The Man the Mountain Kept (M2K)

Their footsteps never truly stopped.

Udin Bima led the group in silence. His voice was barely audible, but every direction he gave was certain. Behind him, Hulio, Diah, and Rendra followed quietly. They were accompanied by senior climbers from the Sasak and Bima communities—people who didn't seem to walk with mere mortal bodies, but with the will of the mountain itself.

They took the Senaru route, on the northern slope of Rinjani. The fastest way, the most direct, with no room for hesitation.

There were no breaks. No stories shared. Even meals and drinks were consumed while walking, as if hunger and thirst were illusions unworthy of their attention.

Their journey cut through thick tropical forest, where swollen roots gripped the earth like ancient hands guarding the mountain's secrets. A thin mist hovered among the towering trees, cloaking the sound of birds and running streams like a veil from another world.

Waterfalls poured from steep cliffs, casting rainbow arcs through gaps in the leaves. But not a single one of them turned their head. Not for beauty. Not for awe.

Even Diah Saraswati—who would usually stop every few steps to document rare plants or examine soil structures—simply walked. Silent, unfamiliar even to her own face. She passed a rare orchid, one that only bloomed in a single season and was known to cure blood poisoning. She didn't even glance at it. Didn't jot it down. Didn't pluck a single petal.

Rendra said nothing either. His eyes occasionally flicked to Hulio, walking calmly behind Udin Bima. His posture was upright, his stride steady—but his gaze... belonged to someone who hadn't fully returned from where he came.

Because this was Hulio's first day back in the world above—the human world.

But his parting from Rinjani's womb had not been without scars. The mountain hadn't just hidden him from death. It had birthed him anew.

His body was the same. But his soul... had changed.

Day two. The trail began to descend steeply, and the dense rainforest gave way to open fields, the bleating of goats, and the distant barking of dogs.

At last, after two relentless days, they arrived at Senaru Village—the northern gateway of Rinjani. A place where climbers often begin or end their journey.

The sun had just risen when whispers began to spread.

Someone had returned from the belly of Rinjani.

Not just a climber—but a figure escorted by Udin Bima and the ancestral guardians. A man who had crossed the boundary of the underworld and now emerged once more in the realm of humans.

The front yard of the traditional house quickly filled with curious faces. No one dared to ask. But all wanted to know.

Hulio was taken to a small house, its walls made of bamboo and its roof of dried reeds. As he crossed the threshold, his body seemed to lose its weight—floating, then collapsing onto the earthen floor. Not from exhaustion. He fell asleep,

deeply. Dreamlessly.

And when he opened his eyes again, night had arrived. His consciousness returned—he had emerged from a place beyond explanation.

Outside, a circle of young bamboo had been arranged. Palm leaves fluttered, incense burned, and offerings of flowers lay scattered across earth marked with ash.

Without a word, the villagers began their ritual.

Hulio stepped outside.

He stood bare-chested. His body looked carved from stone—solid and strong. His muscles were not shaped by modern training, but by stone pressure, damp heat, and unmeasured time in the depths of Rinjani. Faint marks adorned his skin, not as wounds, but as symbols. And everyone who saw him felt it—something was different about this young man.

He wasn't just the "missing person" who had returned. He carried something from another world.

Three elder women approached, dressed in full ceremonial attire, each carrying a clay jug. Sacred water from three holy sources: Sendang Gile, Tiu Kelep, and Mount Baru Jari.

Water to unite body, soul, and spirit.

Prayers in ancient Sasak tongue began to rise. Chants only remembered by those sworn to guard the boundary of worlds. Diah couldn't understand the words—but her body trembled. The language seemed to touch her bones, travel through the ground, and ascend to the sky.

The first water was poured over Hulio's head.

Silence.

Even the wind stopped.

Hulio closed his eyes. He didn't resist. He didn't question. He received the water as if receiving his own origin. Cold. Calming. Washing away not just physical dirt—but traces of that unspeakable place.

The second and third waters followed. With each drop, the world seemed to shift slightly.

And when the final prayer was spoken, Hulio shivered. Not from cold, but because something—whether a spirit, a memory, or a burden—left his body. Or perhaps… was returned to the mountain.

One of the elder women sealed her jug with a piece of dried banana leaf. She turned to Udin and whispered,

"He is no longer an outsider. The mountain knows him now. But that also means… he has been marked."

Udin nodded. Slowly. Heavily.

Because he knew—anyone who touches the heart of Rinjani... will never return the same.

— Found Again by Fate

Foreign footsteps disturbed the ground in Senaru. A black jeep stopped in the village clearing. Dust rose, then slowly fell with a thick silence.

The car door opened. A man stepped out—Antonio Moreira, brown hair slicked back neatly, wearing a white linen suit that looked absurdly clean against the dusty mountain village. Sunglasses covered his eyes, but the tension in his jawline revealed one thing:

He was looking for someone.

Behind him, four casually dressed men followed. Field shirts, neutral trousers, hiking boots. No visible weapons. But their bodies spoke volumes: trained, experienced, and ready to face—or cause—chaos.

No welcome came from the villagers. No smiles. They only peeked from behind doors, through cracks in bamboo windows, from the shadows of woven houses. Everyone knew: this wasn't an ordinary visit.

Antonio approached a young boy standing at the edge of the path.

"Where is Udin Bima?" he asked in fluent Indonesian.

The boy didn't answer. He only pointed toward the traditional house at the far end of the clearing, then ran off.

Hulio stood under the moonlight, its glow touching his solid frame, eyes alert. His hair still damp, ritual water dripping slowly to the ground. He wore a woven cloth around his waist, his bare shoulders revealing old scars—not ordinary ones, but carvings of time and rebirth.

Beside him stood Udin Bima, silent like an ancient pillar guarding a sacred gate.

Antonio froze.

He slowly took off his sunglasses. His eyes met his son's.

And time collapsed between them.

"You're alive," he whispered.

"You're really alive."

Hulio didn't respond right away. But his gaze softened. His breath deepened, as if pulling back fragments of memories once thrown into the crater.

"I waited," he said calmly.

Antonio lowered his head.

"I wasn't a good father," he admitted quietly.

"I came back with purpose," Hulio replied, steady. "But I can't return to who I was."

They stood face to face. So close. Without walls. Father and son. Blood and name. Two souls once torn apart by time, now reunited by fate.

Udin Bima stepped back slowly, giving them space.

Antonio looked at Hulio for a long time. Then raised his hand and placed it gently on his son's shoulder.

One touch. Light. But deep. As if melting the cold that had grown between them over the years.

Hulio didn't move. But he didn't pull away either.

And in that stillness, nature bore witness:

Father and son had been brought together once more.

____

"And so, his steps once again touched the soil of the world above. But he was no longer the Hulio of before. He was a sign. He was the footprint Rinjani left for mankind."