MARICAYANA: The Beginning [ONC 2021]

2: EXPECTATION & REALITY

As far as everyone in the persilatan world was concerned, Kelana Klawu was death incarnate.

The man was said to roam the earth cloaked in ghostly gray, leaving a trail of carcasses behind wherever he went. He didn't bring any weapon with him, the few eyewitnesses had said in a trembling voice. He didn't need one.

A simple nick from his milky fingernail was enough to spread poison so potent your heart would cease to function in a beat. Hell, the man only needed to stare at you to instill a fear so overwhelming it would instantaneously freeze your lungs. One well-aimed whistle, and you would bleed to death from your ears.

Wening always wondered how much of it was true. The myths surrounding the gray-clad man seemed to rival that of the she-demon Tataka of Jaladara after all.

Until today.

It had been Wening's thirty ninth day skirting the outermost frontier of Jaladara plains. If she wanted to find anything dubious enough to attract a travelling pendekar (preferably one who practiced black silat arts) without totally abandoning civilization, it would be here.

Wening wanted to at least give Father the proper fortieth day ritual before leaving the area for good. That was the least she could do to the man who had raised her like his own for the past ten years, even when he couldn't have bothered to do so.

Besides, if she was going to go on a quest to kill people, Wening first had to make sure Father's spirit was already at rest. She could not afford having Father visiting her dream every night only to nag her about pacifism, could she?

If today was proven to be as fruitless as the last thirty eight, Wening swore she would return to the makeshift shack she built on the charred soil she used to call home. Tail between the legs and all that. Regardless of the fire of vengeance burning her from the insides, Wening would refrain from resuming her quest until after Father's fortieth day ceremony.

But a couple days ago, she passingly heard people talking in a local tavern about this big shipment from the capital, supposedly passing River Bagawanta on the eastern border soon. 

This was not something the peace-loving locals used to discuss in daily conversation. They only talked about it because this type of shipment always attracted bandits of some kinds, Jaladara territory or not. Plus, the river was far enough from the forest, so there was a big chance Tataka of Jaladara might not even bother to check it out.

This, by far, had been her most promising sign in weeks.

Wening had set out super early in the morning with renewed hope. As usual, she put on Father's dust-colored shirt and shawl, then tied his destar headdress over her high bun. Combined with her height and presumably rough look, Wening knew she could pass as a nondescript bloke just anytime.

The guise was simply to avoid unnecessary attention, really. But if her days as a little street urchin taught her anything, the guise often helped her to be taken more seriously. Especially if she was going to find herself a potential silat master.

Father had never had any qualms passing his silat knowledge to either boys or girls. But he was hardly the first pendekar she met while living on the street. Long story short, Wening had learned the hard way that most male pendekar were nothing like Father.

"I'm off, Father. Wish me luck," Wening had said to his tombstone in the backyard. She deliberately said nothing about her real purpose for fear that Father would roll around too much in his grave.

And that was how she ended up here and now, hiding behind a thicket of blooming soka facing the River Bagawanta, waiting for... something to happen.