Nights in Ponorogo City were never truly silent for the Liu family. They were a tapestry of sound, woven from the rhythmic chirping of forest insects, the distant rustle of teak leaves, and the ever-present, low hum of the earth itself. Inside their home, under the flickering, amber glow of an oil lamp whose flame danced nervously in the drafts seeping through the bamboo wall-slits, Liu Lai sat in meditative silence.
In his muscular arms, baby Liu Mei stirred, a tiny bundle of life amidst the weight of history. Her minuscule fingers, surprisingly strong, gripped the hem of the red silk cloth used to wrap the Wu Shi head. She held onto it with a desperate intensity, as if her infant soul already recognized that her very breath was destined to be entwined with that blood-coloured silk.
In the hidden shadows of the backyard, shielded from the prying eyes of colonial spies and suspicious neighbours, twenty members of the Wu Shi club moved in a haunting, synchronized silence. They practiced without the thunderous roar of drums or the sharp clashing of cymbals; there was only the rhythmic, heavy thud of feet meeting the hardened earth—a sound that vibrated through the floorboards like the steady heartbeat of an ancient giant.
Liu Lai watched them through the open door, his eyes dark and heavy with the burden of three thousand years of tradition.
"The world outside is a crucible, little one," he whispered, his voice so low it was nearly swallowed by the rising eastern gale. "They will see the shape of your eyes and the color of your silk, and they will call you a stranger. They will look at the people across the street and call them enemies. But you, Mei... though your hands are small now and your frame seems as fragile as porcelain, you must grow. You must become the rock that the tide cannot break."
Outside, the wind carried the sharp, primal scent of dry teakwood and the fine, golden dust of Ponorogo’s roads. It was on this night, amidst the scent of incense and the sound of silent warriors, that the seeds of a forbidden symphony were sown—a melody that would eventually find itself caught between the roar of the silk lion from the East and the majestic peacock-lion of the Java soil.
The years flowed by like a river, and for young Mei, Ponorogo became a grand, sensory theater. Her world was defined by the sounds of the kwoon—the training hall that was the soul of her father’s house. Her mornings did not begin with the sun, but with the sharp, staccato krak-krak of feet stomping the earthen floor.
Mei would often spend her afternoons perched on the weathered wooden doorstep, her chin resting on her knees. Her wide, inquisitive eyes never wandered from the figure of her father. Liu Lai moved with the predatory grace of a panther, his double broadswords slicing through the humid air with a lethal, silver brilliance that left afterimages in her vision.
"Papah," Mei piped up one afternoon, breaking the rhythmic silence of his practice. "Why does the Wu Shi always blink? Is he trying to see us better?"
She pointed toward the massive red lion head resting on a wooden stand. Her father was meticulously cleaning the fur with a reverence usually reserved for a temple altar. Liu Lai paused, the sweat glistening on his forehead like beads of glass. He wiped his brow with the back of his hand and let out a soft, rare chuckle as he approached his daughter.
"Because he is more than bamboo and thread, Mei," Liu Lai said, kneeling so they were eye-to-eye. "He blinks because he has a spirit. He is curious about this world, just like you. He watches, he learns, and he guards. Never forget that he is a living soul that chose us to give him a voice."
He gently pinched her nose, a gesture that sent Mei into a fit of giggles. But despite her father’s protective walls, Mei’s spirit was too large for the kwoon. Whenever the air grew heavy with the scent of cloves and the chaotic symphony of market day reached their gates, she would find a way to slip through the cracks of her father's discipline.
Her destination was always the town square—the Alun-Alun.
Hidden behind the gnarled, ancient roots of a giant banyan tree that stood like a silent sentinel of the gods, Mei would watch, breathless. The atmosphere here was the antithesis of her home. At the Liu residence, everything was about precision, the sharp ring of steel, and the disciplined beat of the drum. Here, the air was thick with the magical, haunting wail of the selompret—a sound that felt as if it were uncoiling from the very depths of the volcanic soil.
The drums here were different—heavy, primal thuds that resonated in her ribs and made her heart skip a beat. She watched with wide-eyed wonder as men with chests as broad as oxen lifted the Singo Barong—masks weighing more than a man’s body—using nothing but the sheer strength of their teeth and neck. It was a display of power that felt both terrifying and divine.
"Mei! What did I tell you about wandering so far?"
A sharp, panicked whisper broke her trance. Her mother, Shu Xian, always found her in the same spot, her face a mask of exhaustion and anxiety. "This is not our world, Mei. If your father finds out, the walls of this house will shake."
However, Liu Lai was a man who understood that even the strongest fortress needs a bridge. He knew that to survive in Ponorogo, he had to pay homage to the "tigers" who had ruled this land long before his junk ship had touched the northern coast.
On a shimmering afternoon, dressed in their finest ceremonial silks, the Liu family made a formal visit to the estate of Ki Somo. He was an elder whose name was synonymous with the Reog tradition, a man whose word could calm a riot or ignite a revolution. They brought present—offerings of traditional Nian Gao cake and the rarest tea leaves from the Fujian mountains—as a bridge of peace.
The meeting took place in the pendopo -a traditional hall-, a wide, ancient pavilion with cool floors. The scent of burning frankincense mingled with the aroma of bitter, black Javanese coffee.
"Good afternoon, Ki Somo," Liu Lai said, bowing with a humility that showed the depth of his respect.
"Afternoon, Tuan Liu," Ki Somo replied. His voice was a low, authoritative rumble, but his eyes held the warmth of a man who valued character over coin. "Sit. We breathe the same dust and drink the same water. It is time our houses knew each other's names."
While the men settled into a formal dialogue layered with metaphors and diplomatic grace, Mei’s attention began to drift. In the far corner of the sprawling courtyard, she spotted a boy. He looked a few years older than her, dressed in the iconic black trousers and a red-and-white striped shirt.
He was moving through a series of Pencak Silat forms. His movements were a jarring, beautiful contrast—sometimes as explosive as a thunderclap, other times as fluid and deceptive as a river winding through the jungle.
"That is my nephew, Jaka Pradana. We call him Dhana," Ki Somo said, noticing Mei’s fascination. "Dhana! Come here and show some manners to Tuan Liu's daughter."
The boy stopped instantly, his muscles rippling under his sweat-slicked skin. He wiped his face and walked toward the pavilion with a confident, rolling gait that suggested he already owned the ground he walked on. His eyes, sharp and dark, landed on Mei with an intense curiosity, devoid of the prejudice she often saw in other locals.
"I’m Dhana," he said, his voice already possessing the husky edge of a boy who spent his days shouting over the roar of drums.
"Mei," she replied softly, reflexively retreating into the shadow of her mother's sleeve.
Dhana’s lips curled into a knowing smirk. "You’re the girl who hides behind the banyan tree at the square, aren't you?"
Mei’s face instantly flushed a deep, embarrassed crimson. "I... I don't know what you mean."
Dhana let out a short, bark-like laugh. "Don't bother lying. I saw those round eyes of yours peeking through the roots. Why stay in the shadows? My uncle's troupe doesn't bite—unless the drums tell us to."
Mei finally looked up, her pride piqued. "I wasn't hiding. I was... observing."
Dhana chuckled and trotted to the corner of the pavilion, returning with a dadak merak—a smaller, practice version of the Reog mask. He thrust it forward, the peacock feathers shivering in the light. "This is the Singo Barong. He’s the king here. I heard your family has a red lion. Is he as strong as this one?"
The challenge in his voice ignited a spark in Mei. She straightened her back, stepping out from behind her mother. "Our Wu Shi can leap higher than your head! He is agile and swift—more graceful than any tiger you’ve ever seen!"
Dhana’s eyes widened, a challenging glint dancing in them. "Maybe. But can he carry the weight of the spirits? One day, I will be the greatest Reog player this town has ever seen. I’ll carry the King and dance until the earth shakes!"
"And I will lead our troupe!" Mei countered, her voice now loud and clear, ringing across the pavilion. "I’ll make the Wu Shi fly!"
The children’s competitive banter was silenced as Liu Lai and Ki Somo stood up, their meeting concluded. The atmosphere remained cordial, but as Mei followed her father toward the gate, she felt the invisible lines of tradition tightening around them once more. They were two different worlds, two different lions, coexisting on a single, volatile piece of earth.
Before they crossed the threshold, Mei turned back. She saw Dhana standing by his practice mask, watching her. She raised a small hand and waved. Dhana didn't wave back with a smile; instead, he gave her a firm, serious nod—a silent acknowledgment, a promise of a future encounter.
That day, beneath the sprawling Ponorogo sky, a memory was forged. It was a simple moment of childhood rivalry, but in the years to come, that memory would become the only anchor they had when the storms of tradition, blood, and a forbidden love finally broke over their heads.
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