Chapter 4: The Forest's Vow
The forest had changed.
Since the opening of the Three Gates, the air in Alas Purwo shimmered differently. What was once heavy with silence now pulsed with a gentle hum, like the forest itself had awakened from an ancient slumber. The trees whispered in unfamiliar tongues, and even the wind carried a new rhythm—one that seemed to echo with Wira's heartbeat.
But so had Wira.
No longer fully human, yet not entirely of the spirit realm, he stood between worlds. The change was subtle—his eyes caught light in the dark, his skin no longer chilled under moonlight, and he could hear the pulse of the earth beneath his feet. Tenggirang, once bound to this sacred jungle, now walked beside him not as a ghost, but as a woman reborn—ethereal, yet real.
They built their sanctuary where the three gates had opened. A modest clearing with a circle of smooth stones, moss-covered and warm, surrounded by blooming kenanga trees that never wilted. Here, the veil between worlds thinned, and here, they found peace. At least for a while.
One night, as the silver moon hung low and heavy, Tenggirang sat beside the sacred spring, her feet dipping into the water. Her hair flowed like a river of ink down her back, and her thoughts drifted far beyond the trees.
"Something is shifting," she said quietly, not turning to Wira. "I can feel it in the roots. In the dreams."
Wira approached, his bare feet silent on the grass. "I feel it too. The forest has grown louder. As if it's… warning us."
Tenggirang nodded. "When we opened the gates, we freed more than just me. The balance was broken. There are spirits—not all kind—who have sensed it."
She turned to him, her eyes glowing faintly in the dark. "There are things that slept for centuries. Bound by the gates, buried by time. And now… they stir."
Wira knelt beside her, reaching for her hand. "Then we'll stand guard. Together. Just as we promised."
Tenggirang leaned her head against his shoulder. "Yes. But even vows echo far. And sometimes, they awaken the wrong ears."
The first omen came days later.
A child from the nearest village, barely seven, wandered into the forest. Alone. When the villagers found her the next morning, she spoke of shadowy creatures with burning eyes, of a woman with no face, and of a voice that sang in reverse. She could no longer sleep. Nor speak.
Wira and Tenggirang heard the news from a passing hunter. The forest, he said, was cursed again. The elders whispered of the Penunggu Tua, the Old Guardian, once bound deep beneath the roots. Now awakened.
Tenggirang turned pale. "It's him."
"Who?" Wira asked.
"Walang Jagat. The forest's oldest curse. He was sealed beneath the third gate when my father cast the vow. He feeds on imbalance—on broken oaths."
Wira's chest tightened. "Is our love a broken oath?"
"No," she whispered. "But freeing me broke the one that kept him asleep."
They returned to the clearing that night, lighting sacred incense and chanting the verses Ki Ranu once taught Wira. As the smoke curled and the ground grew still, the temperature dropped. The stones around them began to pulse with faint red light.
From the shadows, a shape emerged.
It was tall—twice the height of any man—with skin like tree bark cracked by flame. Its eyes were empty hollows leaking black mist. Horns twisted back from its skull like roots torn from soil. And when it spoke, the earth vibrated.
"You broke the vow of silence. You opened what was sealed. Now, the forest must feast."
Wira stepped forward. "We freed her from a prison that should never have been built. We owe you nothing."
Walang Jagat's voice was a rumble. "You owe the balance. And balance demands pain."
Suddenly, vines burst from the ground, coiling around Wira's legs. Tenggirang shouted, summoning a wave of wind that pushed the creature back. The stones at the edge of the clearing cracked.
"You cannot fight me forever," Walang Jagat growled. "You are neither spirit nor man. You belong to no realm. But she… she still does."
With a guttural roar, he vanished into the trees, the vines releasing Wira as quickly as they'd appeared.
Tenggirang collapsed to her knees. "He'll return. And next time, not just to threaten."
They sought out Ki Ranu the next morning.
The old man sat beneath a waringin tree, as if he had been waiting for them.
"I warned you, Nak Wira," he said gravely. "No gate can be opened without opening another—inside the self. You are no longer bound to this world."
"We need to seal him again," Wira said. "There must be a way."
Ki Ranu stroked his beard. "Only one. The Sumpah Rimba—the Forest's Vow. It's a pact that binds not just spirit and land, but soul to purpose. But such a vow demands sacrifice. The kind that cannot be undone."
Wira looked at Tenggirang. "What kind?"
Ki Ranu's eyes saddened. "A binding of roles. One must become the new Guardian of the Three Gates. Forever."
Silence stretched like a shadow between them.
Tenggirang spoke first. "Let it be me."
"No," Wira snapped. "You were caged once. Never again."
"And if you do it," she said gently, "you'll fade from both worlds. You'll become nothing."
"Better that," he said, "than to lose you again."
Ki Ranu stood. "The choice must be made before the next full moon. When the forest is open, and Walang Jagat at his strongest. Only then can the vow bind him again."
The days passed like hours. The forest grew darker, the villagers grew restless, and shadows moved unnaturally in the corners of the land.
Wira and Tenggirang returned to the spring one final night.
They bathed in the sacred water, wore garlands of blooming kenanga, and placed their palms together in the center of the circle. The moon above them was full, round as destiny.
"I have no regrets," Tenggirang whispered.
"I only regret we did not have a world that could hold us."
As the vow began, the forest responded. The trees bowed. The stones glowed. Spirits gathered in silence, their forms dancing like flames in mist.
Walang Jagat emerged from the dark—screaming, tearing through the veil. "You will not seal me again!"
But it was too late.
Tenggirang's voice, calm and beautiful, sang the ancient verse. Wira's hands glowed with golden light. Their souls merged in the chant, and a column of radiant fire erupted between them.
Walang Jagat shrieked as he was pulled into the earth, bound by roots and light. The ground closed. The gates sealed.
Silence returned.
But the cost had been paid.
Wira fell to his knees, his eyes fading. Tenggirang caught him, holding his body close. "No," she wept. "Don't go."
"I am part of the forest now," he said, his voice almost gone. "I'll always be… near."
With a final smile, Wira's body turned into light—particles drifting like fireflies—absorbed by the trees, by the stones, by the very breath of the jungle.
And the kenanga bloomed eternal.
Epilogue
The forest remained sacred. No more children were lost. The trees no longer whispered in fear.
And on nights when the moon is full, villagers swear they hear a soft tembang drifting through the mist. A song of love and sacrifice, of oaths and souls, carried on the wind.
They say if you walk the eastern path of Alas Purwo with a pure heart, you may see her.
A woman in green kebaya, brushing her long black hair beside a spring that never dries.
And beside her, a shadow of golden light that never leaves her side.
Forever bound.
The Forest's Vow.