The Strain of Healing

Alas Purwo National Park, East Java – Dawn. The grove was a whispered secret, a pocket of emerald defiance against the rot creeping at its edges. Ancient banyan trees stretched skeletal roots into soil still humming with primordial energy, their canopies filtering the dawn into shards of gold. But even here, the Syndicate’s poison lingered—a cough in the wind, the stench of diesel beneath the frangipani.

Mayang knelt at the heart of the grove, palms pressed to the earth. Her bare feet sank into moss, cool and damp, but the ground pulsed weakly beneath her, like a faltering heartbeat. Alas, Purwo’s daughter, the villagers once called her, but now the title felt like a chain.

“Tolong,” she whispered, clawing her fingers into the soil. Energy surged from her core, green-gold light spiraling up her arms—a gift inherited from generations of dukun who’d tended these woods. The wilted ferns at her feet shuddered, their brown fronds curling inward like fists.

Rhea watched from the tree line, her breath catching as Mayang’s hair whitened at the roots, veins darkening like poisoned rivers under her skin. “Maya, stop—you’re killing yourself!”

The ferns unfurled, vibrant, and trembling, but the victory was fleeting. A fungal blight spread from their stems, blackening the leaves in seconds. Mayang recoiled, her hands raw and bleeding. “Why won’t it listen?”

The grove answered with a groan. A teak tree split down the middle, its trunk oozing sap-like congealed blood.

Rhea kneeling beside her. “You’re forcing it. The land isn’t a machine—it needs time.”

Mayang laughed bitterly, gesturing to the horizon where smoke plumed from Syndicate mines. “Time is a luxury the earth doesn’t have.”

A rustle of leaves. Mbah Sari, the local healer, emerged from the shadows, her sarong stained with medicinal herbs. “Anakku, Alas Purwo’s spirit is not a well to drain. You pour yourself into cracks, but the wound is too wide.” She pressed a gourd of jamu into Mayang’s hands, the bitter tonic steaming. “Heal the healer first.”

Mayang drank, the brew scalding her throat. For a moment, color returned to her cheeks. “And if I stop? Who tends the grove? The Syndicate? Their concrete and chemicals?”

Clarissa appeared, her combat boots crushing a patch of sacred kantil flowers. “Intel says they’re bulldozing the eastern ridge tomorrow. Your magic mulch show got a plan B?”

Mayang stood, swaying. “There’s a ritual. The Ruwat Bumi. My ancestors used it to cleanse poisoned land.”

Mbah Sari sharply. “A ritual for balanced souls. You are cracked clay, child. It will shatter you.”

But Mayang was already gathering offerings: crushed jasmine, volcanic salt, a lock of her hair. Rhea gripped her wrist. “This isn’t healing—it’s suicide.”

“It’s a duty,” Mayang said, pulling free.

As she began the chant, the grove shuddered. Vines snaked up her legs, thorns biting into flesh. The earth’s voice roared in her mind—too much, too fast.

The Syndicate’s mining camp. A foreman smirked at seismic monitors spiking off the charts. “Boss’ll love this. The witch is digging her own grave.”

Alas Purwo: Reflects Mayang’s soul—ancient, resilient, but fraying. Ruwat Bumi is A double-edged sword; healing requires sacrifice. Whitening Hair/Blackened Veins is a Visual marker of her symbiotic bond with the land’s suffering.

The earth bleeds, and so does its daughter.

—

A Message from the Earth

Alas Purwo’s Sacred Cave, East Java – Night. The cave mouth yawned like the throat of the earth, its walls slick with bioluminescent moss that pulsed faintly, as if breathing. Mayang followed Mbah Kawi, the elder, her bare feet numb against the cold stone. The air thickened with the scent of damp clay and frankincense, the silence broken only by the distant drip of water and the rustle of Rhea and Clarissa trailing behind.

“Hati-hati,” Mbah Kawi warned, her voice echoing. She paused at a fork in the tunnel, tracing a weathered hand over petroglyphs of entwined serpents and banyan trees. “This path is not for the faithless.”

Clarissa snorted, her flashlight slicing through the gloom. “Faith won’t stop bulldozers.”

Rhea shot her a glare but said nothing. Mayang’s gaze lingered on the carvings—Nāga guardians, symbols of balance in Javanese lore. Her fingers brushed the stone, and for a moment, the walls hummed.

—

The chamber opened into a cavernous womb, its ceiling studded with stalactites that glimmered like inverted stars. A pool of black water lay at its center, its surface still as glass. Mbah Kawi lit a bundle of kemenyan resin, smoke coiling into shapes that mirrored the petroglyphs.

“Sit,” the elder commanded, gesturing to the water’s edge. “The earth speaks to those who listen with kawula, not just—as kin, not master.”

Mayang knelt, her reflection fractured by ripples. The water grew warm, then searing. She gasped as visions erupted:

—Rivers choked with plastic, their banks lined with dead mangroves.

—Children coughing in smog-clogged villages, their lungs scarred by Syndicate refineries.

—A tiger, skeletal and snarling, its jungle reduced to ash.

“Ibu Pertiwi weeps,” whispered a chorus of voices—wind through cracks, roots splitting stone. “You bleed her pain, child, but you are not her savior. You are her child.”

Mayang’s hands plunged into the water, her scars glowing. “Tell me how to heal her!”

The pool erupted. Vines lashed her wrists, dragging her under.

—

Mayang stood in a field of burnt cassava, the soil cracked and barren. But beneath her feet, seeds stirred—durian, rambutan, teak—pushing through ash. Villagers emerged, hands joined, planting saplings in the ruins. The earth shuddered, not in pain, but in labor.

A figure materialized: a woman woven from roots and rainfall, her eyes twin galaxies. Dewi Sri, goddess of fertility, or perhaps the spirit of Alas Purwo itself.

“You are a bridge, not a cure,” the spirit intoned. “Heal the people’s bond with this land, and the land will heal itself.”

Mayang resurfaced, choking on air. Rhea gripped her shoulders, while Clarissa aimed her pistol at the shadows, muttering about “spooky cave shit.”

Mbah Kawi smiled, her teeth like moonlit bone. “You see now? The Syndicate poisons bodies, but despair poisons souls. Rally the wong cilik—the small people—and their hope will be your ritual.”

Mayang’s veins still throbbed with the vision’s aftershock. “How?”

The elder pressed a seed into her palm—a biji randu, its fibers soft as grief. “Start with stories. Remind them what they’ve forgotten: that they, too, are the earth.”

—

The cave’s entrance. Dawn bled into the sky as Mayang emerged, the seed clasped to her chest. Below, Syndicate trucks carved wounds into the forest.

Clarissa lit a cigarette. “So? What’s the plan, Shaman?”

Mayang watched a butterfly land on the seed, its wings trembling. “We fight—not with guns, but with kebun. Community gardens. Protests rooted in soil, not slogans.”

Rhea grinned. “A revolution of seedlings?”

“A beginning,” Mayang said, turning toward the distant smoke.

—

The earth’s cry is not a dirge—it’s a lullaby, waiting to be sung anew.

Jakarta, North Manggarai District – Noon. The sky hung like a necrotic lung, its smog-choked haze staining sunlight the color of jaundice. The Ciliwung River, once a lifeline, now writhed with chemical froth, dead fish bobbing belly-up between Styrofoam carcasses. On the banks, children in surgical masks scraped sludge from their sandals, their laughter replaced by coughs that rattled like loose bolts.

Mayang stumbled through the streets, a shawl pressed to her face. The air burned—not with heat, but with the Syndicate’s signature cocktail of ammonium and despair. Beside her, Clarissa barked orders into a walkie-talkie, her voice slicing through the din of distant sirens.

“Refinery explosion in Kalideres,” she spat. “Wind’s dragging the plume here. We’ve got hours before this whole district chokes.”

Kiran emerged from a makeshift clinic, his sleeves rolled to reveal rash-blotched arms. “The activists are setting up oxygen tents in the old market. But we need meds. Clean water. Miracles.”

Mayang’s gaze drifted to a mural half-scorched by acid rain: Dewi Sri, her once-vibrant rice sheaves now peeling into ash. “Where are the others?”

“Pissing on Syndicate gates,” Clarissa snorted. “Protesters chained themselves to the Lembang Mine conveyor belts. A fat lot of good it’ll do.”

—

The community center stank of desperation. Activists huddled around a battery-powered radio, its static-crackled broadcast detailing another “contained” oil spill. Ayu, a teenage organizer with eyes like lit coal, thrust a flyer into Mayang’s hands: “Kebun Kota—Urban Gardens or Graves.”

“We’re converting rooftops into vegetable plots,” Ayu said. “But the soil’s toxic. We need your… magic touch.”

Mayang knelt, plunging her hands into a planter box. The soil recoiled—a festering wound, seething with heavy metals. Her palms glowed faintly, but the energy sputtered, her veins blackening as blight crept up her wrists.

“Stop!” Kiran yanked her back. “You’re not a martyr. You’re a symbol. Act like one.”

A crash echoed outside. A billboard advertising Nine Dragons’ “Green Energy Initiative” collapsed, its frame buckling under the weight of its hypocrisy.

—

Mayang stood atop a parking garage turned garden, wilted chili plants trembling in her grip. Below, Jakarta gasped—a city drowning in its bile. She pressed her forehead to the soil, whispering Dewi Sri’s litany.

“Kembali ke bumi… kembali ke diri…” Return to the earth… return to yourself…

The ground shuddered. For a heartbeat, clarity: roots knitting through concrete, mycelium devouring plastic, a thousand seeds cracking asphalt. Then pain—a vise around her ribs. She collapsed, vomiting black bile.

Clarissa hauled her up, unfazed. “You wanna heal? Then quit playing goddess. Teach these kids to compost. Sing your damn lullabies to the dirt. Small. Steps.”

Ayu knelt beside them, clutching a shriveled tomato seedling. “My little brother’s in the hospital. Leukemia. He asked me to plant this for him.”

Mayang’s breath hitched. She cupped the seedling, her fingers brushing Ayu’s. A spark—faint but persistent—passed between them. The plant quivered, stunted leaves unfurling a millimeter.

Kiran quietly. “Not a miracle. But it’s a start.”

—

A Syndicate boardroom. Surveillance feeds showed the garage garden, activists huddled around Mayang. Wei Long sipped jasmine tea, unperturbed.

“Let them till their graves,” he said. “When the smog kills their crops, they’ll beg for our synthetic rice.”

But on the feed, Mayang lifted her head, her eyes reflecting not defeat—defiance. A single kapok seed, gifted by Mbah Kawi, sprouted in her palm.

The Syndicate poisons the world in increments. Revolution grows the same way—seed by seed.

—

Restoration Site, Alas Purwo Forest – Dawn. The forest was a patchwork of scars and hope. Charred stumps stood sentinel over terraced plots of freshly turned soil, where villagers knelt in the mud, hands cradling saplings like newborn birds. A stream—once choked with mining slurry—trickled clear again, its banks bristling with reeds planted by children. The air hummed with cicadas and the rhythmic thud of shovels, a symphony of stubborn rebirth.

Mayang knelt beside Rhea and Kiran, her fingers buried in the earth. Weeks ago, the soil here had been inert, a graveyard of toxins. Now, it quivered faintly, worms wriggling to the surface as if summoned.

“Still think this is a waste of time?” Rhea smirked, elbow-deep in a compost trench.

Kiran wiped the sweat from his brow, squinting at the progress. “One clean stream doesn’t unburn a forest.”

“But it’s a start,” Mayang murmured. She pressed her palm to the ground, her breath syncing with the villagers’ chants—“Tanah kami, hidup kembali!” Our land, live again. The familiar green-gold glow flickered in her veins, weaker than before but steadier, cleaner.

A child darted past, giggling as she planted a moringa seed. “Nanti besar, ya, Bu Mayang?” It’ll grow big, right?

“If we care for it together,” Mayang said, tucking a kapok seed into the girl’s palm.

—

At midday, the rain came—soft, forgiving. The villagers gathered under a tarp, passing cassava and stories. An elder, Pak Darma, gestured to a sapling already knee-high. “My grandfather said forests remember. They grow back where they’re loved.”

Mayang’s chest ached. She slipped away to the stream, alone. The water mirrored her face—still gaunt, but her eyes less hollow. She dipped her hands in, whispering Dewi Sri’s prayer.

“Bangkitlah…” Rise…

The stream’s murmur deepened. For a heartbeat, the water glowed, and a figure shimmered beneath the surface—Dewi Sri, her form woven from lotus petals and sunlight.

“You see now, daughter?” the goddess whispered. “A single root cannot hold the earth. But a forest?”

The vision fractured as cheers erupted behind her.

—

Kiran stood slack-jawed at the tree line. Overnight, the villagers’ saplings had shot waist-high, leaves unfurling with unnatural speed. Pak Darma cackled, patting the soil. “See? The forest remembers!”

Mayang trembled. She hadn’t done this—not alone. But the saplings thrummed with a resonance she’d never felt before, as if each villager’s hope had become a drop of rain feeding them.

Rhea gripped her shoulder. “You’re crying.”

“Am I?” Mayang touched her cheek. Sure enough—tears, but no blood. No pain.

—

The villagers lit bamboo torches, their flames painting the trees gold. Mayang stood at the center, a seedling in her hands. She didn’t channel energy; she simply let go.

The glow spread—not from her, but through the crowd. Hands touched soil. Voices rose. The saplings surged, roots knitting into a web beneath their feet.

Kiran laughed incredulously. “It’s… working. How?”

“Because it’s not just me,” Mayang breathed. “It’s us.”

—

A Syndicate drone feed. The restoration site pulsed with bioluminescent green, a beacon in the dark.

Wei Long scowled, crushing his jasmine tea cup. “Burn it.”

But his lieutenant hesitated. “Sir, the media’s already calling it ‘The Miracle Grove.’ If we attack now…”

The close-up of Mayang—eyes closed, smiling—as kapok seeds spiraled around her like a halo.

The Syndicate sows poison in solitude. The people grow forests together.