Gunung Padang stood as a sentinel, a towering monument built by the hands of generations long past. Perched atop a mountain that rose 1,018 meters above sprawling Ice Age oceans, it was both a sanctuary and a beacon, guiding its people through millennia. Beneath its terraced stones, a sacred spring flowed—a lifeline and a symbol of prophecy that shaped the lives of those who revered it.
[Insert Map: Region Around Gunung Padang]
Thousands of years before the modern world emerged, the ancestors of Gunung Padang labored tirelessly to shape and construct the temple. Each stone they hauled and set was imbued with purpose, guided by the shamans’ visions and the navigators’ wisdom. It was not just a temple; it was a living testament to humanity’s ability to dream and prepare for a future they could not yet see.
The shamans spoke of cycles—lunar maximums that marked the rhythm of the earth and heavens. They warned of the Dragon, a fiery serpent in the sky, whose breath would bring fire and flood. Through rituals and dreams, the people of Gunung Padang began a millennia-long preparation for a flood that would reshape the world.
Generations of Labor
[Insert Map: Topographical Map of Gunung Padang]
Every action was accompanied by ritual. Workers sang songs of harmony with nature, believing that the mountain’s energy would bless their efforts. The shamans led ceremonies to consecrate the stones, carving protective symbols that would endure long after the builders were gone.
The terraces themselves became places of prophecy, with inscriptions etched into the stone. These carvings depicted spirals, waves, and stars, each symbol carrying messages for future generations. Shamans interpreted these symbols as part of the ever-evolving prophecy, warning of the coming flood and guiding the people in their preparations.
The Prophecy of the Dragon
The prophecy began with Sarina, the first shaman to drink from the sacred spring. She saw visions of the Dragon—a celestial serpent whose fiery breath would ignite the sky and awaken the seas. She warned that every 18.6 years, during the lunar maximums, the heavens would send signs of the Dragon’s return.
“The high ground will be swallowed in a day,” she foretold. “Only those who dream with the water and the stars will endure.”
[Insert Map: Depiction of the Sacred Spring Sanctuary]
The spring was encased in a stone basin, its overflow channeled into cisterns for storage. Around it, villagers planted groves of fruit trees and medicinal herbs, creating a sanctuary of sustenance. Rings of protective stones marked the boundaries, each one blessed by the shaman.
During times of celestial alignment, the shamans performed the Ceremony of the Stars, meditating at the spring and seeking visions. They believed the spring communicated through dreams, guiding the community in their preparations. Each vision was recorded in carvings or passed down orally, becoming part of the shared prophecy.
Training the Dream Riders
As the prophecy unfolded, the shamans and navigators began training a new generation of leaders: the Dream Riders. These individuals were chosen for their ability to interpret dreams and navigate the seas. They practiced reading the stars, understanding ocean currents, and deciphering the symbols left by their ancestors.
Kamalani, a descendant of both navigators and shamans, became a central figure in this lineage. Her training included rigorous voyages to distant reefs, where she learned to trust her instincts and the ocean’s whispers. The shamans guided her through Dream Circles, teaching her to interpret recurring symbols like the Dragon, the spiral, and the canoe.
Sanctuary Preparations
In the final decades before the prophesied flood, the community transformed Gunung Padang into a refuge. Beneath its terraces, they carved chambers to store food and tools, creating safe havens that could withstand both water and time. Granaries were filled with dried grains, and livestock enclosures were built on elevated ground.
[Insert Map: Map of the Trade Routes and Maritime Village]
Paths to the sanctuary were hidden with natural camouflage and false trails, known only to the Runners who carried supplies between the village and the mountain. Shamans placed spiritual wards along these paths, invoking blessings to protect against intruders.
The terraces themselves became symbols of resilience. Each new level was consecrated with the Blessing of the Stones, a ceremony that united the community in purpose. At night, fires burned around the spring, their light forming a protective barrier against unseen threats.
The Final Lunar Maximum
As the 650th lunar maximum approached, the shamans’ visions grew more vivid. They saw the Dragon’s return in fiery dreams and heard the ocean’s warnings in the night winds. The community gathered one last time at the spring, offering thanks for its guidance and praying for strength in the trials to come.
Kamalani stood at the center of this gathering, her role clear. She would lead the Dream Riders into the future, navigating not just the waters but the dreams of her people. As the ceremony ended, the shamans spoke their final prophecy:
“The Dragon will awaken, and the seas will rise. But the dreamers will endure, and from the waters, a new world will be born.”
Legacy
The story of Gunung Padang is one of endurance, wisdom, and the power of collective dreams. Through their rituals, their labor, and their unwavering belief in the prophecy, the people created a sanctuary that would outlast the flood and guide future generations. Kamalani and her descendants carried this legacy forward, proving that even in the face of the Dragon’s breath, humanity could dream a path to survival.
1 – 2
Gunung Padang stood sentinel, its terraced stones glowing golden in the dying light of day. The ancient monument pierced the sky, a colossus of human will and divine inspiration that had weathered the ages. As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across the sprawling Ice Age forests below, Kamalani ascended the final steps to the summit.
The wind whispered through the trees below, carrying with it the echoes of ancient chants. Kamalani shivered, despite the lingering warmth of the day. The responsibility of her position as both shaman and navigator pressed upon her shoulders like a physical weight.
“How can I be worthy of this task?” she wondered, her thoughts tumbling like the waters of the spring. “So many generations have labored to build this sanctuary, to prepare for the coming flood. What if I falter?”
A rustle of fabric announced the arrival of Elder Tama, his weathered face etched with the wisdom of years. He placed a gnarled hand on Kamalani’s shoulder, his touch as light as a feather yet as grounding as the mountain beneath them.
“You doubt yourself, young one?” he asked, his voice rough with age but warm with affection.
Kamalani nodded, unable to meet his gaze. “The legacy of Gunung Padang is so vast, Elder. How can I hope to carry it forward?”
Elder Tama chuckled softly, lowering himself to sit beside her at the spring’s edge. “Do you think the first stone-layers felt no doubt? Or the first shaman to drink from this spring and see the future?”
He gestured to the breathtaking vista before them, the endless expanse of forest bathed in starlight. “This sanctuary was not built in a day, nor by a single hand. It is the culmination of countless dreams, countless sacrifices. And now, it stands as a beacon of hope for our people.”
Kamalani absorbed his words, feeling the truth of them resonate within her. She dipped her fingers into the spring once more, watching the ripples spread outward. “But the prophecy speaks of such terrible things to come, Elder. The Dragon’s breath, the rising seas…”
“And yet, here we stand,” Elder Tama replied, his eyes twinkling. “Prepared, as our ancestors prepared us. The legacy of Gunung Padang is not just in its stones, Kamalani. It lives in you, in all of us who carry the dreams of our people forward.”
As if in response to his words, a shooting star blazed across the night sky. Kamalani gasped, recognizing it as a sign – the Dragon’s breath, a warning and a promise. She rose to her feet, feeling a newfound strength coursing through her veins.
“Thank you, Elder,” she said, her voice steady and clear. “I understand now. We are the living stones of Gunung Padang, each of us adding our strength to this sanctuary of hope.”
Elder Tama nodded approvingly, a proud smile crinkling his eyes. Together, they turned to face the vast expanse of their domain, the legacy of Gunung Padang stretching before them like the endless stars above.
3 – 4
“It’s time,” she whispered to herself, her heart quickening with anticipation.
As if summoned by her words, the sound of chanting rose from the lower terraces. Kamalani turned to see a line of workers making their way up the stone steps, each carrying a massive andesitic basalt block on their shoulders.
“Kamalani!” called out Ratu, her childhood friend and now a skilled stone carver. “Come, join us in the blessing!”
Kamalani hurried down to meet the procession. As she approached, she could feel the weight of history in every step, every breath. The workers’ faces were etched with determinat
The prophecy of the Dragon was written in stone, etched into the terraced mountain that rose above the village. Each terrace held a story, a warning, a symbol of protection. The sacred spring glowed in the light of the full moon, its waters shimmering with spiritual energy. The villagers gathered around the spring, their faces etched with determination and fear as they prepared for the final lunar maximum.
The prophecy of the Dragon is carved into the stone terraces, symbols etched deeply and with precision. The sacred spring is surrounded by a ring of protective stones, with paths hidden by natural camouflage and spiritual wards guarding the way. Carved chambers filled with supplies are hidden beneath the terraces, while the village bustles with activity as the final preparations are made.
The prophecy of the Dragon is etched into the stone, wavy lines and spirals tell the story of a fiery serpent in the sky. The terraces of Gunung Padang speak of generations of labor, each stone carefully placed and aligned with celestial patterns. The sacred spring sparkles in the sunlight, encased in a stone basin and surrounded by lush groves of fruit trees and medicinal herbs.
ion and reverence.
“How far did you journey for these stones?” Kamalani asked, falling in step beside Ratu.
Ratu grinned, sweat glistening on his brow. “Three days to the sacred quarry and back. But it’s worth every step. Each stone carries the dreams of our people.”
They reached the construction site where Shaman Ayu waited, her arms outstretched. The workers carefully placed their burdens before her.
“Children of Gunung Padang,” Ayu intoned, her voice carrying across the terrace. “We gather to bless these stones, to imbue them with our hopes and our visions.”
Kamalani closed her eyes, letting the shaman’s words wash over her. She could almost see the future unfolding – the temple rising higher, a beacon against the coming storm.
“But Shaman,” she found herself asking, “how can we be sure our work will endure? That it will serve its purpose when the time comes?”
Ayu turned to her, eyes gleaming with ancient wisdom. “Ah, Kamalani. The answer lies not just in the stones, but in the hearts of those who place them. Tell me, what do you see when you look at our people laboring here?”
Kamalani paused, truly observing the scene around her. She saw the determination in every face, the care in every placement of stone. “I see… unity. Purpose. A shared vision that goes beyond any one of us.”
Ayu nodded, a smile playing at her lips. “Exactly. This temple is more than stone and mortar. It is the physical manifestation of our collective dreams, our shared wisdom. Each block we place is a promise to the future.”
As the blessing ceremony continued, Kamalani felt a surge of pride and responsibility. She understood now that her role, like everyone’s, was crucial in this grand design. They were not just building a temple; they were crafting a legacy that would guide generations to come.
5 – 6
As the moon rose, casting an ethereal glow over Gunung Padang, Shaman Ayu gathered the workers around the sacred spring. Her weathered hands trembled slightly as she lifted a carved wooden bowl, filled with the spring’s crystal-clear water.
“Listen, children of the mountain,” Ayu’s voice rang out, strong despite her years. “The cycles of the heavens speak to us once more. The lunar maximum approaches, and with it, signs of the Dragon.”
A collective shudder passed through the crowd. Kamalani, standing at the front, felt her heart quicken. She had heard whispers of the Dragon since childhood, but never had it felt so real, so imminent.
Ayu continued, her eyes gleaming in the moonlight. “The Dragon, that fiery serpent in the sky, whose breath will bring both destruction and renewal. We must heed its warning and prepare.”
“But how, Shaman?” a voice called out from the crowd. “How can we prepare for something so vast?”
Ayu smiled, a knowing look crossing her face. “Through the wisdom of our ancestors, passed down through countless moons. Through the strength of our hands and the unity of our spirits.”
Kamalani stepped forward, her voice steady despite her racing thoughts. “Tell us, Shaman. What do the visions show?”
Ayu’s gaze locked with Kamalani’s, and for a moment, the young woman felt as if she could see through time itself. “Fire will rain from the sky,” Ayu intoned. “The seas will rise, swallowing the lowlands. But here, atop our sacred mountain, we build not just a temple, but an ark to weather the coming flood.”
As murmurs of fear and determination rippled through the gathered workers, Kamalani felt a surge of purpose. She turned to face her people, her voice ringing out clear and strong.
“We are the dreamers,” she declared. “The builders. The keepers of ancient wisdom. Let us honor the sacrifices of our ancestors and secure the future for our children’s children. Every stone we place, every terrace we build, brings us closer to survival.”
A cheer went up from the crowd, and as Kamalani looked out over the faces of her people – weathered by sun and toil, yet filled with hope – she knew that their labor was more than just work. It was a sacred duty, passed down through generations, each adding their strength to a legacy that would outlast them all.
7 – 8
Raden unrolled a worn parchment, revealing intricate star charts. “Always. See here,” he pointed to a particular constellation. “Today’s placement will align with the Pleiades when they rise at the solstice.”
As they spoke, a group of workers approached, straining under the weight of a massive stone. Kamalani stepped forward, her voice ringing out clear and strong.
“Brothers, sisters! Remember the prophecy as you labor. Each stone is a bulwark against the Dragon’s breath!”
The workers’ faces, etched with determination, nodded in acknowledgment. One of them, a young man named Bima, spoke up between labored breaths.
“Tell us again, Kamalani. About the sacred quarry… how far did our ancestors travel for these stones?”
Kamalani’s eyes gleamed with pride. “Some came from as far as the distant mountains, carried over treacherous paths for many moons. Each one chosen for its resonance with the earth’s song.”
As the workers maneuvered the stone into place, Kamalani found herself lost in thought. ‘How many more generations will it take?’ she wondered. ‘Will we be ready when the flood comes?’
The sound of Raden’s voice snapped her back to the present. “It’s perfect,” he declared, running his calloused hands over the newly placed stone. “The terraces grow, reaching ever higher.”
Kamalani nodded, her gaze drawn to the horizon. “And with each level, we draw closer to the stars that will guide us through the coming storm.”
9 – 10
The workers began to sing, their voices blending in harmony with the mountain’s ancient rhythm. Kamalani closed her eyes, feeling the vibrations of their song resonating through the stone beneath her feet.
“Mountain strong, waters deep,
Guide our hands as we build and keep.
Stars above, earth below,
Bless this work, let wisdom grow.”
As the melody swelled, Raden approached with a chisel and hammer in hand. “It’s time,” he said softly, his eyes meeting Kamalani’s with shared purpose.
Kamalani nodded, her heart quickening. “Let the carving begin,” she whispered, her fingers tracing the smooth surface of the newly placed stone.
Raden set to work, his skilled hands etching intricate spirals into the andesitic basalt. Kamalani watched, her mind drifting to the visions that had guided this design.
“What do you see in these spirals, Kamalani?” Raden asked, pausing his work to wipe sweat from his brow.
She pondered for a moment before responding. “I see the cycles of time, Raden. The way the past coils into the future, and how our actions ripple outward like waves.”
A worker nearby, Lani, overheard and approached cautiously. “And the stars you’re carving next to it?” she asked, her voice tinged with both curiosity and reverence.
Kamalani smiled, gesturing for Lani to come closer. “The stars are our constant guides, even when hidden by daylight or storm. They remind us that there are fixed points in the chaos to come.”
As Raden continued his carving, Kamalani led Lani to the edge of the terrace. “Look there,” she said, pointing to where waves lapped at the distant shore. “Soon, we’ll add the symbol of water rising. A warning, yes, but also a promise of renewal.”
Lani’s eyes widened. “You truly believe the waters will come this far?”
Kamalani’s expression grew solemn. “The prophecy speaks of great change, Lani. We build not just for ourselves, but for those who will seek refuge when the world transforms.”
As they spoke, the air seemed to thicken with the weight of destiny. Kamalani felt a familiar tingle at the base of her skull, a sign that the mountain’s energy was stirring. She turned back to the freshly carved stone, running her fingers over the symbols.
“Each mark we make,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper, “is a thread in the tapestry of our future. We may not see the full pattern, but we trust in the wisdom passed down to us.”
Raden looked up from his work, his eyes shining with pride and determination. “And we’ll continue to interpret these symbols, won’t we? To guide our people through whatever comes?”
Kamalani nodded, her gaze sweeping over the bustling terraces of Gunung Padang. “Yes,” she affirmed, her voice gaining strength. “For as long as the mountain stands, we’ll read its stories and prepare for the flood that will reshape our world.”
11 – 12
Sarina knelt before the sacred spring, her weathered hands trembling as she cupped the crystalline water. The air hummed with anticipation, charged with the mountain’s ancient energy. As the first drops touched her lips, her eyes rolled back, and the world around her dissolved into a kaleidoscope of visions.
“The Dragon comes,” she gasped, her voice resonating with otherworldly power. “A serpent of fire and ice, coiling through the stars!”
The gathered shamans leaned in, their faces etched with awe and trepidation. Eko, the eldest among them, steadied Sarina as she swayed.
“What do you see, sister?” Eko whispered, his voice barely audible above the spring’s gentle burbling.
Sarina’s eyes snapped open, blazing with an inner fire. “The sky ignites, Eko. The seas rise in answer. Every 18.6 years, when the moon reaches its zenith, the Dragon will send us a sign.”
As she spoke, images flooded her mind—comets streaking across the night, tidal waves crashing against distant shores, the very earth trembling beneath their feet. Sarina clutched at her chest, overwhelmed by the weight of the prophecy.
“We must prepare,” she rasped, her gaze sweeping across the assembled shamans. “The signs will come, and we must be ready to read them.”
Eko nodded solemnly, his wrinkled face a map of concern and determination. “How long do we have, Sarina? How many cycles until the Dragon’s breath reshapes our world?”
Sarina closed her eyes, reaching deep into the well of her vision. “Many lifetimes,” she murmured. “But each lunar maximum will bring us closer. We must teach our children, and our children’s children, to watch the skies and heed the warnings.”
As the gravity of her words settled over the gathering, Sarina felt a surge of resolve. This was their sacred duty now—to shepherd their people through the coming ages, to build a sanctuary that would withstand the Dragon’s fury.
“The spring has shown us the path,” she declared, her voice growing stronger. “Now we must walk it, with faith and wisdom, for the sake of all who will come after us.”
13 – 14
Sarina’s eyes snapped open, her gaze piercing through the gathered shamans. “The high ground will be swallowed in a day,” she foretold, her voice carrying an otherworldly resonance. “Only those who dream with the water and the stars will endure.”
A collective gasp rippled through the assembly. Eko, the eldest among them, stepped forward, his weathered hands trembling. “How can we prepare for such a calamity, Sarina?”
She turned her eyes to the night sky, where countless stars twinkled like distant beacons. “We must become one with the heavens,” she whispered. “Learn their rhythms, their secrets.”
As the years passed, successive generations of shamans dedicated themselves to unraveling the mysteries hidden in Sarina’s prophecy. They spent countless nights observing the celestial dance above, their eyes fixed on the horizon.
One crisp autumn evening, Kavi, a young shaman with eyes like polished obsidian, pointed excitedly toward the sky. “Look! The Dragon’s Breath!”
The others gathered around, watching in awe as fiery streaks painted the darkness—the Taurid meteor stream, a celestial spectacle that would become central to their expanded prophecy.
“It’s beautiful,” murmured Lani, an apprentice shaman. “But how does it relate to the flood?”
Kavi’s expression grew serious. “Each streak is a warning, Lani. The Dragon stirs, and its fiery breath ignites the sky. We must use these signs to measure the time we have left.”
As the shamans refined their understanding, they established rituals around each lunar maximum. These became moments of profound reflection and preparation, drawing the entire community together in shared purpose.
During one such gathering, Kavi addressed the assembled crowd, his voice carrying across the terraces of Gunung Padang. “Remember always, our sanctuary is our salvation. Every stone we lay, every skill we hone, brings us closer to surviving the Dragon’s wrath.”
The people nodded solemnly, their commitment to the prophecy unwavering. In their hearts, they knew that their efforts would echo through time, guiding future generations toward survival in a world reshaped by fire and flood.
15 – 16
The sacred spring bubbled up from the earth, its crystal-clear waters shimmering in the dappled sunlight that filtered through the dense canopy above. Kavi knelt at its edge, his weathered hands hovering just above the surface, feeling the coolness rising from the water.
“Great Mother Spring,” he whispered, “guide us in your wisdom.”
Lani approached, carrying a basket of fragrant herbs. “Are we ready to begin, Elder Kavi?”
Kavi nodded, his eyes never leaving the spring. “The moon is right. Let us purify the waters and seek the spirits’ guidance.”
As Lani began to lay out the herbs, Kavi closed his eyes, feeling the pulse of the earth beneath him. He thought, *Our ancestors chose this place with such care. We must honor their foresight.*
“Lani,” he said aloud, “tell me what you feel when you look upon these waters.”
The young apprentice paused, her brow furrowing in concentration. “I feel… life, Elder. And something more. A whisper of things yet to come.”
Kavi smiled. “Good. You’re learning to listen with more than your ears.” He reached for a sprig of sacred basil, crushing it between his palms. “Now, watch closely. The ritual begins.”
As Kavi began to chant in the ancient tongue, his deep voice resonating with the gurgle of the spring, Lani sprinkled the crushed herbs onto the water’s surface. The aroma filled the air, sharp and cleansing.
“Great spirits of water and earth,” Kavi intoned, “we offer these gifts in exchange for your protection. Keep this spring pure, a beacon of hope in the trials to come.”
Lani watched in awe as the water seemed to shimmer with an otherworldly light. “Elder,” she whispered, “I can almost see… shapes in the water. Is that normal?”
Kavi opened one eye, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “What do you see, child?”
“I… I’m not sure. It’s like shadows of people, but not quite. And there’s something else. Something large, coiling in the sky.”
Kavi’s smile faded, replaced by a look of intense concentration. “The Dragon,” he murmured. “It draws near. We must redouble our efforts, Lani. The spring has shown you a glimpse of what’s to come.”
As they continued the ritual, Kavi’s mind raced. *The visions grow stronger with each passing season. We must ensure the spring remains pure, both in body and spirit. It is our lifeline, our connection to the wisdom that will see us through the coming storm.*
17 – 18
The spring’s crystal-clear water glimmered in the dappled sunlight, its surface a mirror reflecting the towering trees above. Lani stood at the edge of the newly constructed stone basin, her fingers tracing the intricate carvings etched into its rim.
“It’s beautiful,” she breathed, her eyes wide with wonder. “But will it be enough?”
Elder Kavi approached, his weathered hands clasping a bundle of seedlings. “Beauty and function, young one. The basin will protect the spring, while these,” he gestured to the plants, “will nourish our people.”
Lani knelt, helping Kavi dig small holes in the rich soil surrounding the spring. As they worked, she couldn’t help but voice her concerns. “What if the flood reaches even this high? What if—”
“Hush,” Kavi interrupted gently. “Feel the earth beneath your fingers. Listen to the whisper of the leaves. They speak of endurance, of cycles that stretch beyond our understanding.”
Lani closed her eyes, trying to sense what Kavi described. The soil felt cool and alive against her skin, and for a moment, she imagined she could hear the faintest of melodies carried on the breeze.
“I think… I think I understand,” she said hesitantly.
Kavi nodded approvingly. “Good. Now, help me with these cisterns. The spring’s overflow must not be wasted.”
As they worked to channel the excess water into carefully crafted stone reservoirs, Lani’s mind whirled with possibilities. *Will these stores be enough to sustain us? How long must we prepare for?*
“Elder,” she ventured, pausing in her labor, “the protective stones… do you truly believe they’ll shield us from harm?”
Kavi straightened, his eyes twinkling with a mix of wisdom and mischief. “Ah, Lani. The stones are but symbols, focal points for our intentions and beliefs. Their true power lies in the unity they inspire among our people.”
He gestured to the villagers working tirelessly around them, planting fruit trees and medicinal herbs in concentric circles radiating outward from the spring. “Look at them. Each plant, each stone placed with purpose and reverence. This is our strength, our sanctuary of sustenance.”
Lani nodded slowly, understanding dawning in her eyes. As they resumed their work, she felt a newfound sense of peace settle over her. The spring burbled contentedly, a promise of life and hope in the face of an uncertain future.
19 – 20
The night sky blazed with an ethereal brilliance as the celestial alignment reached its zenith. At the heart of Gunung Padang, gathered around the sacred spring, the shamans began their solemn Ceremony of the Stars. Lani watched, her heart pounding, as Elder Kavi led the procession.
“Great spirits of the cosmos,” Kavi intoned, his voice resonating through the stone terraces, “guide our dreams and illuminate our path.”
The shamans formed a circle, their eyes closed in deep meditation. Lani observed, mesmerized, as tendrils of mist seemed to rise from the spring, weaving around the gathered elders.
*Is this real?* she wondered, blinking rapidly. *Or merely the power of suggestion?*
Suddenly, Elder Mira gasped, her eyes flying open. “I see… I see a great wave, taller than the mountain itself!”
Kavi nodded gravely. “Speak your vision, sister. Let it become part of our shared prophecy.”
As Mira described her dream in vivid detail, Lani noticed an apprentice carefully etching symbols into a nearby stone. Each curve and line seemed to pulse with meaning.
“Why carve it?” Lani whispered to a fellow observer. “Wouldn’t it be easier to simply remember?”
The woman smiled knowingly. “Some visions are too important to trust to memory alone. The stones will endure, even if we do not.”
A chill ran down Lani’s spine at these words. As the ceremony continued, more visions were shared, each more portentous than the last. Lani found herself drawn in, imagining the futures foretold.
*How can we prepare for such calamities?* she pondered. *And who will lead us through them?*
As if in answer to her unspoken question, Kavi’s voice cut through her reverie. “The time has come,” he announced, his gaze sweeping the gathered crowd. “We must train the Dream Riders.”
21 – 22
The soft rustling of leaves mingled with the distant crash of waves as Kamalani stood atop the highest terrace of Gunung Padang. Her dark eyes scanned the horizon, searching for signs in the stars that twinkled above. A cool breeze caressed her face, carrying with it the scent of salt and prophecy.
“What do you see, Kamalani?” Elder Kavi’s gravelly voice broke through her concentration.
She turned to face her mentor, a frown creasing her brow. “The stars… they speak of change, but their whispers are faint.”
Kavi nodded, his weathered face etched with wisdom. “That is why we must train you to listen more closely. Come, it is time for your Dream Circle.”
As they descended the terraces, Kamalani’s heart raced with anticipation. “Elder Kavi,” she ventured, “why was I chosen as a Dream Rider?”
The old shaman paused, fixing her with a penetrating gaze. “You carry the blood of both navigators and shamans, child. Your destiny is woven into the very fabric of our people’s future.”
They reached a secluded grove where other young initiates gathered around a smoldering fire. Kamalani took her place in the circle, crossing her legs and closing her eyes.
“Open your minds,” Kavi intoned, his voice hypnotic. “Let the spirits of our ancestors guide your dreams.”
As Kamalani slipped into a trance, vivid images flooded her mind. She saw a great serpent writhing across the sky, its scales blazing with celestial fire. The vision shifted, and she found herself adrift on a vast, turbulent sea.
*What does it mean?* she thought, struggling to make sense of the symbols.
“Trust your instincts,” a voice whispered, seeming to come from within and without simultaneously. “The ocean speaks, if you but listen.”
Kamalani focused, allowing the dream to wash over her. Gradually, patterns emerged – currents and constellations intertwining in a cosmic dance.
When she opened her eyes, the fire had died to embers, and dawn was breaking. Elder Kavi knelt beside her, his expression expectant.
“I… I saw the Dragon,” Kamalani breathed, her voice trembling. “And I felt the sea’s rhythm. It’s all connected, isn’t it?”
Kavi smiled, pride gleaming in his eyes. “You begin to understand, young one. Your journey as a Dream Rider has truly begun.”
23 – 24
The mountain loomed before them, its terraced slopes a testament to generations of labor and devotion. Kamalani stood at its base, her heart pounding with a mixture of awe and trepidation. The time had come to transform Gunung Padang into the sanctuary foretold by the prophecy.
“We must work swiftly,” Elder Kavi said, his weathered hand resting on Kamalani’s shoulder. “The stars grow restless, and the Dragon’s breath draws near.”
Kamalani nodded, her voice barely above a whisper. “How do we begin?”
“With faith and purpose,” Kavi replied, gesturing towards the gathering crowd. “Each of us has a role to play in ensuring our people’s survival.”
As if on cue, the air filled with the rhythmic chanting of workers, their voices rising in harmony as they began to carve into the mountain’s base. Kamalani watched in awe as hidden chambers slowly took shape beneath the ancient terraces.
“What do you see, child?” Kavi asked, his eyes searching Kamalani’s face.
She closed her eyes, reaching out with her newly honed senses. “I see… safety. Warmth. A haven against the coming storm.”
Kavi smiled. “Good. Now, let us join the others. There is much to be done.”
As they worked, Kamalani’s hands grew calloused from hauling stones and carving symbols of protection into the chamber walls. Her mind, however, remained focused on the visions that had guided them to this moment.
“Elder Kavi,” she called out during a brief respite, “I’ve been thinking about the dreams. The spiral… could it represent these chambers we’re building?”
The old shaman’s eyes twinkled. “Perhaps. What does your heart tell you?”
Kamalani furrowed her brow, considering. “That we’re not just building storage rooms. We’re creating… a womb. A place of rebirth for our people.”
Kavi nodded approvingly. “You learn quickly, young Dream Rider. Now, come. We must bless the granaries as they’re filled.”
As the sun dipped low on the horizon, Kamalani stood at the entrance of a newly completed chamber, watching as baskets of dried grains were carefully stored within. The air was thick with the scent of herbs and incense, a spiritual barrier against decay.
“Will it be enough?” she asked, voicing the fear that had been gnawing at her.
Kavi placed a reassuring hand on her arm. “It must be. We have prepared as best we can. The rest lies in the hands of the spirits… and in the courage of those who will lead our people through the flood.”
Kamalani swallowed hard, the weight of responsibility settling on her shoulders. As night fell, she joined the other Dream Riders in a circle around the sacred spring, their voices rising in a prayer for guidance and strength in the trials to come.
25 – 26
The ancient map unfurled before Kamalani, its faded lines and symbols telling the story of trade routes and hidden paths that connected Gunung Padang to the maritime village below. Her fingers traced the intricate network, committing each detail to memory.
“The Runners must know these routes by heart,” she murmured, her brow furrowed in concentration.
Beside her, Ratu, the chief of the Runners, nodded solemnly. “Aye, and more. We’ve added false trails and hidden markers that only our own can decipher.”
Kamalani looked up, meeting Ratu’s weathered gaze. “Show me.”
They ventured out onto the mountainside, the dense foliage concealing their passage. Ratu moved with the grace of one who had traversed these paths countless times, pointing out subtle signs—a bent twig here, a strategically placed stone there.
“How do you ensure no outsiders stumble upon the true paths?” Kamalani asked, ducking under a low-hanging branch.
Ratu’s eyes glimmered with a hint of mischief. “Ah, that’s where the shamans’ blessings come in. Watch.”
As if on cue, a shaman emerged from the undergrowth, his staff adorned with feathers and crystals. He began to chant in a low, melodic voice, sprinkling a mixture of herbs and blessed water along the path.
Kamalani felt a shiver run down her spine as the air around them seemed to shimmer. “What… what is happening?”
The shaman paused in his work, turning to her with a serene smile. “We’re weaving protection into the very fabric of the forest, young Dream Rider. Those who mean harm or seek to exploit our sanctuary will find themselves… redirected.”
Kamalani’s mind raced with the implications. “Is this why our trade partners never question the exact location of Gunung Padang?”
Ratu chuckled. “Partly. But it’s also the respect they hold for our traditions. They understand the importance of secrecy.”
As they continued their journey, Kamalani couldn’t help but marvel at the ingenuity of her people. “We’ve created a living, breathing defense,” she thought, feeling a surge of pride and determination. “May it be enough to safeguard our future when the Dragon’s breath scorches the sky.”
27 – 28
The sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across the terraced slopes of Gunung Padang. Kamalani stood at the edge of the newest level, her heart pounding with anticipation as the Blessing of the Stones ceremony began.
Elder Amara, her weathered hands raised to the darkening sky, began to chant. “We bind our strength to these stones, our hopes to this sacred ground.”
The gathered community echoed her words, their voices rising in a harmonious chorus that seemed to make the very air vibrate. Kamalani closed her eyes, feeling the energy pulse through her.
“What do you see, child?” Elder Amara’s voice cut through Kamalani’s reverie.
Kamalani opened her eyes, meeting the elder’s piercing gaze. “I see… I see us, all of us, woven into the fabric of this mountain. Our dreams, our fears, our love – all becoming one with the stone.”
Elder Amara nodded approvingly. “Good. Remember this feeling. In the days to come, it will be your anchor.”
As night fell, fires were lit around the sacred spring, their flames dancing in the gentle breeze. Kamalani helped tend to the largest fire, her mind racing with thoughts of the impending lunar maximum.
“Do you think we’re truly ready?” she asked Ratu, who stood nearby, his eyes fixed on the starry sky.
Ratu’s expression was solemn. “Ready or not, it comes. But look around you, Kamalani. See how the fires form a barrier of light? Just as these flames protect us from the darkness, our preparations will shield us from what’s to come.”
Kamalani nodded, her gaze drawn to the mesmerizing interplay of light and shadow. She couldn’t shake the feeling that these moments of peace were precious and fleeting.
“The Dragon’s breath,” she murmured, almost to herself. “It’s so close now, isn’t it?”
Ratu placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. “Yes. But remember, young Dream Rider, we’ve been preparing for generations. Our ancestors’ wisdom flows through you, through all of us.”
As the night deepened, Kamalani found herself drawn to the edge of the terrace, looking out over the vast expanse of forest below. The weight of responsibility settled heavily on her shoulders, but with it came a surge of determination.
“We will endure,” she whispered to the night. “Whatever comes, we will face it together.”
29 – 30
The shamans’ eyes gleamed with an otherworldly light as they emerged from their trance-like state. Elder Nima, her wrinkled face etched with concern, beckoned Kamalani closer to the sacred spring.
“The visions grow stronger, child,” Nima whispered, her voice raspy with urgency. “The Dragon’s fiery breath scorches the sky, and the ocean roars with fury unseen for countless generations.”
Kamalani felt a shiver run down her spine, despite the warmth of the gathered crowd. “What must we do, Elder?”
Before Nima could answer, a collective gasp rippled through the assembly. Above them, a brilliant streak of light blazed across the night sky, leaving a trail of sparks in its wake.
“The Dragon’s scales,” someone murmured fearfully.
Kamalani’s heart raced, but she forced her voice to remain steady. “It’s a sign. We must gather at the spring, now.”
As if pulled by an invisible thread, the community formed a circle around the sacred waters. Kamalani took her place at the center, feeling the weight of countless eyes upon her. She closed her eyes, drawing strength from the earth beneath her feet and the whispers of her ancestors in the wind.
“People of Gunung Padang,” she began, her voice carrying across the hushed crowd, “we stand at the threshold of destiny. The Dragon approaches, but we are not unprepared.”
She opened her eyes, meeting the gaze of each person in turn. “For generations, we have built this sanctuary, stone by stone, dream by dream. Now, it falls to us to see our ancestors’ vision through.”
A murmur of agreement rippled through the gathering. Kamalani felt a surge of pride and determination.
“What do you see for us, Kamalani?” a young voice called out. “Where will you lead us?”
Kamalani paused, allowing the question to hang in the air. She dipped her hands into the sacred spring, feeling its cool embrace.
“I see a journey,” she said slowly, the words rising from deep within her. “A journey across waters both physical and spiritual. We will navigate not just by the stars above, but by the dreams within our hearts.”
As she spoke, the shamans began a low, rhythmic chant, their voices blending with the whisper of the wind and the gentle lapping of the spring. Kamalani felt the familiar tingle of prophecy coursing through her veins.
“The path ahead is shrouded in mist,” she continued, her voice growing stronger. “But together, we will find our way. We are the Dream Riders, the keepers of ancient wisdom, the bridge between past and future.”
The chanting grew louder, and Kamalani felt herself swaying slightly, caught in the current of something greater than herself. In that moment, she saw flashes of what was to come – great waves, fiery skies, and beyond it all, a glimmer of hope.
As the vision faded, she opened her eyes to find the community watching her with a mixture of awe and anticipation. The weight of their trust settled upon her like a mantle.
“Are you ready?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
The response was immediate and resounding. “We are ready,” the people of Gunung Padang chorused, their voices united in purpose and resolve.
31 – 32
The air crackled with anticipation as Kamalani raised her arms, her silhouette stark against the twilight sky. The shamans’ chanting reached a crescendo, then fell silent. In that moment of hushed reverence, Kamalani’s voice rang out, clear and strong:
“The Dragon will awaken, and the seas will rise. But the dreamers will endure, and from the waters, a new world will be born.”
A collective shiver ran through the gathered crowd. Kamalani felt the weight of those words settle into her bones, a prophecy that would guide them through the coming storm.
She turned to face her people, her eyes scanning the sea of faces before her. “We are those dreamers,” she said, her voice thick with emotion. “Our ancestors built this sanctuary not just of stone, but of vision and hope.”
An elder stepped forward, his weathered face etched with the wisdom of years. “But how will we survive the Dragon’s wrath?” he asked, voicing the fear that lurked in many hearts.
Kamalani smiled, a glimmer of fierce determination in her eyes. “With the strength they’ve given us,” she replied, gesturing to the towering terraces of Gunung Padang. “And with the dreams that will light our way.”
As she spoke, Kamalani’s mind drifted to the countless hours she’d spent training, learning to read the stars and interpret the whispers of the ocean. She thought of the stories passed down through generations, each one a thread in the tapestry of their survival.
“Our legacy,” she continued, her voice softening, “is not just in these stones or in the prophecies we carry. It’s in our ability to face the unknown with courage and unity.”
A young Dream Rider, barely into her teens, stepped forward. “Will you guide us, Kamalani?” she asked, her voice quavering slightly.
Kamalani knelt before the girl, taking her hands. “We will guide each other,” she said gently. “For in each of us burns the flame of our ancestors’ dreams.”
As she rose, Kamalani felt a surge of resolve. This was their moment, the culmination of centuries of preparation and faith. Whatever trials lay ahead, they would face them together, their legacy a beacon of hope in the coming darkness.
33 – 33
The sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across the terraced stones of Gunung Padang. Kamalani stood at the edge of the highest terrace, her eyes scanning the vast expanse of forest and sea below. The weight of generations rested upon her shoulders, a mantle she bore with quiet grace.
“Do you think they knew?” a voice asked from behind her. It was Hoku, one of the younger Dream Riders, his eyes wide with a mixture of awe and trepidation.
Kamalani turned, her gaze softening as she regarded the young man. “Knew what, Hoku?”
“The first builders,” he clarified, gesturing to the ancient stones beneath their feet. “Did they know how important this place would become? How it would save us?”
A gentle breeze rustled through Kamalani’s hair as she considered the question. The scent of sacred herbs and distant sea salt filled her nostrils, grounding her in the present even as her mind reached back through time.
“I believe they dreamed it,” she replied, her voice low and melodic. “Just as we dream now of the future we cannot see.”
Kamalani closed her eyes, feeling the pulse of the mountain beneath her. In her mind’s eye, she saw the countless hands that had shaped this sanctuary, heard the echoes of their songs and prayers.
“Our ancestors,” she continued, opening her eyes to meet Hoku’s gaze, “they understood the power of collective vision. They poured their hopes, their fears, their very essence into every stone.”
As she spoke, Kamalani’s fingers traced the intricate spiral carved into a nearby boulder. The symbol seemed to shimmer in the fading light, a reminder of the cyclical nature of their journey.
“And now,” Hoku murmured, his voice barely above a whisper, “it’s our turn to carry that dream forward.”
Kamalani nodded, a surge of pride and responsibility swelling in her chest. “Yes,” she affirmed. “We are the bridge between past and future, Hoku. Our actions, our courage in the face of the unknown – this is how we honor their legacy.”
As darkness fell, pinpricks of starlight began to emerge overhead. Kamalani gazed upward, feeling a deep connection to the celestial patterns that had guided her people for millennia.
“Come,” she said, placing a hand on Hoku’s shoulder. “Let’s join the others at the spring. Tonight, we dream together, for all those who will come after us.”
They descended the terraces, each step a reaffirmation of their commitment to the path laid out by their ancestors. The legacy of Gunung Padang lived on in their hearts, a testament to the enduring power of human spirit and collective vision.
The prophecy was a tapestry of dreams and stars, woven with threads of hope and a fierce determination to survive.
# Scene 1
Shafts of golden light pierced the dawn haze as Toma began the long ascent up Gunung Padang’s ancient bones, a lone figure weaving among stones that glistened with morning dew. The cold air tasted of cedar and loam, filled with the rhythmic crunch of his steps and the labored breath of a body steeled for its task. Muscles taut as bowstrings, Toma bore the quarried stone upon his back, feeling its massive weight settle into his very sinews. He crested the first terrace, then the second, each one a vast expanse of neatly fitted slabs where other haulers labored under the gaze of the sacred mountain. Above them all, from the commanding vantage of the third terrace, Sarina watched, a silhouette crowned with the blue feathers of prophecy. Her chants unfurled in the crisp air, mingling with the sounds of industry and echoing across the rising tiers.
“Toma,” a worker hailed as he passed. “What beast pulls you this day?”
“An ancient beast,” he called back, not slowing his stride. “Born before your fathers’ fathers.”
The others laughed, shaking their heads at the reckless vigor of the youth. They shifted their burdens, stones scraping stone, voices raising in light banter and curses, legs braced against the steep incline that had bested so many.
Toma continued, each step a private reckoning, until he reached the crest of the third terrace. He stood for a moment, chest heaving, letting his strength return. The block sat squat and silent upon him, a brute animal of stone and shadow. From the corner of his eye, he saw Sarina’s gaze meet his own, and felt the swift urging of her presence.
“Let it not be said that the son of Banta cannot match the labors of his fathers!” Toma cried, his words tinged with jest and defiance. A sudden energy coursed through him. With a final rush, he surged across the wide plateau, collapsing to his knees as the block dropped from his shoulders with a muffled thud.
Dust rose in lazy spirals as Sarina approached, her wooden staff clutched firmly in one hand. She was serene and inscrutable, a high priestess treading the narrow line between myth and earth, her voice rising and falling in a cadence as ancient as the sky. Toma lay spent upon the ground, feeling the coolness of the earth press against his back, the rhythm of his heart echoing the slow beat of the mountain. The world turned to light and silence.
Other workers clustered on the terrace’s edge, stealing glances at the shaman as they went about their appointed tasks. Sarina paused before the freshly hewn stone, brushing her fingers over its raw surface. She stooped with ritual precision, carving spirals and wave symbols into the block’s face with the sharpened tip of her staff.
“The augurs are well pleased,” she pronounced, a faint smile playing on her lips as she cast a glance toward Toma.
“The augurs had no weight on their backs,” Toma grinned, pulling himself to his feet. “We mortals toil under a different sky.”
Sarina nodded, raising her voice to carry across the wide expanse. “When the Dragon’s fire burns the skies, those who read our stones will stand safe.”
The wind hushed to hear her words. The men lowered their heads in solemn agreement, a communal murmur rising from them like incense.
Toma felt the invocation settle into him, a whispered echo threading through muscle and marrow. It was as if the mountain itself had answered, a pulse and presence in every heartbeat, a timeless promise etched in stone.
Sarina’s eyes lingered on the horizon, her expression a mingling of triumph and foreboding, as if she saw in the day’s labors the specter of some distant catastrophe. Then she turned, the blue feathers in her hair dancing with her movement, and gestured for the workers to continue.
One by one, they drifted back to their tasks, until the hum of voices and the scrape of stone filled the morning air again. The haulers’ procession wound down the mountain’s northern face, bodies bent against the weight of their burdens, disappearing into the tangle of trees and brush that lay beyond.
Toma remained a moment longer, savoring the enormity of the task and the solemnity of the purpose. The mountain loomed above him, eternal and indifferent, while below, in the shadow of its rise, the shapes of men moved like ants over the wide terraces.
He felt Sarina’s gaze once more, and knew that the prophecy was written as much in flesh and blood as it was in the patient endurance of stone.
# Scene 1
Toma’s hands burned as they pulled the stone toward the mountain’s crest. Muscles knotted like hemp rope under his skin, taut with resolve and the sweat of prophecy. Above him, Shaman Sarina’s voice sang against the slope, incantations draping his effort with power from her breath. Clouds hung close to the ground, ghostly gray against the tree line. The earth smelled of rain, of mud, of mankind’s struggle, as Toma crested the final ridge. The rock shuddered behind him, settled into the third terrace with the whisper of permanence.
“When the Dragon’s fire burns the skies,” Sarina intoned, stepping forward.
From beneath the tree’s canopy, more stones crawled along the earth, beasts harnessed by men and sinewed ropes. Toma joined their low chant, hoarse with strain and unity. It mingled with Sarina’s voice, ascending as tendrils of cedar smoke. The air pulsed with their labors, infused with the scent of sun-warmed bodies, fevered earth, and the resinous breath of the jungle. The terrace rose in uneven edges before Toma, sacred geometry bound by human toil. Sarina’s chant grew more potent, swirling with the rhythms of sun and breath and labor.
Toma locked eyes with the Shaman. She stood serene above him, haloed by clouds, ancient in her stillness, and he felt her song wrap him as the mountain wind. The basalt block lurched, protesting, dragged toward the hill’s cusp. Toma groaned, his spine a bowstring ready to snap. There was power in this trial, the struggle of man against rock and prophecy, of muscles and dust against the eons. He stumbled on the path, feet bare against slick mud, yet rose again with the memory of stars whispering in his blood.
Sarina watched him, her gaze steadfast and timeless, lending gravity to each straining step. Her staff rose as he fought for purchase, symbols etched in ash upon the air. The clouds rolled beneath her like a silvered sea. She alone knew the language of stones and skies, and as Toma pulled against the world’s spine, he clung to her whispered strength. He crossed the terrace’s threshold with a cry, letting the block go with arms outstretched, chest heaving. It settled with a sound both solid and spectral, a thousand years gathering beneath it.
Toma collapsed beside it, breath shallow, skin damp and salt-streaked.
Sarina stepped forward with grace, her feet soundless against the soil. She knelt beside the stone, a mother to its infancy, and withdrew a slender tool of bone and flint. Each movement spoke the elegance of ritual, of patience bred in shadows and silence. She carved the stone with spirals and waves, each incision a pathway through time. The lines told a story, shapes rippling from her fingers in quiet rebellion against stone’s permanence. Toma watched, breathing the rhythm of her hands, the circle of time folding inward, the gentle spiral of creation and return.
“When the Dragon’s fire burns the skies,” Sarina began, her voice anointed by breath, by faith, by vision.
The other workers paused, lowing ropes as her words wound among them. Sarina rose, lifting her wooden staff high, a conductor of heavens and earth. The air hung thick with reverence, stilled by the power of her invocation.
“Those who read our stones will stand safe,” she declared. The echoes sang like a celestial choir.
Solemn agreement etched itself upon each brow. The mountain held its breath.
The workers turned back to their labor, eyes alight with the prophecy’s fire. Stones moved under ancient hands, dragged from distant quarries where hammers split the basalt bones of gods. They were builders of immortality, stacking the mountain with their faith, an endeavor of blood and breath and hope. Each terrace told a chapter of sky’s secrets, waiting to be read by ages yet to come.
Toma remained on the third terrace, his gaze following Sarina’s swift, silent movements as she drifted among them. Her shadow stretched long and slender in the climbing sun. Other shadows grew to join it, pulling hard against ropes, cutting poles from the living forest, slicing paths through tangled brush. A man called orders from the jungle’s edge, his voice threading through the air, sewing the mountain with sound.
The shaman turned toward Toma, who sat amid the swirling labor, his breath steady now, calm as the stone’s placid face. Sarina’s lips moved in chant, but the words flew elsewhere, riding a fresh wind toward the gray horizon. They were building for tomorrow, a sanctuary for storms not yet born, and the air hummed with their anticipation.
The sun glowed fiercely above, melting shadows and staining skin. Axes bit deep into thick wood. Stones nudged slowly forward, biding their time. Young men’s arms dripped with labor’s sweetness, shining bronze beneath the forgiving sky. Old men bent beneath heavier burdens, coaxing the mountainside to remember its ancient purpose. Women cleared the ground and prepared the food, feeding the dream that fed them in return. All worked as one, guided by a destiny etched deep in rock.
Sarina watched over them, both keeper and seeker of their legacy. Her bare feet kissed the earth, padding gently, tracing spirals among the ordered chaos of their efforts. She carried a part of each of them, and they of her, kin to the spirits, blood to the stone.
The shadow of the mountain grew long and languid as the day aged and began its descent toward the eternal promise of stars.
# Scene 2
The men and women strained at the woven rope as high sun etched shadows across their faces. The leading man gave a fierce shout, raising his hand to signal their push, and twenty strong backs pulled as one. They heaved a six-ton slab of basalt from the riverbed quarry, their breathless chant swallowed by the wind that cracked and roared around the site. Near the grove of tangled cedar, Sarina cast her eyes toward the heavens and began to chant, her voice bending in the air like smoke while her apprentices surrounded her, breathless with faith and flowering jasmine.
“Put your backs into it!” the leading man cried again, turning to watch the long line of pullers lean into the weight. The rough fiber cut into their palms, and sweat traced narrow rivers down their straining limbs, darkening the earth where it fell. Closer and closer they drew to the grove, the edge of it rising before them like the very breath of the world. All were needed here, all were present.
“Sarina is waiting,” a woman called as they faltered and paused, and the urgency in her voice was the spark they needed. Heads bent, muscles surged, and the line of villagers pulled the slab once more.
Felled branches of cedar tangled underfoot, their ancient, rich smell mingling with the wild tang of the wind. They dug heels into earth and grass, their breath harsh against the torrent of air, moving forward one labored pace at a time. “Set the stone!” they chanted as they heaved. “Set the stone!” Their call became rhythm and rhythm became power, until at last the slab loomed out from the shaded grove into blinding sun.
Beyond them, the unfinished terraces of the growing structure lay outstretched like steps for the gods. Stones interlocked in harmony, placed with visions only the star-touched could divine. Some wayward eyes lifted toward the sight and their wonder stilled the air within their lungs.
“Sarina dreams us strong!” one man shouted. His voice broke the silence of awe, and again they dug their heels into the path, drawing the basalt forward to meet the promised stars.
The vast sky wheeled above them as they strained under the weight of ancient rock. Sarina lifted her arms to the heavens, her dark hair alive in the cracking wind. Her voice spilled like smoke and the scent of jasmine over the wide, raw land. The six apprentices circled her as she chanted, sprinkling crushed petals at her feet with reverence, adding their soft voices to her celestial song. They called the stars to witness and the earth to guide, aligning all with breathless faith and boundless obedience.
A few hesitant steps were all that remained to bring the basalt home. One final surge of bone and muscle, one final call of the blood, and it would be complete. The villagers pulled again, weaving their own raw harmony into Sarina’s as the winds rose higher. They bared their teeth with effort and held nothing back.
The slab inched toward the site’s sacred heart, pulled at last from the cedar grove, pulled at last from the mountain’s shadow. Toward the waiting sanctuary they hauled it, where sky and stone held promises the winds could not undo.
As the slab reached its place, the sound of stone meeting stone broke across the land. The ground beneath them trembled at the offering. Sarina’s eyes blazed wide with visions of her own, and her voice pierced the air in triumph. “This terrace now marks the setting of the Red Moon!”
Her words traveled in arcs across the terrace grounds, finding home in every breast. The wind bore them up like an eagle with its fledgling.
The villagers sagged to the ground, arms spent but spirits filled. In that moment, the seed of faith was nourished. In that moment, the air was breath enough.
Around Sarina, the apprentices gathered. They pressed their palms to the stone and then their brows, bending their heads in deepest homage. When at last their devotion turned to action, they ran with bright limbs to clear the work site, their small forms fanning out like stars from a center they all held dear.
Jasmine lingered on the air as they left, mingling with the wilder winds. A great emptiness swelled across the land, cradling all in silence, cradling all in hope. It howled across the stones in a language only the dreamers knew, whispering of the terrace that would rise and of the Dragon that would fall.
# Scene 3
Moonlight wove around Sarina as she knelt beside the sacred spring. Its silver strands tangled in her dark hair and shimmered along the surface of the water. She drew her hair back with careful fingers and leaned over the spring’s cool basin, filling a polished shell chalice with water so pure it might have been born of the stars themselves. Her lips touched the shell. The overflow found her breath and body, and visions opened her eyes—a fiery serpent writhed among falling stars. Sarina gasped and jerked upright, terror flashing in her. The crickets went silent at her cry.
Water spilled over the chalice’s edge, trailing like liquid light down her hand. Sarina lifted her eyes to the night sky, watching the serene movement of the stars. Above her, the half-built terraces of Gunung Padang climbed toward the sky’s mysteries. The sacred spring’s low whisper echoed through the air, and again she drank, letting the water fill her until it became the stars.
Once more the vision broke over her—a serpent of flame, twisting and writhing. It glowed red and terrible against the night, uncoiling toward her as though to devour. Stars broke from the heavens and streaked like fire, a rain of glowing stones cast from the night’s hands.
She collapsed beside the spring, the vision winding tighter and tighter within her. Her breath came fast and thin, as if the serpent squeezed the very life from her. She reached out, trembling, and dropped the empty shell. “The Dragon returns,” she whispered, her voice torn between awe and terror.
With unsteady limbs, Sarina rose to her feet. Her movements held the urgency of revelation. The wind had gone still, and the night seemed to hold its breath, watching her, waiting. “They must know,” she said to the silent air. “They must all know.”
She gathered the hem of her robe and ran, swift and sure as the comet trails in her vision. The soft glow of the moon threw long shadows over the terraces, and the wind picked up to carry her urgency ahead of her.
Sarina’s voice called through the settlement, echoing against stones and dreams. Her cry pierced the night, a thread of prophecy and warning. “The Dragon returns!”
Doors opened, spilling lantern light like fallen stars. Women and men, their eyes wide with fear and questions, answered her call. They came from places of rest and places of work, some wrapped in skins against the chill, others bare-limbed and heedless. All had known her visions before, and none dared linger behind.
When they gathered at last around the half-built terraces, Sarina’s face was lit by moonlight and burning with the truth that only she had seen. Her words met them with the full force of the winds, the full force of the heavens.
“Every eighteen years,” she told them, “the Dragon returns to flood the world with meteors.”
A murmur spread through the gathering. Some voices quivered with disbelief, others with the seed of trust. The ancient one who spoke for them all raised his eyes to meet Sarina’s. He was the last to doubt the power of the dreamers, and his voice bore the weight of memory.
“We have built the terraces to find safety in the stars,” he said. “Will it not be enough?”
“Only those who dream with water and stars will endure.” Sarina’s voice cut through his words, her certainty striking like the comet of her vision. She stepped closer to the circle of council members, her hair trailing behind her like smoke and shadow.
Fear kindled in their eyes as she repeated the warning, as the urgency found root in their hearts. They knew her words were heavy with truth, as heavy as the basalt they placed with her guidance. She was the voice of the sacred spring, and her breath carried the scent of stars.
The ancient one’s gaze faltered and fell to the ground. He knew Sarina saw deeper than any before her. He bowed his head, resignation and resolve in the slow arc of his neck.
“If the Dragon returns as you say, we will not fail to heed your warning,” he promised. His eyes met those of the others, sparking them to action.
“We will record your words on the rising terrace stones,” another council member pledged. Her voice was a current pulling the others along.
“We will guide our descendants to live and dream!” called a third. The old man looked back to Sarina with weary reverence. “Will it be enough?” he asked again, his doubt shivering in the cool night air.
“It must,” Sarina answered, the breath of prophecy behind each word.
They dispersed like a great flock of night birds, black against the stars. The need for haste became the wind beneath their wings, and some called again to Sarina as they went, swearing to record and obey, swearing to follow her guidance as far as it would take them.
When she stood alone beside the half-formed terraces, Sarina’s breath mingled with the lingering smoke of their voices. She looked toward the sacred spring, toward the coolness and clarity she had drawn from it.
“Will it be enough?” she asked again, but the stars remained silent and the night held her answer.
# Scene 4
The sharp ring of bronze bells pierced the midday air, guiding the villagers like ancient stars. Their chants were waves on the ocean, moving with them as they carried young fruit saplings to the newly marked boundary rings. Ika’s voice rose above the tide. She brushed holy basil, lemongrass, and mint into the spring’s stone basin and dipped her fingers into the clear water. It flowed down her arms in glittering lines as she anointed the surrounding cistern walls, tracing their sacred markings. She raised her arms to the sky, and the water shimmered like stars on the trembling sea.
“Bring life from water and stars!” the villagers chanted as they worked. Saplings followed their arms in graceful arcs, settling into the dark soil. Careful hands patted earth over fragile roots, grounding them to the land and to the terraces that grew higher with each passing year. The sound of their voices carried to every corner of the sanctuary, blending with the keen of the bells.
The clear water of the spring glistened, a vast blue eye watching the work below. Ika moved like a young reed in the breeze, her limbs delicate and sure as she bent toward the water, lending her song to the growing chorus.
“Let them be witness to the Dragon’s fall!” called the villagers, their steps precise and unbroken. Fruit trees followed their careful dance, arranged in rings around the spring’s source.
Ika’s movements held the grace of those who had come before, generations of dreamers and builders. The bundle of herbs brushed against the surface of the water, the crisp scent of mint and basil rising around her like incense. The brightness of the sky and the force of the ceremony did not reach her eyes alone; those who watched saw Sarina there, as if the years between were nothing.
Villagers glanced to one another as Ika worked, knowing that new life took root not only in the soil, but in the stones of prophecy that were her birthright.
Ika rose from the spring and circled the low stone basin. Her bare feet made no sound against the sacred earth. When she moved, the air trembled with the weight of ancient knowledge. She dipped her fingers into the water once more and brought them to the cistern walls, where her touch traced a map of stars and spirals.
She stood before the villagers like a vision of Sarina herself, alive in form and in prophecy. Water shimmered in lines down her slender arms, trickling from the lines she traced.
“We are bound to their journey,” Ika said, turning her eyes to the watchful crowd. Her voice joined with theirs as she moved to the next unmarked surface, steady as the seasons. “Water, stars, and dreams,” she called, touching each in turn, knowing each would endure.
The circle of workers wove their own design around the growing saplings. Neat rows spiraled inward, ever toward the water, ever toward the sky.
“We plant as the elders have shown us!” they cried. Their cries rose with the smoke of the herbs and the trail of the stars, each fragile stem anchored with precision and care.
Ika’s words filled the vastness, buoyed by the harmony of those who had heeded Sarina’s warning. Her breath was all wind and sacred distance, taking the strength of ancient stone into her young and certain hands.
The villagers’ chants softened to whispers as they worked, and the bright arcs of their labor quieted to low and endless tides.
With water glistening on her skin like stars on the trembling sea, Ika moved with the gathering’s great pulse. She swept from wall to wall, her voice threading through every soul.
“We dream and live,” she called. “We are witness.”
The water found light in the sun’s full gaze, shimmering and flickering on the earth as Ika lifted her arms to the sky. The sound of the bells gave way to a ringing silence, and the villagers stepped back to watch, breath held and eyes wide.
The sacred pool stilled, the clear eye of it knowing and ancient. Fruit trees circled the spring like the bold green strokes of a child’s dream, some no taller than Ika herself.
She cast her eyes across the terraces, and the tremor of the stars found them in arcs and curves, answering Sarina’s question and answering her own. The villagers took one final step back and then another, reverent silence guiding their movement.
New life stretched in every direction. Holy water shimmered in the midday light, and all was possible.
# Scene 5
Kamalani’s skin was like the stone beneath her feet, dark and cracked with the story of the ages. She took the child’s hand in hers and climbed the weathered terrace, holding memory in her fingertips as the morning sky spread wide above them. Jungle sounds rose to meet the pair, and birds called across the lush green tangle. “Our ancestors reached for the stars,” Kamalani said. Her voice traveled with the wind as Leilani followed in careful steps. She traced a fingertip over the carvings of spirals and constellations. “Will the Dragon come again?” the child asked. “It will.”
The sun climbed with them, edging the low clouds in fierce gold and white. Kamalani watched it rise over the jagged horizon, the path of its long journey bright with purpose. Her breath matched the wind’s, rough and determined.
“They prepared the terraces for the Dragon’s return,” she said, nodding at the wide expanse of moss-covered stone. Her voice carried the weight of all that had come before, steady and calm.
“Did it come?” Leilani asked, peering up into her grandmother’s face. Her dark eyes mirrored the age-old question, a question every child asked in her time.
“It did, and they were ready,” Kamalani said, as if her voice might find them through the long stretch of years. “They watched the stars and saw it would come again.”
“The stars told them?” Leilani marveled, tracing her fingers along the cool, rough stone.
Kamalani’s laugh was deep and full, like water springing from a long-buried source. She cupped Leilani’s small hand in her own and folded it around the centuries-old markings.
“The stars, the stones, and their dreams,” she said. “They were witnesses.” Her words spun tales between them, stories that were both history and future.
Kamalani felt the tremor of time stretching across the land. Her heart was in the sky, her soul was in the ground. She watched the young girl find the pulse of their people and step into it with wide and wondering eyes.
“Will they be ready again?” Leilani asked. She knew the answer before she asked, but wanted the story from Kamalani’s lips.
“We will all be ready.” Kamalani spoke the words as an elder and a child, the memory and the one who remembered. They carried her love to Leilani and her promise to the sky.
Leilani nodded with the confidence of those who have yet to doubt. She listened with the trust of those who have yet to break.
“Even the youngest will know how to build and dream,” Kamalani told her. The child believed her, because the child must believe.
The wind curled through their hair, tousling it like a playful elder’s touch. Morning painted the horizon, every color brighter than the last. Kamalani watched the sky grow, the moss-clad sanctuary holding fast beneath their feet. The girl’s hand was a warm and eager bird in her own.
They reached the highest terrace, and Kamalani paused, feeling the world around her move.
“Carry this until you find your own stones of prophecy.” Kamalani handed the child a smooth river pebble. Her voice turned the simple act into tradition, into story, into a future that spiraled around them like the carvings on the ancient terrace.
Leilani cradled the stone as if it were alive. In many ways, it was.
“Is this where we will wait for the Dragon?” she asked. Her young voice filled the wide, waiting air. “Is this where we will dream?”
Kamalani’s smile spanned the breadth of the sky. She turned her eyes to the next child’s birthright and felt the promise of it swell inside her.
“It is,” she said.
The girl looked to the horizon with Kamalani, holding the stone with a grip that could not be shaken. Her arms were young but they were ready, as Kamalani’s had been, as Sarina’s had been. She felt the earth beneath her like the heartbeat of a story she already knew.
Hand in hand, they turned from the high terrace and began their long descent toward the sacred spring. The wet green life of the jungle surged around them, claiming all but memory.
“Look how strong we dream,” Kamalani said as she watched the moss-tangled world grow. She let it be, let it flourish, let it thrive.
Their limbs moved in gentle arcs, and the air around them held the echo of prophecy. The sound of it was bright with ancient youth and certainty.
Nothing else was needed.
Behold I Saw 