The Mountain Chooses
1342 Words
I woke to the sound of small footsteps pacing outside my room—my younger siblings were already up and moving. My body ached as I stretched, each limb stiff and reluctant. Sunlight streamed through the cracks in the wooden siding of our old house, casting golden slivers across the floor. I gasped. The sun was already high.
I jumped up, startled, and looked around. The two sisters who had slept beside me were gone. Ratih had even folded the blanket and arranged the pillows neatly. The bed where little Rara usually slept was already tidied too. The plastic mat we used to protect the sheets from her nighttime accidents had been rolled away, and the thin mattress was missing.
I was the only one still in bed.
I groaned, defeated by my own comfort. How could I still be sleeping when the sun was shining so brightly? I never sleep this late—never. And yet, today, it has happened without me even realizing.
Embarrassment crept in. What would Mother think?
Then a thought struck me. Wait... wasn’t I in the living room last night?
The sun hovered directly overhead, casting sharp shadows across the yard. I stood by the fence, watching Rudy and Ardy approach with bundles of firewood strapped to their backs. Their shirts clung to their skin, soaked with sweat and mountain mist. I shouted playfully, cupping my hands around my mouth.
“Oi, you two mountain goats! Hurry up before the firewood turns into furniture!”
Rudy whistled in reply, and Ardy laughed, even as he staggered under the weight. I smiled, grateful for their resilience.
Behind the house, Ratih and little Rara were scrubbing clothes beside the spring. The water gurgled softly, flowing down from the mountainside like a lullaby. Ratih banged a heavy shirt against a smooth rock, while Rara tried to mimic her, giggling as she splashed herself. Ratih snatched the shirt back, grumbling, but her eyes sparkled with affection.
I stood there quietly, soaking in the moment. The scent of wet earth, the rhythm of chores, the laughter of siblings—it was all so familiar, so grounding. Yet beneath it all, my thoughts kept drifting back to last night.
The man in armor.
The strange silence.
The way I woke up in bed, unsure how I got there.
I hadn’t told Mother. I wanted to. But every time I opened my mouth, something else came out. Maybe I was afraid she’d think I was imagining things again. Or worse—that she’d believe I’d been touched by something mystical.
Her voice echoed in my mind: “Pak Sarwo has been replaced. The new supervisor is strict.”
I knew what that meant. Less work. Less income. More uncertainty.
I glanced at the food she had set aside for me—simple village fare, lovingly prepared. But my appetite had vanished. I sipped water from the earthen jar, the coolness grounding me, but not enough to quiet the storm inside.
I needed to do something. Anything.
I walked back toward the house, my feet dragging slightly. The bamboo walls creaked in the wind. Inside, Mother was still tending the stubborn stove, coaxing flame from damp wood. Smoke curled around her, but she didn’t flinch.
I watched her for a moment, then spoke softly.
“Mother… I’ll find a way. I promise.”
She didn’t turn, but I saw her shoulders pause—just for a second.
Outside, the mountain loomed in the distance. Silent. Watching.
And somewhere beneath its shadow, I felt the mystery still lingering.
As I watched Rudy and Ardy unload the firewood near the goat pen, I felt a strange mix of warmth and worry. Their laughter still echoed in the yard, but my mind was elsewhere—still tangled in the memory of last night. The man in armor. The silence. The way I woke up in bed without knowing how I got there.
I hadn’t told anyone. Not Mother. Not my siblings. Not even myself, really. I kept it tucked away, like a folded letter I wasn’t ready to open.
But the day moved on, and so did we.
I helped stack the logs, careful to keep them dry in case the rain returned. The sky above Mount Lawu was clear for now, but the mountain had its moods. It could change in an instant.
Later, I sat beside Ratih and Rara as they rinsed the last of the laundry. Ratih hummed softly, a tune I recognized from our childhood. Rara splashed her feet in the stream, giggling every time the water tickled her toes.
I smiled, but my heart felt heavy.
Mother’s words still rang in my ears: “The new supervisor only hires the young.” And her quiet resignation—“I don’t know until when.”
I couldn’t let her carry that burden alone.
That afternoon, after the chores were done and the sun began to dip behind the hills, I made a decision. I would go to the plantation. Not to beg. Not to plead. But to offer myself—not as a child, but as someone ready to help.
I changed into my cleanest clothes, tied my hair back, and walked toward the valley path. The wind brushed against my face like a whisper. The mountain watched me from above, silent and still.
And somewhere deep inside, I felt the presence again—not frightening, but guiding.
The man in armor.
Was he a warning?
Or a blessing?
I don’t know yet. But I walked on, one step at a time, toward whatever truth waited for me.
The path to the plantation curved like a question mark through the valley, lined with wild grass and whispering trees. Each step felt heavier than the last—not from fatigue, but from the weight of uncertainty. The wind shifted, carrying the scent of damp soil and something older, something I couldn’t name.
I passed the old shrine near the river bend, its stone offerings half-swallowed by moss. A crow perched on the wooden beam above it, watching me with an unsettling stillness. I bowed slightly, out of habit, and kept walking.
As I neared the plantation gates, I saw the workers—young men and women, their backs bent, their hands swift. The new supervisor stood tall among them, arms crossed, eyes scanning like a hawk. He wore a cap pulled low and boots that looked too clean for the muddy ground. I hesitated.
Then I saw him glance my way.
I stepped forward.
“Excuse me, sir,” I said, voice steady despite the tremble in my chest. “I’d like to help. I can work.”
He looked me over, slowly. “You’re the daughter of the woman who was let go.”
I nodded.
“You’re small,” he said flatly. “Can you carry sacks?”
“I can try,” I replied.
He didn’t answer. Instead, he turned and walked away. One of the older workers—a woman with a scarf tied around her head—gave me a quiet nod and gestured for me to follow her.
I did.
She handed me a pair of gloves and pointed to a pile of dried tobacco leaves. “Sort these. Fast.”
I knelt and began working, my fingers moving through the brittle leaves, separating the good from the spoiled. The scent was sharp, earthy, familiar. I lost track of time.
But as the sun dipped lower, casting long shadows across the field, I felt it again.
That presence.
Not near—but not far.
I looked up and saw a figure standing at the edge of the plantation, just beyond the trees. Cloaked. Still. Watching.
I blinked.
He was gone.
I shook my head and returned to the leaves, but my thoughts were no longer quiet. Something was unfolding. Something I didn’t understand yet.
And as I worked, I remembered the words on the parchment:
“The chosen do not seek the mountain. The mountain seeks them.”
- Writer
