Cerpen: Misan (Kin of Heart)

DWIBAHASA – BILINGUAL

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Bahasa Indonesia

Misan

Labodalih Sembiring cerpen ini memenangkan juara III Sayembara Penulisan Cerita Pendek untuk Remaja Tingkat Nasional dalam rangka Bulan Bahasa dan Sastra 2002.

 

Tak seperti biasanya. Gambaran-gambaran Padang Mahsyar hadir sebagai cuplikan adegan terang. Karena ia memang sering membayangkan, tapi tidak senyata ini, seakan-akan ia tidak punya kuasa atas daya khayalnya sendiri. Ia bertanya dalam hati, mengapa kira-kira? Apakah dosanya terlalu banyak sehingga gambaran itu muncul untuk menyadarkannya? Apakah ajalnya sudah amat dekat seperti yang selama ini diyakininya? Hanyakah imajinasi liar belaka? Pikirannya semakin kalut dan ngeri.

“Bicara apa kamu!” Ibu terkejut. Sebab barusan ia disodori pernyataan oleh anaknya: Ibu, aku akan segera mati. Dan betapa respon yang wajar.

“Benar, Bu. Aku sudah melihat banyak pertanda,” ujarnya lagi. “Kenapa Ibu harus menolak? Toh kita semua akan meninggal. Hanya saja aku yang dapat giliran lebih dahulu.”

“Jangan ngelantur. Pertanda apa? Bisa-bisanya kamu berpikiran akan segera mati. Kamu masih muda. Ibu mau melihat kamu lulus kuliah, dapat pekerjaan, menikah. Ibu mau memomong bayimu. Ibu justru berharap kamu punya umur panjang, biarlah Ibu yang mangkat lebih dulu,” cecar Ibu tak mau mengerti. Apalagi jika ia coba memberi tahu Ayah yang pemikirannya cuma didasarkan pada rumusan sebab akibat dalam kerangka pikiran rasional. Atau adiknya yang baru duduk di bangku SLTP. Tak terbayangkan pula reaksi teman-temannya bila ia memberitahukan hal yang sama. Ia akan dicap gila!

“Pertanda apa?”

*

Pertanda yang mulai berdatangan empat bulan silam, setelah ia mendengar sepupunya meninggal dunia. Nyawa misannya pasrah pada hantaman sebuah truk pengangkut pasir. Sore itu, di sebuah jalan yang menyibak ladang segala pohonan. Ia terseret bersama motor bebek usang pada aspal kasar yang mengelupas kulit pipinya. Ia merasakan sel, demi sel, dan demi sel yang menyusun jaringan epidermis dan tulang batok belakang telinga kirinya dipecah oleh hantaman benda majal dari besi, di kolong truk yang gelap serta bau timbal dan bensin bocor.

Segalanya dalam gerak lambat, seperti adegan cinta yang mempertemukan dua kekasih bersahut-sahutan. Namun jauh lebih perlahan. Suara-suara mendayu panjang dalam gema mencekam sebagai latar: tetes air di pucuk daun yang menitik dan bergesekan dengan udara lalu petas di tanah; derik serangga mirip ujung pulpen digeretkan ke papan tulis; desau angin yang tersesat. Kucuran darahnya berbunyi mendesah panjang. Matanya menatap kuyu entah apa, mungkin lain dunia. Yang pasti ada air mata tertahan di sudutnya. Dan bibirnya hendak menggumamkan berita.

Untuk sepupu. Datang lewat telepon oleh bapaknya:

Sepupumu, teman terdekatmu, sebelah hatimu dipanggil Allah sore tadi. Keluarga di sini sangat kehilangan. Bibimu terus menangis hingga matanya membengkak. Kadang pingsan, kebingungan. Habis bagaimana lagi? Ia anak laki-laki satu-satunya, anak sulung, yang pertama dan paling banyak mendapat curahan kasih sayang. Kini telah tiada. Kirimkanlah doamu untuknya yang dikubur di tanah kelahiran. Jaga dirimu di pulau seberang. Wassalamu’alaikum.

Itu menjelaskan mengapa akhir-akhir ini kelopak matanya berkedut-kedut kencang. Sebelah mana? Ibu bertanya. Yang kanan sebelah atas. Oh, itu pertanda bahwa kau akan menangis. Barangkali kau akan kehilangan sesuatu.

Ya, Ibu. Aku telah kehilangan, dan aku menangis, meratap, meraung-raung. Akan sakit sekali bila sebelah hatimu disayat dan dimasukkan liang lahat. Masih terasa hingga sekarang. Bersamaan dengan mimpi-mimpi buruk yang menggerogoti tiap tidurku. Suara-suara memanggil. Kilasan-kilasan kiamat. Neraka. Neraca….

*

“Kau hanya sedih. Kau masih belum menerima kematian sepupumu.” Ibu membelainya prihatin. “Jangan berlarut-larut dalam duka, nanti kesehatanmu terganggu. Yang terjadi biarlah terjadi sebagai ketentuan Allah. Tak ada manusia yang dapat menolak ajal.”

Ia berharap Ibu menyetujui pendapatnya, bahwa Tuhan juga berhak memberi sinyal-sinyal kematian bagi orang yang akan segera mati. Ia ingin Ibu tidak berberat hati. Sebab itu akan membuatnya lega. Ia menyayangi Ibu, tapi kasih sayang Ibu yang ingin memiliki dan menguasai seperti sebilah belati yang menguliti hidup-hidup seekor domba menjelang matinya.

Ia pun melepas pelukan Ibu. Masuk ke kamar dan tak lagi keluar. Ia tak hendak keluar. Di dalam kamar yang makin hari makin pengab (jendelanya tak dibuka) ia mengurung diri menanti mati. Air matanya mengalir berlinang-linang menyesali Ibu tak merelakannya pergi, padahal ia sudah siap menemui sepupunya di sana. Ia rindu akibat kenangan-kenangan masa kecil terselinap dalam syaraf repertori yang menali akal dengan hatinya sehingga menghantarkan denyut-denyut ilu bolak-balik. Menyakitkan memang mengingat masa hidup orang tercinta yang kini tiada.

Konon mereka tak terpisahkan. Lahir dengan rentang dua ratus sembilan belas hari membuat keduanya sebaya dengan kedua ibu bersaudara. Tiap minggu mereka harus ketemu, untuk bermain di ladang atau sawah sambil membawa pisau atau parang berlagak seperti jagoan yang menelusuri hutan rimba sampai maghrib dan sering kena marah karenanya. Masalah kecil dapat mendorong timbulnya perkelahian walau ujung-ujungnya sama menangis, saling menyalahkan, kemudian melupakannya setelah berbaikan. Mereka jatuh cinta pada gadis-gadis dan keduanya berjanji suatu hari nanti akan menikah di pelaminan yang sama, kemudian membuat lelucon tentunya tak boleh berbagi kamar yang sama di malam pertama. Tak ada rahasia. Mereka menyimpan rapi di hati segala cerita yang mereka bagi berisi pengalaman-pengalaman sehari-hari atau cita-cita bila sudah jadi orang nanti. Salah satunya harus berangkat, suatu ketika, ke tanah seberang setelah ayahnya dipindahtugaskan. Di atas kapal, ia melihat sepupunya menatapnya sambil tersenyum namun bersibar air mata. Bertanya-tanya, masihkah kita akan saling jumpa?

*

Lapar bagai tak singgah di perutnya. Ia sudah tak makan selama tiga hari. Seisi rumah mencoba membuatnya membuka pintu, tapi sia-sia sebab ia bergeming saja di atas ranjang. Tentunya Ibu telah memberi tahu Ayah alasannya mengunci diri, dan berusaha menenangkan Ayah ketika ia jadi berang lalu menggedor-gedor pintu hingga bingar sambil berteriak-teriak menggelegar.

“Buka pintunya! Heh, kau sudah tuli ya, atau senget! Mana ada orang waras yang nggak makan, nggak minum, nggak ngomong. Kau bilang mau nunggu mati, hah! Kau bukan menunggu mati, tapi bunuh diri! Kawan-kawanmu kemari menanyakan kenapa kau nggak kuliah. Dan jangan kau pikir bisa seenaknya nggak pergi kuliah, semua itu pakai biaya.”

Dan mungkin adik perempuannya sedang berada di belakang Ayah, ketakutan karena mengira kakaknya memang sudah gila dan akan dibawa ke rumah sakit jiwa. Biar saja, pikirnya. Di rumah sakit jiwa manapun aku akan mati lebih tenang. Di sana aku akan mencari tempat terindah untuk mati. Barangkali sebuah taman belakang penuh pohon rindang. Di bawahnya aku bernaung, sementara pasien-pasien berseragam biru-biru dengan perangai lucu berkeliaran ke sana kemari tanpa tahu atau peduli bahwa aku sedang menyerahkan nyawa secara sukarela kepada El Maut. Orang-orang gila lainnya berdatangan, riuh berkerumun. Tertawa-tawa, menyanyi, menari-nari liar, menangis, tertawa lagi sembari berseru-seru seperti dalam prosesi menghantar roh pada adat suku primitif Afrika. Ha ha ha ha!

Tapi, ternyata dia tidak dibawa ke mana-mana karena pintu yang didobrak Ayah tak kunjung rubuh, seperti ada kekuatan yang menahan. Semua menyerah, membiarkannya menanti mati. Tak ada lagi gedoran, hening kecuali untuk suara jangkrik yang mulai bercengkerama. Tanpa disadarinya hari pun berangsur malam.

Langit di luar amat gelap, segelap kamarnya (lampu juga tak dinyalakan), dan segelap ruangan bawah sadar yang kini mulai dimasukinya selangkah lalu selangkah. Derapnya terpantul ke segala arah oleh dinding-dinding tak kelihatan. Tapi ditangkapnya sebuah sorotan cahaya lemah tegak lurus bidang lantai yang dihinggapi titik-titik debu berkilauan untuk membantunya menangkap garis-garis. Disentuhnya. Ternyata sisi rak-rak buku yang menjulang ke kegelapan. Ia menduga rak-rak itu mungkin setinggi gedung pencakar langit sebab buku-buku di situ sebesar-besar daun pintu. Didengarnya jelas ada derap-derap kaki yang mendekat, makin dekat, teramat dekat. Seseorang sedang berdiri di depannya.

“Siapa kamu?”

“Aku sepupumu.”

Darahnya tersirap. Ia mengenali suara itu dan mulai memperhatikan gurat-gurat wajah orang ini. Benarlah! Ini sepupunya, dan ia mendadak lunglai lalu menangis dan merangkul erat sosok yang teramat dirindukannya.

“Kematianmu terlalu muda, dan aku terlalu mencintaimu.”

“Seumur-umur hidup kita adalah sebentar, tak peduli di umur berapa kau mati. Ada yang baru meninggal di usia teramat renta tetapi dia bilang: Terlalu cepat aku tinggalkan dunia, belum berbuat apa-apa.”

Sesuatu menghembus dari mulut sepupunya selagi berbicara sampai menerpa wajah, dingin terasa. Tentunya bukan nafas melainkan hawa dunia orang mati. Orang mati tak lagi bernafas, bukan? Ia menggigil, dan serasa makin dingin ketika sepupunya memegang wajahnya. Ia  masih mengisak saat itu. Ia mau tumpahkan segala kerinduan dan kekecewaan yang menyempiti dadanya. Juga protes, karena ia sesungguhnya belum bersedia ditinggalkan. Tersedan-sedan ia dan sedunya terdengar seperti lolong burung hantu.

“Sudahlah, mari kuajak kau melihat-lihat. Ada sesuatu teramat penting yang ingin kusampaikan padamu.”

Angin segera menerpa ketika mereka keluar lewat secelah pintu raksasa. Ternyata di luar cukup benderang walau langit berkerudung awan mendung. Matanya sempat harus menyesuaikan intensitas cahaya. Pilar-pilar perkasa berdiri megah di seputar gedung. Perpustakaan gigantik bergaya art deco dengan emboss bangun-bangun persegi ini punya banyak tangga. Mereka menapakinya tanpa berbicara, hanya terkadang ia memandang sepupunya, yang membalasnya dengan seiris senyuman. Ia tak tahu di mana tengah berada, namun mengelilingi bangunan ialah rerumputan gerinting terhampar yang diselang-seling pohon-pohon alder dengan daun bergradasi oranye ke hijau. Sepasang rel kereta api melintasi pelataran gedung. Rangkaian beratus wagon tiba-tiba muncul dari balik bukit-bukit permai dan merayap mendekat, lantas berhenti di depan gedung ini seperti menanti. Sepupunya menggamitnya naik ke dalam kereta kemudian berdua menyusuri gerbong-gerbong tua yang berkarat sana-sini menuju arah belakang. Kereta berderak maju kembali. Jauh mereka berjalan seolah berjam-jam, melalui ribuan penumpang berwajah pucat dan beku yang tiada melirik sedikit pun. Mereka bagai patung dalam pose serupa, duduk tegak di bangku, tangan di atas paha satu-satu, dan mata yang kosong menatap lurus tanpa berkedip. Ia teringat zombi. Tubuh-tubuh kaku yang terjungkat-jangkit menahan guncangan roda kereta. Akhirnya ia dan sepupunya mendapati bangku kosong di gerbong terakhir.

“Kau tahu kereta apa ini?”

Ia menggeleng.

“Inilah kereta para pendosa. Mengangkut mereka menuju siksaan tak berakhir. Satu gerbong untuk dosa yang sama. Koruptor, pemerkosa, pencuri, pemadat, agitator, pembunuh, macam-macam dosa. Dan gerbong yang satu ini, gerbong orang-orang yang pasrah.”

“Pasrah?”

“Sepertimu. Orang yang merasa dirinya telah melihat sinyal-sinyal kematian, namun hanya pasrah menanti. Padahal banyak sekali yang seharusnya bisa dilakukannya demi kebaikan, dan sinyal-sinyal itulah anugerah Tuhan yang memberi kesempatan untuk memperbaiki diri sebelum akhirnya benar-benar pergi. Tak peduli apakah kematian tinggal setahun di depannya, terlalu banyak yang bisa diamalkan. Bila pertanda kematian hadir sebulan sebelumnya, ia masih dapat menolong puluhan fakir miskin, anak-anak yatim piatu, atau gelandangan. Sehari, ia masih bisa mengingat dan menghitung segala hutang-hutang lalu melunasinya sebelum terlambat. Semenit, keping-keping logam masih dapat dilemparkan ke dalam mangkuk seorang pengemis. Sedetik, ia masih bisa membahagiakan keluarganya dengan tersenyum sebagai tanda ia pergi dengan ikhlas. Tapi itu pun tak dilakukan, maka ditariklah ia ke dalam gerbong ini dan tertutup sudah pintu kesempatan untuk beramal baginya. Lihat sekelilingmu, ternyata orang-orang semacam itu tidak sedikit, bukan? Kau belum yakin kapan kau mati walaupun pasti. Tentu masih terbuka pintu itu buatmu. Maka bangunlah, sambut keluargamu, sampaikan salam pada segenap manusia, bagikan mereka kasih sayangmu.”

“Itu saja yang hendak kau sampaikan padaku?”

“Itulah yang harus kusampaikan padamu.”

*

Kereta api meluncur kencang ke dalam terowongan perut bukit. Mendadak semua hitam cemani hingga ia tak dapat melihat apa pun. Ia coba meraba, namun tak apa jua yang dapat disentuhnya. Ia bagai terlempar ke dalam ruangan bawah sadar lain. Seperti nyata, dilihatnya gambaran-gambaran cuplikan adegan terang yang muncul silih berganti. Tak lagi ngeri, ia bahkan terpukau. Taman bunga selaksa warna berhiaskan kupu-kupu seratus sayap mengkilap. Danau air susu, sungai merah madu. Dan sepupunya berada di kejauhan, melambai padanya.

“Sepupuku, tunggu aku… beberapa waktu lagi.”

* * *

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English

Kin of Heart

translation by author, co-edited with Jordan Newton | published in The Jakarta Post on June 15, 2008

 

Images of the Afterlife Desert vividly flash before his eyes, and never have they appeared so clear that he suffers from the inability of controlling his own mind. He questions himself, why are my circumstances getting worse? Am I guilty of piling sins that some illustrations should distort my thoughts and suggest repentance? Or are they but untamed imagination? Maybe my time has nearly come after all.

But he is trembling from anxiety and dread.

“What on earth are you talking about!” Mom gave stress to each word. He just told him: Mom, I’m going to die.

“It’s true, Ma. I’ve perceived so many signs,” again he goes. “Why should you deny it? We’re all going to face death sooner or later. I’m simply ahead of others in the queue.”

“Will you come to your senses! What signs? You’re not having a fever or anything, are you? Listen now, boy. You will live a long happy life. I will see you graduate, work in one of those great corporations and marry the right girl. I’m looking forward to holding my first grandchild, you know,” she smiles, “when one of us should die first, I surely hope that’s me.”

Mom will not understand. He does not suppose Dad will either, not with his logic-based perspective and nature, or his sister who is only a junior high student. He cannot think of how his friends will reply to the same statement. He’ll have “nutcase” stamped right up his forehead.

What signs?

*

Certain signs have haunted him for four months now, since he heard about the incident. The soul of his beloved cousin relinquished to the strike of a sand-carrier truck. That afternoon, on a serene road that sheared a countryside terrain, he was dragged with his old motorcycle along a strip of dusty rugged asphalt that peeled his youthful cheek. He felt every single cell composing the epidermal tissue and cranial part behind his left ear splintered by the smash of blunt steel, in the dark gasoline-reeked space beneath the truck.

Everything was in slow motion. Eerie lengthy sounds reverberated as a backdrop: a drop of water that dripped from the tip of a leaf, rubbed against the air and ticked upon the earth; creaks of insects resembling the sound of a pen point scratched on a solid wall; the sigh of lost wind. His blood chimed in stream. His dim eyes stared dubiously at another realm, teardrop lingering on each corner. His lips were to utter the tragedy: Dear…

His father made the call:

Your cousin, your closest pal, half your heart was summoned by God this afternoon. Your aunt keeps crying. Sometimes she faints, gets hysterical. How can she not be? He was our only son, the eldest, the first object of our very affection. Now that he’s gone, please deliver a prayer as we are about to bury him in his familiar homeland. Take care of yourself on the land across the ocean, child. God bless you.

That explained why his eye kept twitching for the last few days. Which part exactly, Mom asked him. The lid part of my left eye. Uh, it means you are going to cry. Maybe you’re about to lose something.

Yes, Mom. The pain is unbearable when half your heart is sliced up and flung down into the burial ground. I can still feel it, together with nightmares that trouble my slumbers. Voices calling my name. Images of doomsday. Hell. Judgment scale….

*

“You’re still upset about your cousin. You should try and get over it.” Mom strokes his hair. “You shouldn’t let sorrow carry you away, you might get ill. The Lord has fulfilled his fate. No man can deny his destiny.”

For heaven’s sake, now, all he needs is some support. He lets go of Mom’s hands, enters his room and refuses to come out. He doesn’t want to come out. In the room which gets damper every day (the windows aren’t open) he incarcerates himself. Tears drift down his cheeks. He is ready to meet his cousin on the other side. His childhood memory slips into the repertory nerves that carry painful pulses to and fro. It hurts when you can only bring to mind the lifespan of a dearly loved one.

They used to be inseparable. Born on the extent of two hundred and nineteen days made them a peer kin with sisterly mothers. They had to meet each other every week to play in the field carrying knives acting like heroes that explored the jungle in search of a villain until dusk appeared on the western sky and caused them to bear punishment from their worried parents. Petty problems might propel a fight between the two, though they would both cry at the end, accusing each other with the he-started-it blame, and forgot everything after making up. They fell in love with many different girls and promised that one day they would get married on the same day. Then they cracked a dirty joke about sharing the same bedroom on the first night.

No secrets concealed. Kept in their hearts was every story they shared from ordinary stuff going on to obsessions they desired to accomplish when they grew up. One of them had to go away, one day, to the land across the ocean after his father had received an official assignment. He wouldn’t let go of the ship fence so as to keep an eye on his cousin that stood amongst the crowd at the port; gazing at him as the liner slowly sailed off. They cried in profound silence yet strived for a smile. Question of the first sob: When will I be seeing you again?

*

Hunger doesn’t seem to knot his stomach. He has not been eating for three days. Everyone in the house has tried to get him out only to find disappointment since he stays motionlessly numb upon his bed. Mom must have told Dad the reason he locked himself in, and is now struggling to appease him as he becomes boisterously angry, pounding on the thick door and rumbles, telling him to open it.

Perhaps his little sister is standing behind Dad now, quivered by the thought her brother has really gone mad and is about to be taken to the mental house. So be it, he murmurs. In any mental house, I’ll die more peacefully. I will seek the most beautiful place to decease, maybe a backyard full of dense trees. Beneath one I shall shelter, while the other patients in blue uniforms and hilarious behavior run about without knowing or realizing that I am willingly handing over my soul to Death. More patients are on the way to gather vociferously. They laugh, frantically dance, cry, and laugh again. I feel anguish as I look around and find myself in the procession of soul deliverance like the one performed by an African tribe I happened to see on TV. Entertainingly horrifying, but I suddenly realize that it’s actually funny!

Hey, he’s not taken anywhere. The door refused to collapse when Dad forcefully ran at it, an obscure power seemed to shield it. They give up, they let him die. No more thumps on the door. Life restrains all sounds, except that of the stubborn crickets that start to chatter outside. Day has once again revolved to night.

The sky is dark, as dark as his bedroom (and the light is not on), and as dark as the subconscious space that he starts to enter in a pace. Then another pace. The thuds bounce to diverse directions, beating the invisible walls. His eyes catch a soft vertical ray encircled by glittering dusts that assists him in revealing lines. He touches them. The lines are actually cupboards that tower up into the majestic darkness. He assumes those cupboards are as tall as skyscrapers since the books are as big as doors. Now he is suddenly taken aback by the sound of footsteps which approach him. They’re coming closer. Closer. So close. Someone is standing before him.

“Who are you?” he asks.

“I am your cousin.”

His blood rushes. He is acquainted with the voice and starts to observe the figure’s face line. This is his cousin! He grows weak as he weeps and holds close the figure he desperately misses.

“You died too young, and I love you too much.”

“Life is short, my dearest cousin. It doesn’t matter at what age you depart. Someone that died at his most worn out age once whined: Leaving the world so early, I struck reality that I haven’t done anything. So now wipe your tears. Follow me. There’s something I need to show you.”

Wind gusts in when they exit through a slit of colossal doors. The realm outside is actually bright despite the low hovering gray clouds. Robust pillars grandiosely support the building structure. This gigantic embossed art deco library has many stairs. They descend without talking, though he sometimes stares at his cousin who replies with a slice of smile. He has no idea of their whereabouts, but spreading around the building are a rug of pasture and some alder trees bearing leaves of yellow to green gradation. An old couple of railways cross over the lawn. Hundreds of wagons emerge from a range of hills, slithering toward the building and stop, waiting. His cousin grasps his arm. They jump into the train and move toward the rear of these rusty railway coaches. The train sets off.

They have been walking so long to see thousands of stiff and pale passengers that bear resemblance to statues arrayed in the same stance: seated straight with hands on both thighs and dim unblinking eyes, frozen bodies that bob up and down due to the unstable wheels. He and his cousin finally find two empty seats on the last carriage.

“Have you any idea what kind of train this is?”

He shakes his head.

“It’s the train of the sinners, carries them to the never ending punishment. One coach for one particular sin: corruptions, abuse, theft, drug addictions, agitations, murders, all sorts of sin. And this one is the coach for those who surrender.”

“Surrender?”

“Like you do. Someone who thinks he has seen the signs of death and does nothing about them, while there are lots of things that he should be able to do for the sake of virtue. The signs are truly God’s gift so that one can mend his soul before he leaves the world. There are obviously heaps and heaps of good deeds that he can manage. If the signs of death appear a month before, he can count all his debts and try to pay them off before it’s too late. Within a day, he’ll be able to help the needy, orphans or tramps. A minute, coins can be tossed into a beggar’s bowl. A second, he still has the chance to comfort his family by smiling to show that he dies in peace. For those who don’t bother, hence into this carriage they are hauled, and there’ll be no more gate open for them to welcome in a second chance. Look around; there are plenty of people with such sin. You can never be so sure when you will die though it’s inevitable. The gates of chance are still wide open for you. Therefore you must arise, greet your family and conduct good virtues—show your compassion to the human race.”

“Is that all you need to tell me?”

“That’s all I have to tell you.”

*

The train glides at speed into a tunnel at the hip of a hill. All at once impenetrable darkness seizes every ray of light. He tries to hold on to something, but he only touches emptiness. He is whirling into another subconscious space. Images of the afterlife vividly flash before his eyes. Yet, there is no more dread. He is bewitched by a garden of colorful flowers and butterflies of a hundred brilliant wings, a lake of milk and honey-red river. His cousin appears in the distance, waving to him.

“O cousin… wait for my time to come.”

 

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