The Well
At six o'clock in the evening Wardhani took her dirty towel and went to the back of her house. She hung that body-drying cloth on the hook from the nail attached to the brick wall of her bathroom and then drew water from the mossy well in front of her. The well and the bathroom were still part of the house left by her grandmother and grandfather which, although it's large, looked quite old and lacked funds for maintenance or repairs.
The water that Wardhani drew using a rope made from pieces of rubber tires from the well was inserted into a kind of funnel made of stone to then enter the water reservoir in the bathroom. Her knee-length negligee was wet in several places.
This eighteen-year-old girl exuded the ripening youth of her body. Her face is impressively beautiful and firm with fierce snarling eyes adorned with long eyelashes, as if they were forcibly attached to her face by the universe.
The flowing water brushed against the curves of her body and a pair of ripe breasts that were still possible to grow fuller. The tops of both breasts were bright red as red as virgin blood - not brown or pink. But red! - in contrast to the color of her skin, which was as dark as dry leaves, but with a very surprising moisture and smoothness: it's like being treated in a palace, whether Wardhani was secretly taking good care of her or indeed the universe was giving her away for free.
Her long wavy hair was simply tied up in a bun to avoid the wetness of the water that gleamed on her beautiful skin due to the reflection of the yellow light from the bathroom bulb. However, her shabby hair or clothes, which were now hanging beside the towel, were unable to cover Wardhani's beauty, which seemed to be pushing out of her mundane skin. Several young men in her village clearly agreed that the girl seemed to be some kind of angel who came down to earth but could not return to heaven because her flying scarf was left behind somewhere.
Unfortunately, yes, unfortunately... The villagers also said that this girl was unfortunate. Her mind was a bit distracted. A little crazy. In fact, some of the youths didn't really mind if they could date Wardhani, who was a little crazy. Maybe the way of thinking of an angel was slightly different from that of humans.
How people can think Wardhani was crazy, that will be left to be told later in this story.
Wardhani's father worked as a laborer in a factory or company that collected used paper, while her mother was also a laborer, a farm laborer, in the rice fields which were her family's property, once.
That's how the world worked.
Grandfathers and grandmothers and great-grandfathers before them were among the most respected and rich people in this village. The Sardhono family, the great-grandparents of Wardhani, were known as tobacco lords who owned large lands including rice fields in this poor village or hamlet which was located far from the center of civilization in Java at that time.
But life turned them upside down. Wardhani's parents were now only left with a large ancient house that the family couldn't afford to take care of, right after their first daughter died at the age of nineteen.
The plague that hit this hamlet, the small village, and the neighboring villages when Wardhani was still a child knocked down plants and ruined everyone's health.
"Ah, damn, the water ran out," Wardhani muttered. She was cleaning the beautiful hollows of her armpits and the beautiful bulge of the sides of her breasts when the green plastic scoop cracked here and there hit the bottom of the tub that had run out of water. The soapy water slid down from the crook of her hips.
She took the dirty towel and wrapped it around her body. One or two holes in the cover of her body clearly exposed the darkness of her smooth skin in various parts. The bathroom door creaked when Wardhani opened it to go to the well with the aim of drawing back a few more buckets of water.
The figure of a woman sitting on the edge of the well. Her garment was shabby white, but it glowed in Wardhani's eyes. She sat sideways. Her face was covered by long reddish black hair that was no less shabby and tousled. Maybe that's why the female figure was combing it with a sharp comb ... Slowly.
Wardhani was silent.
Her body felt stiff and frozen. There was a rush of blood rushing through her veins all the way to her stomach.
The woman slowly turned to look at her.
Wardhani forced her body to turn away.
Before the figure's face could be seen, Wardhani managed to carry her body half running into the house.
***
Mbah Putri, words for the grandmother in Javanese, sat on a rattan chair. Her wrinkled body was covered in a Javanese kebaya with a material that was actually quite luxurious with a dark green color, as old as her age. Her hair was all white, in a simple bun. A few strands fell over the sides of her face.
Wardhani saw the grandmother who was sitting there looking at her.
Wardhani nodded. Then darted into her bedroom through the tiled floor made in the Dutch colonialism era.
Wardhani took a deep breath. Cold sweat mixed with water and soap residue on her body.
Her parents were probably on their way home from work. This was how difficult to live alone in this large heritage house, maybe that's what Wardhani thought.
Alone?
It could actually be that Wardhani lived with her grandmother, whom she met earlier sitting on a rattan chair when her parents were at work, if her grandmother was still alive. But she actually died a long time ago, even before Wardhani's older sister died.
***
This small hamlet had lost many of its elders. The new generation actually demanded big changes like the hamlets and neighboring villages. Major roads were built, shopping centers were developed, new industries sprang up. This small village still had a mystery that should no longer be glorified. How not, there were five special objects in four different areas that were considered sacred and holy, should not be touched, let alone to be evicted and damaged.
First, a pair of banyan trees in the corner of the field, hundreds of years old. The two trees were bandaged with white and yellow cloth that was dull with age. Second, a stone monument that was built decades ago right at the intersection of the main village road. There were Javanese scripts that were completely faded and unreadable, apart from the word which meant 'lock'. The stone monument as high as the adult's chest was also circled with a white and yellow cloth. Third, a wooden embankment on the bank of a small river. A white and a yellow clothes were tied around the wooden embankment the size of two human thighs. The fourth and last was the main gate of the village built of red bricks. Again, a white and a yellow clothes was tied in several parts of the gate.
They were called 'Pancajiwa' in Javanese which meant 'the five souls'. They were the five souls for this little village.
Every Wednesday night of the day of Pon, mbah - the old man - Darmo, the only living elder, performed special rituals at the five sacres things in these four sacred places.
Mr. Darmo was more than a hundred years old. It was said that he and dozens of other contemporaries, always took turns every Wednesday night, on the day if Pon taook turns guarding the four places.
Now, there was no successor who careed about such superstitious activities. This Internet generation felt that the biggest obstacle to the development of their hamlet was because there were four places that should be demolished for the construction of signal towers, large smooth roads, shops, etc. The village community in fact still respected the old man Darmo too much as the last living village elder. It was as if they were ashamed to admit that they had deliberately waited for the elder to die in order to make major changes. Unfortunately, even now, this Wednesday night of Pon, old man Darmo was still performing rituals in those four places, even though he walked hunched over and limping in the thick darkness of the night.
***
Wardhani just realized that tonight was Wednesday of Pon in the Javanese reckoning. The appearance of supernatural beings, such as that woman combing at the edge of the well and the late grandmother, were indeed related to this special day.
It was not without reason that the villagers saw her as a beautiful girl who was sadly disturbed by her soul.
She often saw ghosts in every corner of the village. In a paddy field, next to Mak Romlah's coffee shop, or behind Teacher Johan's house and screaming in terror or behaving inappropriately in front of people as the result of her supernatural vision.
Of course, the residents did not want to take into account the rumors circulating that Wardhani could see ghosts. They already wanted to go forward, it was impossible to go back by believing in such things again.
Residents of the hamlet even linked Wardhani's madness to hier parents who were depressed because of the death of their first daughter, Kinanti, following the death of the mother from Kinanti and Wardhani's father several years earlier. The depression also started from the destruction of the family's economy because Wardhani's father was not a person who was able to manage the various businesses left by his parents.
The residents thought that Wardhani's insanity was the result of the transfer of the burden of her parents' thoughts. A ridiculous thought indeed. But what can you do, that's what happened.
But for Wardhani, tonight was more different. The subtle beings that appeared to her became more and more clearly manifest, not just a splendor, silhouette, form coming and going, or being transparent, but becoming more and more fully formed.
Wardhani may not be aware that Wednesday of Pon was the day her granmother died, as well as the day her sister committed suicide on her nineteenth birthday: she was pregnant with her boyfriend who was reluctant to take responsibility for the prospective child who was his own flesh and blood. Wednesday night of Pon at six o'clock in the afternoon where the dim sky clung to the convex sky, Kinanti combed her hair at the edge of the well, then threw herself into the pit of death.