That morning, a thin fog still hung over the rice fields stretching not far from Trowulan, the capital of Majapahit. From a distance, the roofs of houses and red brick buildings looked like shadows covered in dew. The air was a mixture of the scent of wet soil, kitchen smoke, and the faint smell of charcoal from blacksmith workshops that were starting to come to life.
In the yard of a simple joglo house with walls made of woven bamboo and red brick, a boy of about two years old laughed heartily as he chased a rooster that was running away.
"Sengkala, be careful! Don't fall," said Dewi Laras, his mother, her soft voice breaking the morning silence.
The little boy ran with his tiny feet, the thin sarong he wore dragging slightly on the ground. His short, shiny black hair was touched by the light of the rising sun. Sengkala did not yet fully understand the world, but he already recognized the sound of the hammer from his father's workshop as a soothing rhythm.
Not far from there, from the direction of a darker thatched building, a repeated clanging sound could be heard.
Clang. Clang. Clang.
The hammer struck the hot iron on the anvil, producing red sparks that jumped like little stars falling to earth. There, Mpu Wira, Sengkala's father, had been working since dawn, accompanied by embers that had not gone out since the night before.
"Is Dad working again, Mom?" asked Sengkala with wide eyes, stopping chasing the chicken and staring at the workshop.
"Yes, son," replied Dewi Laras, stroking her son's head. "Your father is making a keris for the palace. A keris that will be carried by soldiers into battle. Do you see that smoke? It's a sign that the iron is being forged to make it strong."
Sengkala nodded, though he didn't really understand. He only knew that behind the workshop wall was another world: a world of fire, iron, and heavy sounds that made his chest tremble.
"Can Sengkala go in and see Father?" his voice full of hope.
"Not yet, son. Your feet are still small. The fire inside could burn your skin," his mother replied firmly, but with a warm smile. "When Sengkala is older, Father himself will take your hand and lead you inside."
Sengkala pursed her lips for a moment, then laughed again when a chick hid behind her feet. At that age, the world was still simple: the sound of a hammer, her mother's laughter, the warmth of home, and the faint shadow of the palace in the distance.
In the afternoon, when the sun was directly overhead and its rays reflected off the red brick surfaces of the city, Dewi Laras carried Sengkala to the market near the road leading to the palace. The path they walked on was compacted earth, with small ditches on either side where water flowed. In the distance, the great walls of Majapahit towered, with gates guarded by soldiers armed with spears and shields.
"Mom, what's that?" asked Sengkala, pointing to the flags flying at the gate.
"That is the symbol of our kingdom, Majapahit," replied his mother softly. "Behind that gate is the king's palace, where the king and nobles live. That is where important decisions about the lives of many people are made."
Sengkala looked on with sparkling eyes. Even though he was still a toddler, he felt as if something was pulsing from behind those large walls: power, secrets, and a world far greater than his village.
At the market, a crowd welcomed them. Fabric merchants from the coast offered fine fabrics in bright colors. Several foreign merchants, some with lighter or darker skin, wore different clothes and spoke with foreign accents as they bargained for spices, rice, and metals.
"Here, son, hold my hand. Don't let go," said Dewi Laras softly.
"There are so many people, Mom..." Sengkala looked around, mesmerized.
He saw other children running around, some carrying wooden toys, others armed only with sticks. Some children from wealthier families wore finer fabrics, adorned with small necklaces around their necks. Meanwhile, Sengkala wore only simple clothes, but that did not diminish his curiosity about the world around him.
An old merchant laughed when Sengkala almost bumped into his fruit basket.
"Hahaha, whose child is this? His eyes look like he wants to devour the whole world," said the merchant.
"This is my eldest child, sir," replied Dewi Laras politely. "His name is Sengkala."
"Sengkala?" The merchant repeated, stroking his beard. "That's a heavy name. Hopefully, he can be a sign of good times, not a sign of collapse."
Dewi Laras smiled slightly. "We just hope he will be an honest and useful child, sir. As for the times... let the gods and kings decide."
Sengkala did not understand the entire conversation, but he grasped one thing: his name made adults speak more softly, as if there was something hidden behind those syllables.
In the evening, after a simple meal of rice, vegetables, and a little fish, the small family gathered on the porch of their house. The wind carried the faint sound of gamelan music from afar, perhaps from a ceremony or entertainment in the palace. The sky was full of stars, as if enveloping the whole of Majapahit in a glowing shawl.
Sengkala sat on Mpu Wira's lap. Near their feet, a small animal-shaped clay piggy bank was placed. Although he did not fully understand, Sengkala knew that the coins his mother occasionally put into the piggy bank were a small hope for the future.
"Father," Sengkala said softly, "in the palace, is there a fire like the one in your workshop?"
Mpu Wira chuckled softly. "Yes, son. But the fire in the palace is different. The fire in the workshop shapes iron to make it useful. The fire in the palace... sometimes burns people's hearts."
Sengkala frowned, confused. "Burns their hearts? Does it hurt?"
"It may not look like a burn," interrupted Dewi Laras, smiling, "but the fire in the heart can make people greedy, angry, or forget about little people like us."
"Why would people want their hearts burned, father?" Sengkala asked again.
"Because they are chasing something called power," Mpu Wira replied softly. "Power is strong, it can protect many people, but it can also destroy even more if it is not guarded."
Sengkala looked at his father's calloused palms. "Father, don't you want power?"
"I am satisfied with the fire in my workshop," said Mpu Wira. "My job is to make good weapons. But remember, son... weapons are not for boasting. Weapons are made so that people think a thousand times before hurting others."
Dewi Laras looked at her husband with warm eyes, then turned to Sengkala.
"You see, son? Your father is tough on the outside, but soft on the inside. You must learn from the fire and from your father's heart."
Sengkala nodded, even though most of those words still floated around in his head like dew that had not yet fallen.
As he approached the age of five, Sengkala's world grew wider. He was allowed to approach the workshop door, although he was not yet allowed to touch anything.
"Only up to this threshold, son," said Mpu Wira, pointing to a wooden block on the floor that marked the safe boundary. "Inside here, fire and iron know no mercy. If you're not careful, they can hurt you."
Sengkala stood at the threshold, staring in awe. Inside the workshop, the furnace burned red, blown to make the fire bigger. Iron bars were neatly arranged in the corner, while several half-finished keris blades lay scattered, their patterns already visible even though they had not yet been polished.
"Father, who is this keris for?" asked Sengkala, pointing to a blade that was more intricate than the others.
"For a palace soldier," replied Mpu Wira. "They say he often escorts the king during ceremonies in the city."
"So your keris will enter the palace?" Sengkala's eyes sparkled.
"It has been for a long time, son." Mpu Wira smiled proudly, but there was a shadow of fatigue in his eyes. "The weapons that come out of this workshop have long been part of the kingdom's history. If you pay close attention, maybe one day you will see our keris on the waist of a knight passing by in front of the house."
Sengkala swallowed hard, imagining himself one day standing as a grown man who also forged iron. The sound of the furnace, the charcoal dust in the air, and the glowing red light were etched in his memory.
"Can Sengkala also make a keris later?" asked Sengkala in a low voice, almost as if afraid that the answer would be no.
Mpu Wira did not answer immediately. He looked at his son for a long time, then smiled slightly.
"If your heart and hands are ready, you can make not only a keris, but also a heirloom. But remember, being a master is not just about being good at striking iron. You must be ready to bear the burden of every blade you create."
"Burden?" Sengkala repeated.
"Every weapon that is born from your hands will one day choose its own master. It could be a brave and fair master, but it could also be a greedy and cruel master. An empu must be prepared to bear the knowledge that his work will be used for things he does not always agree with."
Dewi Laras, who had been standing behind them listening, took a slow breath. She looked at her son's face, still clean of the scars and stains of the world.
"For now, let him be a child, Wira," said Dewi Laras softly. "Let him play with chickens and mud, before playing with fire and iron."
Mpu Wira laughed softly. "You're right." He stroked Sengkala's head. "Go play first, son. The adult world will come to you sooner or later."
In the afternoon, when the sun was setting in the west and golden light bathed the city, Sengkala was often taken for walks near the palace walls. From there, he could catch a glimpse of the world that had only been described to him in his parents' stories.
Sometimes, groups of soldiers on horseback would pass by. They wore battle armor, carried spears, and had keris daggers with ornate hilts tied to their waists. Sengkala always tried to peek, looking for a keris that resembled the one he had seen in the workshop.
"Mom, look! That keris is like the one at home," Sengkala exclaimed one day, pointing at a passing soldier.
"Shh, quiet, son," said Dewi Laras. "But, yes, maybe you're right. This kingdom is large, but our world and the palace world are more closely connected than we think."
"If the keris is lost, will the soldier be angry at Father?" asked Sengkala innocently.
"If it's lost, his honor could be tarnished, son," replied Dewi Laras. "A keris is not just an object. It is part of a soldier's soul."
Sengkala nodded, suddenly feeling that the iron, fire, and sound of hammers in his house were no longer just background noise. They were part of something much bigger, something that had been waiting for him even when he was still running after chickens in the yard.
His childhood flowed slowly like the water in the ditch by the road leading to the palace: clear, calm, but carrying seeds that would one day grow into a storm. Amidst the laughter of children and the clanging of hammers, amidst tales of great kings and whispers of war at the borders of the kingdom, little Sengkala began to form questions that were not easy to answer.
And above all, Majapahit still stood proud, majestic in its glory—unaware that somewhere far ahead, the fury of history was waiting, and a child named Sengkala would be right at its center.
***
Mornings at Mpu Wira's house always began with the same rhythm, like the tireless pulse of the Majapahit kingdom. Dawn was just breaking when Dewi Laras woke up, lighting the fire in the kitchen stove with teak wood and coconut shell charcoal. Thin smoke rose to the thatched roof, mingling with the aroma of liwet rice beginning to boil in the clay pot. Little Sengkala, now about four and a half years old, was still curled up on a pandan mat in the corner of the room, his simple sinjang cloth—a piece of plain faded brown cotton, loosely wrapped around his waist to his knees—slightly wrinkled from sleeping soundly.
"Wake up, son. A new day is greeting us," whispered Dewi Laras as she gently shook her child's shoulder. She herself is wearing the Bhusana Gagampang Putri, typical of the common people of Majapahit: a finely striped cotton sarong wrapped from her hips to her ankles, covered with a thin shawl on her left shoulder, her hair tied up in a simple bun without fancy hairpins, decorated only with fresh frangipani flowers. There were no gold jewelry like the nobility; only wooden bracelets made of rattan on her wrists.
Sengkala stirred, her eyes half-closed. "I'm still sleepy, Mom..."
"Come on, take a bath first. The water from the well is ready," said her mother as she dragged her to the backyard. There, a clay bucket filled with rainwater collected overnight was waiting. Sengkala washed his face with his small hands, the cold water refreshing his brown skin from playing often under the Trowulan sun.
After a warm breakfast of rice with vegetable salad and salted fish, Mpu Wira called from the workshop. "Son, come here for a moment. Help your father lift the charcoal."
Sengkala ran, his sarong fluttering lightly. His clothes were typical for a commoner's child: a short cotton sarong that was sometimes rolled up so it wouldn't hinder his running, his chest bare as was customary for Majapahit children who had not yet reached adulthood, his hair short and messy without a headband. He lifted a small bundle of charcoal—no bigger than his arm—and followed his father to the furnace.
"This is the morning fire, son. It is always hungry," said Mpu Wira as he blew on the bamboo furnace until the embers glowed red. He wore the sinjang gagampang putra: plain cotton cloth wrapped around his waist with a simple rattan belt, his shoulders covered with a short cloth to protect him from the heat, and a wooden necklace made from teak roots hanging on his muscular chest.
"What kind of hungry fire, father?" asked Sengkala curiously, joining in blowing until his face was black with dust.
"The fire is hungry for iron and wood. If it is not fed, it gets angry and goes out," replied his father with a laugh. "Just like you when you're hungry, you immediately become fussy."
Sengkala giggled, then helped arrange the charcoal. This routine took place every morning: cleaning the iron base of the soot used the night before, arranging metal bars from local mines in the interior, and checking the initial pattern on the half-finished blades. Sengkala never got bored; the clanging of his father's hammer was like a lullaby.
Afternoon is playtime, when the sun blazes down on the town of Trowulan. The village children gather in a dusty field near the rice paddies, wearing similar clothes: cheap cotton shirts that are often torn from rough play, their chests exposed so they can move freely, their feet bare or wrapped in scraps of cloth. There are no fancy shoes like those worn by the nobility; only buffalo leather sandals for those who can afford them.
"Hey, Sengkala! Let's play congklak!" exclaimed Mbok Sari, a girl her age from the neighborhood, wearing a sinjang with fine kawung lines and her hair tied in a simple ponytail.
"Congklak? I go first!" replied Sengkala, sitting on the ground. They brought a homemade teak wood congklak board: holes carved with a knife, green beans or pebbles as gundu. Sengkala slammed four pebbles on the ground, catching one, two, three while laughing cheerfully.
"Hey, you lost again!" said his male friend, Jaka, who was shorter, holding a bamboo stilts with holes in it. "Now let's play stilts!"
The stilts flew high, kicked alternately by their bare feet. Then it was time for gobak sodor: two groups blocked each other with outstretched hands, running into each other's shoulders while shouting. "Watch out! Don't grab my waist!" Jaka shouted when Sengkala escaped.
Not far away, young aristocrats could be seen in the distance, near the palace gate. They played with kites made from palm leaves shaped like garuda birds, or played hide and seek in the small temple garden, dressed in finer clothes: thin silk sinjang with kampuh sampir, simple carved rattan bracelets.
"Why do the palace children play differently, La?" asked Mbok Sari while holding her enggrang.
"Their clothes are shiny, they're afraid of getting dirty," replied Sengkala innocently. "We play freely, it's more exciting!"
They continued playing with palm leaves: palm leaves rolled into balls, kicked at each other. Jaka brought other toys to show off, such as clay piggy banks—shaped like sacred animals in the village's beliefs. "This is mine, put coins in it for good luck!"
"Mine is bigger!" Sengkala lifted his own piggy bank, cracked on the nose from a fall yesterday.
Their laughter echoed, mixed with the voices of passing street vendors: "Chinese spices! Coastal fabrics!" The nearby market was bustling with women shopping, wearing simple gringsing patterned sarongs.
As evening approached, it was time to return home. Sengkala helped his mother wash the dirty sarongs in a small stream, the clear water flowing from the neat royal irrigation system. "Son, your sarong has another hole. Tomorrow, I'll sew it," said Dewi Laras as she scrubbed the fabric with volcanic ash.
"Sorry, Mom. The game is cruel," Sengkala grimaced.
"Boys will be boys. But remember, this sword is a legacy from your grandfather. Take good care of it."
Night fell, and the family ate together: genjong vegetables, tempeh bacem, and chili paste. Sengkala sat quietly listening to his father's story.
"Today, I forged spears for the Bhayangkara soldiers," said Mpu Wira. "They guard the palace from rebels in Sumatra."
"Are the rebels evil, father?" asked Sengkala while chewing tempeh.
"Not always evil, son. Sometimes they just want freedom from the kingdom's taxes. Majapahit is great, but greatness needs balance. If it tilts, it will fall."
Dewi Laras added, "That's why we work hard. Father's weapons help maintain that balance."
Sengkala nodded, tired but happy. He lay down on the mat, listening to the faint sound of gamelan music from the palace, the shadows of the lanterns swaying on the wall. This daily routine—from the morning fire to the evening stories—was his roots in the fertile land of Majapahit, even though the seeds of rebellion had already been quietly planted in the distance.
***
When Sengkala was approaching the age of five, Mpu Wira's family received an unexpected honor from the Majapahit palace. A letter from a local duke, written on palm leaves with black ink made from soot, stated that the royal blacksmith's son was worthy of learning the basic customs of the palace. Not to become a noble, but to understand the etiquette of appearing before a great lord when delivering weapons. "The blacksmith's son must know how to behave in the presence of the king," the letter said. Mpu Wira was both proud and anxious; this was Sengkala's first step into a world beyond the workshop and the rice fields.
That morning, Dewi Laras combed Sengkala's hair with a buffalo bone brush, tying it into a simple ponytail—not an elaborate bun like the children of nobles. She dressed him in a new cotton shirt with fine stripes, wrapped neatly to the knees, with a thin shawl over his right shoulder as a sign of respect. Around her neck was a plain rattan necklace from her father. "Today you look like a little soldier, son. Don't run around, mind your manners," her mother said as she pinned a jasmine flower to her belt.
Sengkala nodded seriously, even though his heart was pounding. "I promise, Mom. I'm afraid of saying the wrong thing to the teacher."
Mpu Wira took him by ox cart to the small school gate near the palace—an open pavilion made of teak with a thatched roof, surrounded by a small garden planted with medicinal plants. There, Guru Damar, an elderly Brahmin dressed in a long white robe (thin silk fabric with gold stripes, a symbol of the priestly caste), sat cross-legged on a pandanus mat. His hair was long, and a rudraksha necklace hung on his thin chest. He taught children from low-ranking officials and special craftsmen, preparing them to understand Astabhrata—the eight obligations of a king that served as guidelines for the people's lives.
"Welcome, Sengkala, son of Mpu Wira," greeted Guru Damar in a calm voice like the sound of gamelan music. "Sit here, near me. Today we will learn respect and palace etiquette."
Sengkala sat cross-legged, his legs trembling slightly. Around him were five other children: two young sons of the duke dressed in fine silk with thin gold bracelets, and three artisan children like himself. They were all silent, only the sound of the wind rustling the palm leaves.
"First, respectful bowing," said Guru Damar, rising slowly. He demonstrated the movement: the right hand covering the left palm, brought to the chest, then bowing deeply in a sembah puspa—three slow bows. "This is for the king or the prime minister. Keep your head down, don't lift it too quickly. Remember, the soul resides in the crown of the head."
"He Guru, what about for a duke?" asked a noble child, Raden Bima, his voice flirtatious.
"For a duke, a medium bow—just two nods. But always with a sincere smile, not awkward like a hungry monkey," replied Guru Damar with a small laugh, making the children giggle.
Sengkala tried, but his hands trembled. "Like this, He Guru?" He repeated the movement, but his nod was too fast.
"Almost right, son. Slower, like water flowing in the palace moat. Again!" Guru Damar corrected Sengkala's hand position. "Good. Now, speaking in the palace: don't look directly into the master's eyes, look at his chest. Start the sentence with 'Kawula aturkan pangabdian...' even if you are only delivering a keris."
The children took turns practicing their lines. Raden Bima went first: "We pledge our allegiance, Your Highness!"
"That's too loud, like a war drum!" commented Guru Damar. "Softly, but firmly."
It was Sengkala's turn. "Kawula... aturkan pangabdian, He Guru," he said softly, his eyes downcast.
"Very good! You are a master's son, but your voice is like that of a priest. Remember, in the palace, silence is more valuable than sweet words."
The lesson continued with a basic ceremony. Guru Damar brought a small palm leaf inscribed with ancient Javanese script and recited a stanza from Nagarakertagama—a work by Empu Prapanca praising the glory of Majapahit. "Listen to this: 'Wanguntur punika tan paewara...' The palace square is the center of our world. During the Sraddha ceremony—a commemoration of the ancestors—the people honor the king as Chakrawartin, ruler of the eight corners."
He taught the simple Astabhrata: "The king provides protection, the people provide loyalty. Eight obligations: protect the weak, uphold justice, respect the priests..."
"He Guru, if the king forgets Astabhrata, will the kingdom collapse?" asked Sengkala innocently, remembering his father's story about the rebels.
Guru Damar was silent for a moment, his eyes sharp. "Good question, son. History says yes. But we are not the king's judges. Our duty: to obey and be righteous. Majapahit is strong because of balance—the king at the top, the people at the roots like a banyan tree."
The children practiced marching for the harvest ceremony: holding betel leaves as a symbol of tribute, walking slowly while singing a short song. "A bountiful harvest, thanks to the god Sri..." they sang in unison, their voices echoing in the pavilion.
Sengkala had difficulty marching in a straight line. "Sorry, He Guru, my legs are short," he muttered when he stumbled.
"It's okay, son. Palace customs are not about long legs, but a straight heart. Practice at home, imagine you are delivering a keris to the prime minister."
At noon, the lesson was interrupted by a break. Teacher Damar distributed small ketupat and lepet—Majapahit ritual foods made from palm leaves, filled with savory sticky rice. "This is our ancestral heritage, eaten during ceremonies. We give thanks for the fertile land of Trowulan."
"Teacher, are there puppets in the palace?" asked Raden Bima while chewing.
"Yes, son. Leather puppets made from buffalo hide, carved thinly, moved by the puppeteer during grand ceremonies. They depict the Ramayana, Arjuna's wedding—wisdom for the king and the people."
Sengkala imagined: "Sengkala wants to see the puppets at the palace one day."
"That's a good dream. But master the customs first. If you bow incorrectly, instead of puppets, you'll get a whip," teased Guru Damar, but his tone was encouraging.
The afternoon lesson focused on etiquette: sitting in a bowing position, listening to the king's words without interrupting, responding with 'Ingsun nurut' (I obey). They practiced a scenario: pretending that the duke had arrived.
"Your Majesty, I respect you!" exclaimed Sengkala, bowing deeply this time.
"Good! You are ready to deliver your father's heirloom," praised Guru Damar.
In the afternoon, when it was time to go home, Sengkala told his parents. "Father, Sengkala learned how to bow! Tomorrow, I will practice again."
Mpu Wira smiled. "That is the beginning of your journey to the palace, son. But remember, it is good manners to have a good heart."
Dewi Laras hugged her son. "You are smart, son. Majapahit needs people like you—not just soldiers, but guardians of tradition from the roots."
At the age of five, Sengkala began to understand: his workshop world was connected to the magnificent palace. Customs were like the roots of a banyan tree, supporting the royal tree. But behind the lessons in politeness, a seed of curiosity grew—what would happen if the roots were shaken?
***
The days of little Sengkala passed like the slow but uninterrupted strains of gamelan music, where the routine of the family workshop mingled with the breeze from the Trowulan rice fields, carrying the scent of wet earth and morning incense. Now, at the age of four and a half, he increasingly accompanies his father to the banks of the Brantas River to wash raw iron—rough metal bars from inland mines brought by merchants on ox carts. That morning, the sun had just risen behind the hills, its light reflecting off the clear river water, flowing rapidly from the royal irrigation system that was perfectly designed to fertilize thousands of hectares of rice fields.
"Sengkala, hold this bucket carefully. Don't let it fall into the water," said Mpu Wira as he bent down, his calloused hands rubbing the iron with volcanic sand until it shone. He wore a sinjang gagampang that was soaked at the bottom, his rattan belt loose from wetness, his muscular chest glistening with sweat.
Sengkala nodded, the clay bucket in his hands heavy but he endured. His short cotton sinjang was rolled up to keep it from getting wet, his bare feet stepping on the slippery river mud. "Father, where did this iron come from? From a volcano?"
Mpu Wira laughed softly, his voice echoing on the riverbank. "From the mine on the slopes of Mount Kelud, son. Merchants brought it by buffalo, exchanged for our keris. Majapahit was great because of this fine iron—the Bhayangkara spear, the adipati's keris, all from the hands of empu like you."
In the distance, merchant boats passed by: Chinese traders with colorful silk fabrics, mixed with nutmeg and sandalwood from Maluku. They shouted greetings to each other, their foreign accents mixed with rough Javanese. "That's a ship from Tumasik, Buah!" Sengkala pointed excitedly.
"Yes, they carry strange goods. But we trade them for keris. The kingdom needs them to guard the distant islands," replied her father as he lifted the iron into a woven basket.
Back home, Dewi Laras had prepared breakfast: liwet rice with kangkung salad, fried tempeh, and spicy sambal terasi made from wild chilies. They ate cross-legged on a pandan mat, their hands directly grabbing the wet rice covered in sauce—a Majapahit custom of eating without chopsticks, only rinsing their mouths with betel nut. "Son, are you studying with Guru Damar again today?" asked her mother while chewing betel nut, her mouth red with betel.
"Yes, Mom. Intermediate worship practice. But Sengkala wants to play enggrang with Jaka first," replied Sengkala, wiping his hands on a banana leaf.
"You can play, but don't forget to wash your hands. You'll be dirty when you enter the teacher's hall," Dewi Laras said gently, adding rice to her pot.
When noon came, it was time to play in the village field, near the market where street vendors were bustling about. Sengkala and his friends—Jaka the farmer, Mbok Sari the weaver's daughter, and Raden Kecil from a low-ranking noble family—ran around with hollow bamboo stilts, kicking them high until they almost touched the clouds. Their clothes were tattered: their sarongs were torn at the knees, their chests bare and covered in the red clay dust characteristic of Trowulan.
"Catch this, Sengkala! My stilts are the highest!" shouted Jaka, his stilts flying, followed by cheerful laughter.
Sengkala jumped, catching the stilts with his nimble feet. "Haha, you lost! Now it's gobak sodor. I'll guard the gate!"
They formed a human barricade: hands clasped together, bodies tense to block their opponents. "Ouch! Don't push my waist!" cried Mbok Sari as she was knocked aside. Then they switched to congklak: a wooden board with 16 holes, gundu made from peanuts and river pebbles. Sengkala was good at catching three gundu at once, "Look, four points!"
Little Raden brought a special toy: a garuda-shaped lontar leaf kite, tied with jute string. "This is from the palace! When the moon is full, we'll fly it together while singing songs!" he said proudly, his silk shirt shining in contrast to their coarse cotton clothes.
"The Garuda flies high, like Majapahit ruling the sky!" replied Sengkala, his eyes sparkling. They flew the kite together, the afternoon breeze carrying it over the green rice fields.
Not far from there, the market was bustling: women offered striped gringsing cloth, spice merchants shouted, "Fresh Maluku nutmeg! Cheap Chinese sandalwood!" Children ran away from the merchants' buffaloes, the smell of sweat and incense mingling in the air. Sengkala bought ginger candy from his piggy bank—a cracked clay piggy bank that he had saved up from helping his father.
In the afternoon, he returns to his lessons with Guru Damar in the pavilion. Today's theme is Sraddha—an ancestral ceremony. Guru Damar, his white robe fragrant with incense, holds a Nagarakertagama palm leaf. "Sit neatly! Today we will practice the harvest song: 'Dewi Sri gives fertility, the king gives protection...'"
The children sang in unison, their innocent voices echoing. Sengkala quickly memorized it: "He Guru, if Sraddha is in the palace, does the king give gold to the master?"
Guru Damar smiled wisely. "Not just gold, son. Blessings and respect. King Hayam Wuruk taught Astabhrata: protect the people as your father protects you. If you forget, the kingdom will tilt like a dry rice field."
Raden Bima asked: "He Guru, what do the puppets in the palace tell stories about?"
"Ramayana, Arjuna's wedding. The puppeteer moves the leather puppets behind the screen, accompanied by gamelan music. It teaches loyalty versus betrayal," replied the teacher. "Tomorrow there will be a small ceremony: bring betel leaves as an offering."
It was time to rest and eat ketupat lepet. "This is ritual food, to give thanks to the gods. Eat slowly, like a king eating rice with his hands," said Guru Damar.
In the afternoon, it was time to go home. Sengkala helped her mother weave rattan mats—a village craft to be exchanged for rice. "Mom, you sang a song earlier. Majapahit is like a garuda, right?"
Dewi Laras smiled. "Yes, son. But a garuda needs strong wings from ordinary people like us."
That night, the family gathered on the porch to listen to the gamelan music coming from the palace—perhaps a bedhaya dance rehearsal. Mpu Wira recounted: "Once, Father delivered a spear to the duke. They were eating grilled insects, he said it was auspicious."
"Insects? Eww!" Sengkala grimaced.
"But we eat river fish. Enough, son. Tomorrow, help Father polish the keris blade," said her father.
Sengkala lay down, listening to the night wind, the palace faintly visible in his mind. This slow life—the river, the market, lessons, embers—was his roots. But the whisper of the wind carried a strange tone: the clanging of war drums from the north, a sign that Gajah Mada was preparing the Sumpah Palapa. The rampage was still far away, but its seeds had already sprouted in the fertile soil of Majapahit.