by Rama Nugraha
The second was the discovery of Osberga Sattin, the Underworld. A world located under the plate tectonics of the Surface. It was portrayed with a blazing shade of red. The Underworld was where giant whimsical creatures lived, which Datan had never seen before. It was a world without the sun nor the moon. A realm with everlasting harsh and burning weather. The exterior was packed with dark and dangerous caves. Rivers of fire flowed everywhere. The buildings resembled domes craved in the mountain wall.
Since the middle of the Age of the Three Realms, there had been countless criminals, outcasts, whether they were Haedin or Urgut people, who ran away to the Underworld.
They called themselves Tartas. They chose to build their own civilization, without wanting interference from the Government or the Kings.
The third, the last one, was the Abyss. There had not been a thorough discovery about it. It was said to be located far beneath the Surface, underneath the Underworld. It was depicted as giant mounds, bottomless frozen canyons, an unoccupied boundless crystal of a land. Indigo darkness filled every inch of its surface.
“You know, someone had studied it,” the Urgut woman stopped biting her thumb. “A way to get to the Abyss.”
Datan did not comment. He did not even look at her. It was until a shout was heard, echoing through the room, reminding him of the purpose of his visit to the post office. Datan looked around, leaving the woman who seemed agitated in silence.
Datan just did not want to talk to a stranger.
In the mail room, people walked in and out. Some of them were queuing to wait for their turn. A line of employees in light blue uniform and cone-shaped hat greeted the people kindly as they serve the customers.
Datan realized it was not hard to find an employee with a different uniform. There was one with a red employee behind the counter at the very end. He kept on working, helping regular customers who simply meant to send letters. Unsuspecting people only knew that the officers in the red employees were the leader of the troop. Though the Royan candidates knew better that it was not the case.
The supposed leader of the troop did not talk much, he led Datan as they passed through a corridor floored with black wood after inspecting the Invitation coin shown to him. They avoided the crowd as they went downstairs, entering an empty waiting room. There was a row of a wooden chair. Coldness permeated the ironwood-covered walls.
“Please wait here for a while, Sir Datan,” the officer said before leaving him.
For thirty minutes, Datan waited, feeling bored. He hummed while walking back and forth anxiously. It was until a Haedin stood by the door. He was wearing a dark-colored uniform. A bizarre black bracelet cuffed his left wrist. His eyes were sharp and cautious.
He walked forward, sniffed Datan with his small freckled nose, surrounding him several times. Then he looked at him in the eyes, scrutinizing.
“Datan Woudward?”
“I’ve been waiting for you so long.”
“Come, Sir Halta wanted to have a chat with you.”
They walked through the inner corridor, farther away from the room of the customers and employee. They climbed down a spiral staircase until they got to a long hallway lit by a small torch in a sconce. At the very end, there was a giant door with crimson glass panels. On it was a crest made of gold. It was in the form of a hooded owl with glowing eyes.
Nothing but the foreign feeling was filling the hallway. It was too quiet. It felt grim. Datan could not even hear the crackle of the fire burning the torch.
“I was wondering,” Datan attempted to ease his nervousness. “Do you work here as a mailman?”
The man did not answer. The light from the torch was gone in an instant. The temperature in the air fell drastically. Datan was startled. Hairs on his body raised as panic and desperation crept upon his system. His chest was tightened that he was unable to breathe.
All of sudden Datan was blind.
◆◆◆
Datan blinked, startled.
He was in a dark hallway. It was only a meter wide. Torches were hung on scones sparsely. They were lit though dim. Under the dull light, the hallway’s wall twitched. It resembled a layer of breathing piece of meat. It was full of strokes of red and was inhabited by thousands of earthworms in the size of his index finger which clings, wriggled, and crept in and out of holes.
Datan traced the surface of the wall. It was sticky and as cold as ice! Datan pulled out his hand and looked around. The air in the hallway was humid and it was foggy. The smell of blood and rotting animal carcass pierced through his nose brutally. The ceiling was dark, unseen. And bellow was scattered skeletons eaten by white maggots and black centipedes. The surface seemed puddled, resembling mud pond which attempted to suck Datan’s legs as it made a sound similar to a choked throat.
Datan’s stomach churned. He felt the inside of his stomach rose up to his throat. He told himself not to retch, but disgust, fear, as well as nausea, got the best of him
He retched. How did he end up here?
He wiped his mouth. Walking wobbly, creating plop noises as he moved. He avoided stepping on a baby’s skeleton. His knees were limp. He shook his head, slapping himself, but the horrifying sight stayed before him still.
That hallway seemed like corpses disposal!
Datan was gripped by horror and he yelped when he heard a rough growl from the other side of the wall. Then, in line with his sight, the face of a man came through. He was covered in dark spots. His face displayed anguish and malice. His skin was tarnished by flash burns. His round nose was hollowed as if he had been mauled by a knife. One eye was nothing but empty socket with maggots while the other one has a white eyeball like one belonging to blind people.
Of all things, he glanced at Datan!
His sight displayed nothing but accusation and hatred, as though Datan was the one putting him in such misery. Datan shivered, his back was frozen.
“Murderer…” the torn lip of the face hissed.
Datan widened his eyes. The voice of the man was similar to the voice of a woman he knew very well.
“Murde—“
Datan punched the face until it sunk back to the wall.
Instead of fear and sympathy, all of sudden Datan only felt agitated. He pulled his right hand which now covered in black goo. Pieces of bones were stuck in between his balled fist. The man’s skull was as fragile as limestone. Datan shook his head, his head spun all of sudden. He was forced to close his eyes by the pain and he squeezed his head, gasping.
The man reminded Datan of a bitter memory.
Two years ago, one incident ignited Aunt Fira’s wrath. It was when Datan fought for prey as he hunted wolves in the forest, he almost beat someone up to death (his opponent’s skull was cracked, he had to go through intense medication for a week). Aunt Fira was furious, she accused that Datan was showing off his martial arts skill, and soon he would be a real murderer once he joined the League of Royans.
Aunt Fira refused to talk to him afterward. Datan had to come to her house every single day for two whole weeks, begging for forgiveness. It was a horrifying experience. Aunt Fira was finally willing to forgive him, noting that Datan should also apologize to people he had wounded, and to give them compensation in the form of one wolf for each person. From ten people Datan beat up, one of them almost died. Father was left speechless and could only laugh cynically with anguish in his face.
Datan’s breath was caught in his throat.
Suddenly, more ugly faces emerged. Their mouths were wide-open, gapping. They whispered the same accusation. Datan saw red. His body shook in anger. He shouted wildly, answering to their accusation. He cursed as if they understood his words.
“Bullshit! It was a mistake!” Datan roared. “I am not a murderer!”
Anger bubbled out of nowhere inside him. It coursed through his veins, into every nerve. He punched the face one by one until they disappeared following their fractured skulls. They squeaked and groaned. Spots of black thick goo splashed to Datan’s
face.
Yet another attack emerged. Ugly thin—almost a skeleton—hand stuck out of the ground. They grabbed and pulled Datan down. Datan lifted his knees as high as possible, trying to free himself. He struggled hard, screaming, stomping, and kicking those disgusting hands. The whisper of accusation came once more, echoing in his ears, piercing through his head like thousands of burning needles, reverberating and shaking every corner of the hallway.
“I am not a murderer! And I won’t be!” Datan screamed hysterically, covering his ears as he held his head for dear life.
From the darkness of the ceiling, a torn apart corpse fell next to Datan. His neck twisted, along with it a sound of cracking bones was heard, his eyes were glaring. “You… Datan the murderer—“
Datan smashed his head with the sole of his boots, breaking his head. “I am not a murderer, you fool!”
Datan wanted to get out! All of these accusations drove him insane! As he managed to wiggle out of the last hand, he hastily runs in the hallway, he fell down but he brought himself up, again and again. However, no matter how far he ran, there seemed to be no end. He took a turn several times, but everything looked the same. It was still a dark suffocating narrow hallway. Datan felt like he was running in a circle in the gapless hallway. His body shook violently, covered in foul-smelling dark spots. His entire being crackled like they were about to fall off. He was drenched in sweat, and his heartbeat until it was about to break.
There was no way out!
Datan was panting. He was truly unable to remember how he ended up in the eerie hallway. His bottom met the ground. He felt helpless. His mind was no longer able to think. Those skinless broken hands reached out to him. They held his bent legs, grabbed his waist and pulled his arms until Datan sunk to the muddy ground. Datan froze. His eyes widened in horror, and his mind was empty. He did not know whether to give in or to fight.
And the face of the man emerged before him once more.
He snorted, mocking him, his one eyes moved wildly. “Datan the murderer,” he hissed, sounding like Aunt Fira’s in a bad cold. “Finally, you give in—“
Datan snapped his hand, roaring, struggling to pull himself out of the grip of the broken hands. He crawled quickly. Then, furiously bumped his head hard to the face of the man.
◆◆◆
Datan opened his eyes, his sight was blurred and his surrounding seemed brownish. He felt the surface of a slippery polished table in his face. His body was in a sitting position, bending over on an armed chair. Both of his cramped hands were limp. His head was throbbing in pain. He found it a little hard to breathe.
“Amazing,” someone broke the silence.
Datan groaned. He straightened his back and leaned back against the chair. The foul smell that was tormenting his lungs was no longer there. Datan saw a man sat in front of him. Datan’s invitation coin was on his palm.
The man rummaged his pocket, then pulled out and offered Datan a handkerchief which had a drawing of a kitten. “You banged your head to the table that it bleeds,” cinnamon scent was apparent from his mouth. “What did you see?”
From the smell of his mouth, Datan knew that the man was not of Sarayan.
Datan took the handkerchief, wiping his bleeding head. It stung. Crimson stain covered the head of the kitten in the piece of fabric. “It wasn’t pleasant to talk about,” he answered.
Datan realized he was in a musty room without windows. Hundreds of book were stacked and were scattered around in the corner—some of them looked really old and obsolete with torn covers. There were also antique items such as jugs and pots; various stone statues; weapons of the knights; surrealist paintings which depict the intricate ideas of the owner; decoration lamp; as well as some display cabinet where gleaming trophies were exhibited.
The air in the room causes him to be reckless.
A weird-looking owl watched over Datan. It perched on a hanger full of scratches of claws as sharp as knives. It was tiny, resembling children’s doll as it wore a red hood with a gold button. Its face was covered in the hood, though its yellow eyes lit up, signaling a deep interest in Datan. A symbol in the form of three dots dimly glowed in the shade of red. It looked like it was marked by burning iron in its feathered forehead.
Datan shivered, guessing what the owl might actually do. Was it the one trapping Datan in the corpse-filled hallway?
“His name is Igna. My name is Halta.”
Datan shifted his gaze to the man. “And I am Datan Woudward,” he declared.
Halta had a bulging cheekbone. His hair was silvery with strands of black, signifying his old age, and his eyes were sharp and observing. He examined Datan, rubbing his earing made of a piece of gold in the size of an adult’s pinky finger in his left ear. Urgut people indeed loved to display what they were worth.
Then Halta mustered a foreign smile. “I know,” he said. “Alright. Let’s not beat around the bushes. Tell me about yourself, Datan. Why do you want to be a Royan?”
“Because I like stealing, Halta. I’ve admired the League ever since I was a child.”
Datan told the man about himself. That he started stealing since he was ten; that he had been a skillful pickpocket; and that he could manage to work in a team and on his own. Datan told him his experience enthusiastically—sometimes he added a little white lie to spice his story up.
He kept talking without saying anything about his desire to see Ana.
Halta was not impressed. “Will you accept a homicide mission?”
Datan closed his mouth. According to Father, the killing was addictive. Once you did it, you would not mind to do it again. “No,” he answered.
Halta frowned, “Why is that?”
“Because I don’t assassinate people, Halta.”
“Being a Royan means being an assassin, Datan.”
“No. It doesn’t always have to work like that.”
“It does always work like that. A Royan who refuses to kill is considered one of no use.”
Datan’s face tensed. “You’re wrong, Halta,” he exclaimed. “I will be the best one!”
Halta looked at him as if he was a child. Then he barked out a laugh. “Datan, the best Royan means a murderer!” he bellowed. “They have their own reason to be a Royan as well.
“You will need more than a will to have fun. Like do you have greed for money? Are you an outcast for a reason? Bloodthirsty former serial killer? Antique item-enthusiast?” Halta kept on listing. “Crazy ambition? Whatever other reasons that said you are not a kindhearted man and are ready to sacrifice yourself for the League of Royans in order to do the dirty job!
“Because we need candidates with a strong, rooted motive. Candidates who had experienced real tragedies in their lives—burdened from fate, experiencing a horrible disaster, losing any other option that they are ready to do anything and not to fear anything—even death.
“And you are not such person.”
Datan was stunned. He somehow had forgotten that Royan was a bunch of people with a rowdy background. Even so, no. Datan might not have any specific motive nor dramatic story that would bring people to sympathize with him. He had been thinking about it for years, and the answer was none! The League of Royans had taken his interest ever since he met Ana. It was Ana who managed to make Datan admired and interested in them.
The admiration was almost identical with hundreds of men in Tormera who admired a team orchestra called Gum Gunta, the famous. It consisted of ten middle-aged women dressed in all white, who were great at playing black violin whilst hopping and dancing on air. Led by a conductor which was an elderly woman who wore colorful gold rings in her neck.
With an unfathomable admiration, Uncle Joe—who also played an instrument, was willing to sell a filly just to get one ticket to see their show. Wasn’t that funny?
Moreover, Datan loved stealing like he loved playing the kites. Well, he would not claim that stealing would be his only dedication until he died. But for now? Other than because of Ana? As a br
ave gallant young man, he chose to and wanted to see the world from the summit of the sky. He was a man burn with desire, a thirst for something wild and exhilarating. Datan knew that he felt a particular pleasure by stealing. It was very special. Along with League of Royans, he hoped for more. More challenges. More exhilaration. More satisfaction. While he was still young and strong, Datan wanted to participate, to go on an adventure and to perform epic thievery in many countries in the entire world.
Then there was Ana. Datan wanted to see her again, to talk about so many things with her. About Ingra, Nameer, Forest Whisper, Northern Land of Urimenil, and he felt there were more to come… he missed Ana badly. The depth of her wide eyes which shone in the shade of burning copper was hard to forget.
Datan sighed. He would not blame Halta for the requirements. But he did not feel that he was wrong either. What was so wrong from wanting to live a life he desires? It was the life that is fully his own, right?
Datan knew this interview would be difficult. He placed his right elbows on the table, leaning forward. “You cannot underestimate the desire of a young man whose life was as fun as mine, Halta,” he protested. “How about this, why don’t you just see me as a new generation? A generation of an admirer. Some of the other members wanted to join you because of sheer amazement and curiosity. Because they want to. No force. Because we admired you.
“How about that?”
Halta was silent, blinking as if there was dust sneaking into his eyes. His face tensed. “Oh, amazement and curiosity be dammed,” he retorted. “You are a really awful daydreamer, Datan. Do you think we are a ball-throwing club?”
“I am a great fighter. Want me to show you?”
