WAITING IN THE SILENT VALLEY

My eccentric auntie

It happened about four months ago, on a morning that smelled of damp laundry and wood smoke. I was outside, hanging clothes on the line in our front yard—shirts, school uniforms, and patched-up dresses swaying in the breeze—while darting back and forth to the kitchen to check the earthen stove. We still cook the old-fashioned way, with a clay furnace and firewood, like most low-income families in our village. No gas, no fancy appliances—just smoke, patience, and a prayer that the wood isn’t too wet.

I crouched beside the stove, puffing desperately at the stubborn charcoal.

“Ahh, this wood is hopeless,” I muttered, blinking through the smoke that stung my eyes. “Why does it always rain the night before laundry day?”

Through the haze, I spotted a blurry figure approaching. My eyes were still watery, so I couldn’t make out who it was. But then came a voice—sharp, familiar, and unmistakably dramatic.

“Shaaan-ty! Where’s your mother?”

I froze. That voice could only belong to one person.

I rubbed my eyes furiously, and when my vision cleared, I gasped.

“Oh my God! Auntie Rinie? Is that really you?”

There she was, standing like a fashionably misplaced city woman in the middle of our muddy yard, grinning like she’d just won a lottery. I stared at her, stunned, as if she’d descended from the clouds—or maybe just from a Jakarta mall.

She didn’t answer. Instead, she reached out and plucked me on the forehead with her knuckles.

“Hey!” I yelped, rubbing my head.

Aunt Rinie burst into laughter, pointing at me like I was the punchline of her private joke. I stood there, confused, blinking like a dazed goat.

“Ouch!” I whined, pretending to pout.

She kept laughing, her shoulders shaking, her eyes gleaming with mischief. I couldn’t help but laugh too, even though I had no idea what was so funny. Maybe it was the sight of me—smoke-stained, barefoot, hair tied up with rubber bands—looking like a village version of Cinderella before the fairy godmother shows up.

My eccentric auntie, fresh from Hong Kong and full of drama, was back. And clearly, she hadn’t changed one bit.

Finally, Aunt Rinie tugged my hand and led me to the bamboo hill beneath the shade of our jackfruit tree. I sat beside her, awkward and self-conscious. Her perfume—sweet and sharp, like something from a glossy city mall—tickled my nose and made me shift uncomfortably. I still smelled faintly of kitchen smoke, even after my shower.

With my innocent village face, I followed her lead. She pulled me closer, her laughter slowly fading as she regained her composure. Then, with a dramatic flourish, she reached into her bag and pulled out a compact powder. She flipped it open and pushed the mirror toward me.

“Look at your face,” she said, grinning.

I leaned in—and burst into laughter.

How could I not? The mirror revealed a charcoal-smeared warrior, not a girl. My cheeks were streaked black, my eyes ringed like Zorro’s mask. I’d unknowingly wiped my smoke-teared eyes with soot-covered hands while tending the clay stove. I looked like I’d just returned from battle.

We laughed together, loud and unfiltered. Aunt Rinie was a whirlwind of color and chaos. Her hair was dyed in bright parrot shades, her jumpsuit hung loosely with one strap dangling from its hook, and her boots looked like they belonged on a fashion runway—or maybe a spaceship. I didn’t know what to call her style. I’d seen city people before, but never like this. Most trekkers who passed through wore practical gear. Aunt Rinie looked like she’d stepped out of a music video.

Noticing my puzzled expression, she waved her hand in front of my face.

“You okay?” she asked, half-sarcastic.

“Oh, of course,” I replied, nervous and unsure.

“Relax! It’s just me—your idol, your beautiful auntie!” she teased, popping the balloon of my thoughts with her usual flair.

“My style is called K-pop,” she added, reading my confusion before I could ask.

“Oh,” I gasped, still not understanding.

She sighed dramatically. “You’ve never heard of Blackpink? The famous Korean girl group?”

I shook my head, wide-eyed and innocent. We didn’t even own a television, let alone have internet access.

Aunt Rinie paused, then smiled gently. She understood. She saw my worn clothes, the lingering scent of smoke, the weight I carried at home. My siblings were at school, except for little Rara, who played nearby with her simple toys.

“Hey, it’s okay,” she said softly, guilt creeping into her voice.

I looked up and smiled. “I’m okay, Auntie.”

She studied me for a moment, then spoke with concern. “Shanty, don’t you want to change your life? You’re still young. Your future is waiting for you. But how will you reach it if you stay here, doing this every day?”

Before I could answer, a voice rang out from behind the house.

“Stop poisoning her mind, Rinie!”

Aunt Rinie gasped. I jumped to my feet.

“Mother?” I called, rushing to help her lower the heavy basket from her back.

Aunt Rinie ran to her and embraced her tightly, tears streaming down her face. My mother, frail and tired, nearly lost her balance. Aunt Rinie steadied her, then hugged her again, sobbing like a child.

“My beloved sister,” she cried. “Why are you so skinny? What’s going on? It’s been five years since we last met—Shantya was just starting junior high, and I was in my second year.”

“Are you okay?” she asked, her voice trembling.

“I’m fine, ndhuk,” my mother replied softly, her eyes glassy with emotion.

Ndhuk—a tender Javanese nickname for a beloved girl, used by family or elders. It carries warmth, familiarity, and love.

I wiped my own tears, watching the two sisters reunite, their longing pouring out in quiet sobs and whispered comfort.

Time slipped away as we sat under the jackfruit tree, lost in stories and memories. The sun leaned westward. It was nearly 2 p.m. My siblings had returned from school, slipping quietly into the house without disturbing us. I knew they were hungry, waiting patiently for lunch.

After helping Mother with her basket and letting her embrace her sister fully, I rushed inside. My brothers and sisters sat in a neat row, obedient and quiet. Ratih helped me prepare the plates, while Rudy calmed little Rara, who was whining for food.

In our village, children are taught to respect guests. We don’t interrupt conversations or walk past elders. We wait, quietly and politely.

Aunt Rinie lives in the next village, across the river. She’s only a year older than me, but I call her aunt out of respect. My mother is the third of five siblings. Her brothers and sisters live well, but far. The river separates us, and there’s no bridge—only a bamboo raft, dangerous for those unfamiliar with its currents. The water flows fast and wide.

Listening to Aunt Rinie’s stories made me forget my chores. I excused myself, worried about the food not being ready. She stood up, noticing the large bag she’d brought. She had arrived in a bemo—a small public transport vehicle common in Indonesia, chartered just for her. It’s rare for such vehicles to reach our remote village. Only trucks carrying sand or farm goods pass through these unpaved roads.

Our village clings to the slopes of Mount Lawu, a majestic mountain straddling the border of Central and East Java. It’s famous across Indonesia and beyond, drawing trekkers from around the world. Many climbers stop by our house to rest or ask for water.

But Mount Lawu is not just beautiful—it’s mysterious. Stories of missing hikers and strange encounters echo through the valley. Locals say the mountain is haunted. Visitors are warned to respect its rules and to observe its taboos.

There are only two choices: obey the mountain’s silence—or risk paying with your life