A crisp wind sways the white garments that hang on the clothesline. The taste of grass pierced inside of the house, and vague yellow light rested on the wooden floor, not so often the weather to be such delights this month; its delicacy stops the mind from taking a rest to observe the glory of its surroundings, flavored with the joy of the living.

Amar descends from the upstairs, cuffing a boy on his arm. The boy stumbled from keeping pace with him, yet refrained from falling due the grasp of Amar’s arm. He is nervous but suddenly becomes agitated at the glimpse of food at a crowded table. Aeti and Akbi cheered on their arrival.

“Off you go, boy, let’s fill our body first.” Amar released the boy and gently clapped his shoulder. the boy dashed to the wooden chair at the end of the table, right before the window. It was not long ago that he opened his eyes from revenge of satisfaction after interrupted sleep.

A large bowl in front of the chairs breathed elegant, and aromatic smoke. They dance with the smoke from the air of yesterday’s night, filling the room with the smell of shed young citrus leaves around the plates of dried cloves; fresh at the nose, warmth at the chest. In front of the bowl are served other large plates, filling the middle of the table. A rottan bucket with an expanding mouth mounted by oblong clouds of rice, little spaces between them and almost shining white color indicate them as soft and delicately sweet. Beside that bucket is large ceramic bowls that contain three variations of cooked meat; deer meat that drowned in fresh-smelled, slightly dark soup that decorated with floating greens between islands of fat from the deer’s bone; a dark brown, dry, and slow-cooked meat, and a fried meat dipped into pot of sambal.

The sound of Amar dragging the chair ends with a high-pitched shriek, like the initial ring of a bell after a powerful tolling, a mark of beginning that dire of attention, then he sat on his seat, looking at Farid solemnly but then raised his hands in impatience. Farid dragged his seat to the front until his abdomen met with the thick and layered tree bark at the edge of the table. He looked down for an answer, the itch from the fold of sarong on his waist scrambled to his throat.

“Today is a feast, bigger than mine. Yesterday, our hunting blessed a deer. Father, the sharpness of his eyes shot the deer precisely in time; Mother had cooked the meat since midnight for today’s special event for all of us, where all of us have come to the same line.” Farid started, his voice still quivers, mimicking the vibration in his ankle.

Farid’s seat is in front of the stove, and he faces Amar directly. Aeti and Akbi are at the right and left side of the table, and they are all waiting for him to continue, never has he been so isolated and anticipated at the same time. But what else could he say? luckily Aeti crawls her chair to Farid. She laid her hands on his face, combing his overhanging dark-brown strains of hair to clip it between his left ear. She tilted her head, looking at Farid’s eyes, flowers of golden brown reflected from the sunlight, he looked still, unfazed, awaiting the strange nature of her mother to end. “My little boy”, said her as she brushed his flushing cheek, he understood that she said it with her heart and the anticipation that she would further praise his nature trembled his chest.

“My little boy, my Farid. You know there once was the story of a young man, a peasant, living with a righteous mind. Corruption and injustice in his lifetime moved him to warn those in power, but people called him a fool. He came again, then his name became the rebel, the third time he came, he was an enemy. He fought for what is right until it left him dry, alone with his family. But goodness works with time, God punishes those who are ignorant, a big storm sweeps them with their houses and belongings that they fervently sought, only him and his family that escaped. You have the knowledge of your ancestors that have fought evil. They fought to their limits, unafraid of costly estrangement. Eventually, time revealed that God had given them chances to build their own history, to live from the heart and virtue. This life, lived from the heart and virtue, then became our root, preserved and flourishing to witness what we have become today”

Aeti’s hand rested on his shoulder, tapping it rythmitically, then sang the same song she sang to Akbi three years ago, celebratory but soft like a lullaby:

Born of the mist, the morning’s hue,

The rusted dawn now shines anew,

Where ghosts once wept, now voices rise –

We plant the gold of clearer skies!

Turn the wheel, the wheel turns true,

Light for all, and threads we’ve woven through,

Hold them near, though serpents wind –

Dance now, friends, the wheel’s still kind.

Root to root, the strong vines grow,

No time may fray the bonds we sow,

Our hands that wove now lift and weave –

The gilded past? We let it leave…

Turn the wheel, the wheel turns true,

Light for all, and threads we’ve woven through,

Hold them near, though serpents wind –

Dance now, friends… the wheel’s still kind.

Aeti relesead her hand and return to her seat. “Today, my son, the written history in your blood is recited, and you shall be prepared to build yourself wise and prosperous, be prepared to fight against evil with your own hands. You must not be afraid to endure pain in the fight against evil, remember that goodness does not leave guilt and always rewards fairly. Look here, this cloth will be the witness of your protection of human dignity, as what we are destined for.”

The unveiling was gentle: a thin, white cloth adorned with meticulously wrought golden threads in an endless pattern of plant rows, its length akin to half an arm’s reach. Farid, as if prompted, touched his elbow and offered his right arm. Her mother then unfurled the embroidered band and, with a delicate touch, wound it twice about his muscle, finishing with a neat knot before releasing him and adjusting her seat.

“My son is now a man,” Amar declared, a proud warmth in his voice, though his gaze lingered on Farid’s still-slender frame. “Thin his body may be, but his heart is strong as a lion.”

Farid chuckled, a hint of amusement in his tone, but shook his head with earnestness. “Father, not yet.”

The corners of Amar’s eyes tightened slightly, the smile lines around them momentarily flattening.

“Not now, perhaps,” Amar conceded, his voice taking on a more serious edge, “but the time for my overwatch of your dignity has passed. Seventeen years you have seen; the lessons ahead you will learn on your own without my aid,” he said, like giving a serious instruction.

He escaped Amar’s gaze, “What a fool I am” he should take the humour! Amar never acts as such voluntarily light-hearted, he always takes everything seriously.

“Now, what deed a man does in his first reaping? Please lead us to feast,” uttered Akbi with excitement. Farid senses that they are anticipating his word of commencement. To lead is the thing of which he never believes himself on. The silence tightened and stretched longer; he finally whipped it with his voice.

“I thank you Father and Akbi for this, though I did not expect my turning to be as celebrated, I respect the endeavors. My beautiful mother, I thank you for the cooking. Since midnight you have not been sleeping until this morning; I don’t think that what I ever did was worthy of this circumstance . Believe me, last night my sleep shortens because of the kitchen’s tune, hence my sickly presence. I can not tell you how delightful the smell of your cooking is, and not a doubt in my belief that it will taste like heaven. Now the all the deed is done, I expect all of us to raise our plates and begin our feast” He thanked the paper in his pocket.

Farid stopped, he had told them that the feast has begun. Did he forget to mention something? Did he say something wrong? He raised his cup, but the people still looking at him closely. He tucked his eyes on the mug as the water swells in his mouth and carefully slid into his throat, bumping the water with a gulp, the people are still staring at him intently. “Please begin the feast,” he thought, his tongue unable to utter inside the chamber of water, he rested the cup on the rusty wooden table.

Before persuading them to drink again, they began to drink from their cups automatically. Their smiles are stealthed by the mug, the king drinks first, they say. This idea of the lead is absurd to him, why such convenience counted as part of importance? The water he drank does not sweat in gold, what is celebratory on his age? Yesterday is the same as today, courage and strength did not come to him last night; the deer is hunted by them, the food is cooked by them, the feast should be celebrated upon their name, they are wasting their time. Akbi did not receive the same treatment on his turning, not a deer or even a chicken, it was only a boiled egg dipped in thick, orange, curry. However, since that day Akbi lost interest in childhood, his parents praised that maturity and wiseness, becoming their pride of comparison against Farid. Since then, Amar’s call to Frederick “do not act like a girl” in his child-age that was replaced by “be strong and gentleman” turned to “think as your form, not what dangles in the trees”. But little they know, even Akbi himself, since that day Akbi’s smiles never wide again, some of his soul lost or burdened. Alas, the grander the feast, the grander of change they expected from him, the thought of never enough bittered the roasted meat, making its stack look like charcoal and soil. Oh, nature, to what kind should he be?

Fingers sword the plates, conversing throughout the room against the watery mouths. In this ceremony, he is the chief, he is on his own just like what his father said, and what would a chief do in their meal? Amar tightened his face, his sleepy and dull eyes threatening him to speak.

His imagination of a leader only comes from the story book Amar spared to him, but the character in the book mostly a unworthy leader, either an evil man, a man in love, or a man that does nothing but wait until his kingdom falls. Maybe a king must be like Amar. A king speaks clearly, intently, and with plan, but he does not plan of anything in his life, nor other or things! he could not bring conversation about the plans of tomorrow, weeding, farming, tilting, as his father, his father knows better than himself, he will humiliate himself for acting that he knows. Maybe he should come to a lighter one, like try to know their feeling like “Do you like the weather today?”, “How was your night?” “Don’t you tired all night, mother?” no, what a disgrace of inquires! so empty and drive to no purpose, Amar later will looked at him dissatisfied. His find forked to telling a humour from the book, but as soon as the intent on his tongue, his imagination of speaking it embarasses himself so far that he instinctly bit his paste-tainted lips. Oh, damned the thought!

Finally he finds a way to start a conversation, about recent topics or things that he only knows, and may bring knowledge for the listeners.

He started, “I saw butterflies yesterday in the forest. Its wings are berry blue, with darker strips that roll on it as like a wave kissing the shore, carrying the ocean in air and landing them upon flowers, and leaves.”

“Butterflies are my favorite animal, a graceful living, beautiful of itself and prudence of the places where it wants to go,” added, exitedly Aeti.

“I see butterflies often on the yard, skipping on the grass, but they are yellows,” said Akbi.

But Farid senses that his response is ingenious, his short and stagnate tone of voice is clearly showing how disinterested of him by his view yet sustain himself to be respectful and supportive. His father remains silent, as it is not of his interest or the words of his bucket, he streams the soups to his guts with the only pause of breathing.