Chapter 9: The Watcher Beneath the Waters
"The rivers remember what the trees have forgotten. In their depths stir things without names, ancient as the first night."
The peace that dawned over Alas Purwo was short-lived.
Though Mubali had calmed Sang Janggut Hitam and brokered a fragile new pact with the ancient spirits, something else had awoken.
Something older.
Something buried so deep even the oldest roots dared not whisper its name.
It began with the rivers.
At first, a subtle thickening of the water, a slow darkening, as if night itself had melted into the streams.
Then came the songs — ghostly melodies rising from the mist at twilight, songs no human throat could produce.
And with the songs came the dreams.
Terrible dreams.
Dreams of drowning in black waters under a sky without stars.
Dreams of eyes — vast, unblinking, ancient — staring from the river's depths.
Dreams of a voice calling, soft as silk, cold as grave soil:
"Mubali..."
The forest spirits whispered among themselves, hiding in the highest branches and deepest burrows.
Even Sang Janggut Hitam, mighty and terrible as he was, grew silent and wary, retreating to the stone fields at Mount Gampingan.
For in the deepest places, it was said, lived the Watcher Beneath the Waters — a being that predated even the first compacts, the first trees, the first songs.
A creature not of earth or air — but of forgotten seas, of drowned worlds.
And now, it stirred.
Because Mubali had changed the balance.
Because Mubali had broken the long sleep.
Because Mubali had dared to choose.
Ki Ranu met Mubali and Wira at the edge of the Black River, just as twilight fell.
The river was wrong — sluggish, black as oil, its surface glassy and motionless.
Not even insects danced above it.
Not even frogs dared croak.
Wira stared into the water and shivered.
"I don't like this," he muttered.
Ki Ranu nodded grimly.
"It is not a thing to like."
Mubali knelt by the riverbank.
The water reflected nothing — no trees, no stars, not even her own face.
Just a flat, endless darkness.
"We must act quickly," said Ki Ranu.
"Before it rises fully."
Wira frowned.
"What is it?"
Ki Ranu hesitated.
"In the oldest legends, before the spirits came, before men even dreamed of these forests... there were the Deep Ones. Things without names. Things that ruled not by will or wisdom, but by existence alone. The Watcher is the last of them."
"Why now?" Wira asked.
Ki Ranu glanced at Mubali.
"Because she has become the bridge. She has opened the path."
Mubali stood, her expression calm, though inside her heart thundered.
"Then I will close it," she said.
"No," Ki Ranu said sharply. "You must not fight it. Not yet. It cannot be slain. Not by sword or spell or prayer."
"Then what?" Wira asked.
Ki Ranu looked toward the river, voice barely a whisper.
"You must remember it," he said.
"And it must remember you."
The ritual was ancient — older than the forest, older than memory itself.
They prepared it at the river's edge as night deepened, arranging stones in spirals, weaving reeds into patterns whose meanings were long lost to humankind.
Mubali stood at the center, barefoot, clad in a simple robe of undyed cloth.
Ki Ranu painted ancient sigils across her arms, her chest, her brow — symbols of opening, of binding, of remembrance.
"You must go into the water," he said. "Alone."
Wira objected immediately.
"No! It's suicide!"
Ki Ranu shook his head.
"If she does not go, it will come onto land. It will claim the rivers first, then the lakes, then the fields, the wells, the blood. It will not stop."
He turned to Mubali, eyes full of sorrow.
"You must find it," he said.
"Or it will find us."
Mubali nodded once.
She stepped into the river.
The water was ice-cold, burning her skin with every step.
It felt wrong — too heavy, too deep.
She waded in until the current swallowed her knees, then her waist, then her chest.
At the edge of the stone circle, Wira knelt, fists clenched, muttering prayers.
Ki Ranu began to chant — low, rhythmic, the words vibrating the very air.
Mubali took one last breath.
And let herself fall forward, into the black.
The world vanished.
No sound.
No sight.
Only cold.
And darkness.
She drifted.
Not sinking.
Not swimming.
Just... falling.
Far above, the surface was a memory — a dream.
Far below, something vast turned in the deep.
She sensed it rather than saw it.
A shape too massive to comprehend.
Eyes like dying suns.
Limbs like mountains.
A mind old enough to remember the forming of stars — and the breaking of worlds.
And it saw her.
And it smiled.
"Little Root," the voice echoed through her bones.
"Little Flower."
"Little Memory."
Mubali tried to speak, but her mouth filled with water.
The Watcher coiled around her — not touching, but enclosing.
"You have broken the Sleep."
"You have sung the old songs."
"Now... you must pay."
A terrible gravity pulled at her soul.
Images flooded her mind:
Cities of coral and bone beneath black oceans.
Trees that bled ink into the sky.
Skies filled with rivers of stars — all dying, all falling.
The Watcher pressed closer.
"Choose," it hissed.
"Drown in forgetting."
"Or rise in remembering."
Mubali fought to gather her mind.
The sigils Ki Ranu had painted burned against her skin — anchors to herself.
She remembered Wira's hand in hers.
She remembered the feel of the forest beneath her feet.
She remembered the songs of the river, the laughter of the children, the smell of rain on dry earth.
She remembered who she was.
Not a tool.
Not a weapon.
Not a relic.
But Mubali.
And she screamed into the blackness:
"I CHOOSE LIFE!"
The river exploded around her.
Light erupted — blinding, burning.
The Watcher recoiled, vast body thrashing.
The darkness cracked.
And Mubali rose, riding a pillar of white fire.
She burst from the river, gasping, collapsing into Wira's arms.
Behind her, the river boiled.
From its depths rose the Watcher — a vast silhouette against the night sky, hundreds of limbs, thousands of eyes, roaring in a language that shattered stones.
But it could not cross the boundary of the ritual.
Ki Ranu slammed his staff into the ground.
The stones flared.
The reeds burned.
And the Watcher screamed — a sound of sorrow, of rage, of ancient grief.
Slowly, reluctantly, it sank back into the river.
The waters closed over it.
The blackness faded.
The river ran clean once more.
And the Watcher Beneath the Waters slept again.
But not forever.
Never forever.
Mubali lay unconscious for three days.
Wira and Ki Ranu tended to her, changing her damp cloths, feeding her broths, keeping vigil.
On the third night, under a new moon, she stirred.
Her eyes opened — and for a moment, they were not her eyes at all, but vast, deep pools filled with stars.
Then she blinked.
And Mubali returned.
Wira wept with relief.
Ki Ranu only bowed his head.
"You have done what none dared," he said. "You have made the Watcher remember."
Mubali sat up, dizzy but strong.
"It will come again," she said.
Ki Ranu nodded.
"Perhaps. But not yet."
He smiled faintly.
"You bought us time."
Mubali shook her head.
"Not time," she said.
"Hope."
In the days that followed, Alas Purwo began to heal.
The rivers cleared.
The trees shed their black blossoms and grew new green.
The spirits emerged, tentative but curious, testing the new balance.
Children played by the streams again.
Songs returned to the wind.
But deep in the heart of the forest, Mubali knew the truth:
The Watcher still waited.
Dreaming.
Turning.
Remembering.
And someday, it would rise again.
When it did, she would be ready.
For now, though, there was life to live.
Songs to sing.
Roots to grow.
And as she stood beneath the wide boughs of the great banyan tree, Wira at her side, Mubali smiled.
For she had seen the darkness.
And chosen the light.
And the forest, in turn, had chosen her.
The legend of Neng Tenggirang — of Mubali — had only just begun.