of his body—solid, ancient, and strangely familiar.

Then, something shifted.

The wind changed direction, sweeping through the yard with a sudden chill. The bamboo leaves rustled louder, and the oil lamp inside flickered as if startled. I stepped back from the window, heart pounding, unsure whether to wake my family or stay silent. But before I could decide, I heard a sound—soft, deliberate.

A knock.

Not on the door. On the bamboo bench.

Three slow taps.

I held my breath. The sound was unmistakable. It wasn’t the creak of someone sitting. It was a signal. A message.

I tiptoed back to my bed, curling under the blanket, my thoughts racing. The ivory starling had warned me. The mountain had sent a guest. But what kind of guest knocks without knocking?

Sleep came slowly, like fog creeping over the valley. I dreamt of Mount Lawu—not as a mountain, but as a man. His face was carved from stone, his eyes deep as the forest, and his voice was the wind. He spoke without words, but I understood him.

“Guard what is sacred,” he said. “Not all who climb seek the summit. Some seek what lies beneath.”

I woke before dawn, the dream still clinging to me like dew. Outside, the mist had lifted. The bamboo bench was empty. No footprints. No sign of the armored man. Only the faint scent of sandalwood lingered in the air.

I stepped outside, barefoot, the cold earth grounding me. The mountain loomed above, silent and still. But I knew it had spoken.

And I had listened.