Chapter 6: Echoes in the Hollow Root

Chapter 6: Echoes in the Hollow Root

"When memory is the price of love, what is left of the self?"

The kenanga trees bloomed more wildly than ever.

In the weeks after Wira's return, Alas Purwo pulsed with an unfamiliar energy—richer, yes, but also unstable. Vines grew where none had before. Trees whispered in foreign tongues. Even the birds flew in strange, looping patterns, like they were tracing forgotten sigils in the sky.

Tenggirang stood among them, her hands calloused from walking, her eyes quiet and unsure. She no longer remembered the moon-song—the memory she had given to Saka in exchange for Wira's soul—but something deeper had changed too. The forest still bowed to her, but no longer spoke.

She had become a stranger to her own domain.

Wira stayed by her side.

He was alive. Whole. Flesh, breath, spirit.

But every time he looked into her eyes, he saw a flicker of the absence—the piece of her that had been traded away. She no longer hummed the melody that once made the trees bloom in rhythm. She no longer knew why she had chosen to fight. She remembered him as a companion, but not as the man who shattered his soul for her freedom.

Still, she smiled at him. Still, she reached for his hand in the quiet hours.

But some nights, he heard her whisper to the forest:

"Who was I?"

And no leaves answered.

Ki Ranu was the first to sense it.

He came to their hut—his steps slower than ever, but his presence heavier, like a bell tolling at the edge of hearing.

He stood beneath the kenanga trees, staring upward, his brows furrowed. "The balance has shifted."

Wira walked out to meet him. "You feel it too?"

The sage nodded. "When a soul is pulled back, it leaves a hollow. And from that hollow... something has begun to speak."

He turned to Tenggirang, who stood barefoot in the garden, watching bees circle the flowers.

"Have you dreamt of roots?" he asked her gently.

She looked up, puzzled. "Roots?"

"Thick. Twisting. Hollow. Whispers coming through them like wind through reeds?"

She tilted her head. "No dreams. Just... a sound."

Wira stepped closer. "What kind of sound?"

"Like water," she said. "Dripping. But it never hits the ground."

Ki Ranu paled. "Then it's worse than I feared."

He removed a folded cloth from his satchel and unwrapped it, revealing a bundle of dried vines—black and brittle, but warm to the touch.

"I found this near the third gate," he said. "A vine from the Akâr Gema—the Echo Root. It only grows when something answers from beneath the world."

Wira stiffened. "The inner realm?"

"No," Ki Ranu whispered. "Deeper. Beneath even the spirit world. A place the ancients called Sambung Bayang—The Link of Shadows."

Tenggirang frowned. "I don't understand."

"The shadow of everything that has ever lived," the sage said. "Buried and bound. It should never speak. But now… it whispers."

That night, Tenggirang wandered to the spring.

She no longer remembered why this place mattered—but her feet always brought her there. She knelt at the water's edge, touching the surface. Her reflection stared back, serene but distant.

Then—ripples.

She gasped as another face surfaced beside hers in the water.

A child.

Pale. Hair like wet ash. Eyes hollow. No reflection of the moon above.

And most strange of all—

No shadow.

The child blinked. Tilted their head.

Tenggirang leaned closer. "Who are you?"

The child smiled. And vanished.

Behind her, a tree cracked.

She spun—but saw only mist curling between the trunks.

That night, she did not sleep.

And the forest around her pulsed with an unfamiliar heartbeat.

In the days that followed, strange things occurred.

A farmer claimed his rice field had vanished—not been destroyed, but erased, leaving only smooth earth like nothing had ever grown there.

A spirit-fox that guarded the eastern glade was found curled in a perfect circle, eyes open, unmoving, its reflection lingering even after the body was gone.

Children began dreaming of a song with no tune, and woke with dirt under their nails.

And Tenggirang began to hear the dripping.

Always behind her. Never from a source.

Wira tried to protect her, but the forest no longer obeyed him. Not fully.

Even the kenanga trees—those faithful witnesses to her legend—began blooming upside down, their petals bending toward the roots.

On the seventh night, the child returned.

Not in the water. But standing in her hut doorway.

No footsteps. No breath.

Just presence.

Tenggirang awoke to find them staring at her, silent.

She sat up. "You're real."

The child nodded.

Wira stirred beside her. "Tenggirang? What—"

The moment he looked at the child, his face changed.

Horror.

Recognition.

He rose slowly. "That's not a child. That's a vessel."

Tenggirang stood protectively. "A vessel for what?"

The child stepped forward, and for the first time, spoke:

"You gave your memory."

Tenggirang's breath caught.

"You tore it from the tree of your soul. And something… picked it up."

"What are you?" Wira whispered.

The child smiled, and shadows gathered at their feet—not cast, but born.

"I am your echo."

Then it vanished, leaving behind a single kenanga petal—black as ink.

Ki Ranu called it the Kelana Bayang—the Wandering Echo.

"A fragment of you," he told Tenggirang, "warped by the roots below. It is what rose when your memory fell. It is not evil. But it is hungry."

"For what?" Wira asked.

The sage looked grim. "Completion."

Tenggirang's hand trembled. "It wants to become me."

Ki Ranu nodded.

"Then we must stop it."

But Ki Ranu held up a hand. "No. You must remember first."

"Remember what?"

"Your true name."

Tenggirang frowned. "I know my name."

"You know what they called you. But do you remember the moment you became it? The song? The vow?"

She fell silent.

"That name," Ki Ranu said, "is your root. Without it, the echo can take your place."

Wira clenched his fists. "So how do we find the lost memory?"

Ki Ranu stared into the fire. "We go where no soul walks willingly."

The next day, they left for the Hollow Root.

Deep in the farthest reaches of Alas Purwo, beyond the circle of living trees, there was a single massive trunk—fallen but not dead. The Hollow Root. A passage to the Sambung Bayang—the realm of echoes, where names, shadows, and broken selves wandered.

The journey was perilous.

The forest resisted their approach. Trees closed their paths. Mists warped direction. Creatures of half-form lunged from crevices and faded with screams that made no sound.

But together, they reached it.

A fallen tree the width of a temple, its bark carved with forgotten glyphs. Its hollow mouth yawned like a throat that had swallowed time.

"Only you can enter," Ki Ranu told Tenggirang. "Only you can reclaim what was lost."

Wira took her hand. "If anything goes wrong—"

"I'll find the song," she whispered. "Even if I must tear it from silence."

Then she stepped into the Hollow Root.

Darkness swallowed her.

Not blackness. Unbeing.

She floated—not falling, not flying. She saw pieces of herself drift by. A broken anklet. A child's voice. A strand of moonlight twisted into a melody she couldn't place.

Then—stillness.

She stood on a field of roots. No sky. No earth. Just interwoven lifelines stretching into forever.

Before her—herself.

But pale. Cracked. Singing the song she no longer knew.

The echo.

Tenggirang stepped forward. "That belongs to me."

The echo smiled. "You gave it away."

"I traded it. For love."

"And I caught it," the echo said. "Now I wear it. And soon, I will walk in your skin."

"You'll never be me."

The echo's smile twisted. "Then take it. If you can."

Suddenly, dozens of shadows rose from the roots—figures from her forgotten past. The child she once was. The prisoner. The mourner. The wrathful spirit. All versions of herself.

"You abandoned us," they cried. "You left us behind."

She fell to her knees, overwhelmed.

"I didn't know… I didn't mean to…"

The echo stepped forward, lifting the memory-song—a thread of light wrapped in black petals.

Tenggirang closed her eyes.

And began to hum.

A low, broken hum.

One note. Then another.

Not the song.

But a heartbeat.

Her heartbeat.

Real. Present.

Alive.

And suddenly—the roots glowed.

Each version of her paused.

Listened.

And hummed with her.

The echo faltered.

Tenggirang rose.

"I don't need the song to know who I am," she said. "I am the song."

The echo screamed.

But the shadows faded.

And the memory-thread flew into her chest.

When she emerged from the Hollow Root, her eyes were glowing.

Wira ran to her.

"Tenggirang?"

She smiled.

Then sang.

The true song.

The forest bent.

The trees bowed.

And in the distance, the echo screamed—and scattered into dust.

But far, far below, in the roots beneath all things…

Something heard the scream.

And woke up.