The river water was thick with the scent of morning mud and rotting jasmine flowers. It slapped against the hull of the small sampan, a rhythmic warning that the journey was coming to an end.
Dara sat near the bow, her knees pulled to her chest. Her baju kurung was made of simple unbleached cotton, the color of dried dust, contrasting sharply with the vibrant silks exploding around her.
They had arrived at the Pangkalan—the great arrival jetty of the Valley.
It was chaos. It was beautiful. It was terrifying.
Dara's small boat was hemmed in on all sides by the massive Bahtera of the nobility. These ships were not mere vessels; they were floating palaces. Carved dragon heads roared from the prows, their eyes painted with real crushed rubies. Servants in matching livery scrambled over the decks, shouting orders, lowering gangplanks of polished teak, and rolling out carpets so the young lords and ladies would not have to touch the damp wood of the pier.
"Move aside! Make way for the House of Bendahara!"
"Watch your oar, peasant! You'll scratch the gold leaf!"
Dara's boatman, an old man with skin like cured leather, muttered a prayer under his breath and skillfully guided their tiny craft through a narrow gap between two hulking galleons. He jammed his pole into the riverbed, bringing them to a halt at the furthest, muddiest edge of the dock.
"We are here, Cik Adik," the boatman said, wiping sweat from his forehead. "The Valley of Scholars. Where the tigers wear clothes and speak in riddles."
Dara stood up. She felt the heavy gaze of the massive stone structures looming above them. The Academy was not just a building; it was a fortress carved directly into the limestone cliffs. Waterfalls cascaded from the heights, feeding the river below, and the mist that shrouded the peaks gave the impression that the school was suspended in the heavens.
"Thank you, Pak Cik," Dara said. She reached into her sash and pulled out three copper coins. It was a meager payment, but it was all she had agreed upon.
The old man looked at the coins, then at her. He saw the fraying hem of her sleeves and the solitary wooden hairpin holding back her dark hair. He pushed her hand back.
"Keep it," he grunted. "You will need more than copper to survive past that gate."
Dara hesitated, then nodded slowly. "I will not forget this debt."
"Don't worry about debts," the old man pushed off from the dock. "Just worry about keeping your head on your neck."
Dara stepped onto the wooden planks. The pier was a swarm of activity. Porters carried trunks wrapped in velvet. Elephants, decorated with bells and saffron-colored cloth, trumpeted as they were led off the cargo barges. The air was thick with the smell of incense, roasting spices from the food stalls catering to the waiting families, and the metallic tang of anxiety.
She gripped the strap of her satchel tighter. Inside were her only weapons: a set of bamboo brushes, an inkstone passed down from her father, and a stack of paper made from beaten mulberry bark.
She began to walk.
Unlike the others, she had no servants to clear her path. She wove through the crowd like a stream of water flowing around boulders. She ducked under a tray of fruits carried by a slave, sidestepped a frantic mother adjusting her son's Tanjak (headgear), and slipped past a guard arguing with a merchant.
Ahead, the crowd had stopped. A bottleneck had formed.
Dara pushed her way to the front, ignoring the dirty looks from a group of girls in pastel silks who covered their noses as she passed.
They stood before the Gerbang Utama—the Main Gate. It was a massive structure of black stone, split down the middle in the traditional Candi Bentar style, resembling a mountain cleaved in two by a god's sword.
Standing in the center of the path was the Gatekeeper.
He was not a soldier. He wore no armor, only a simple white robe and a sash of faded grey. He sat cross-legged on a woven mat, sipping tea from a clay cup. A long wooden staff lay across his knees.
Behind him, two hulking guards with spears blocked the way.
"Why have we stopped?" a young noble voice whined from the front of the line. It was a boy, perhaps eighteen, dressed in a tunic of blue brocade that cost more than Dara's entire village. "My father is the Datuk Syahbandar of Melaka! Open the gate!"
The Gatekeeper did not look up. He blew softly on his tea.
"The Gate is open," the old man said. His voice was quiet, yet it cut through the noise of the crowd like a knife through silk. "But the path is narrow."
"Then widen it!" the boy snapped. He threw a heavy pouch of coins onto the mat. The gold clinked loudly. "Here. The toll."
The Gatekeeper finally looked up. His eyes were milky with age, but sharp. He nudged the pouch with his toe. "The Valley of Scholars does not need gold. It needs minds. But..." He paused, smiling a toothless smile. "Since your mind is clearly light, you may use gold to weigh yourself down. Pass."
The guards stepped aside. The boy sneered, kicking dust at the old man as he marched through.
Dara watched, her heart sinking. It was a test. Or rather, a choice.
One by one, the students stepped forward. "I am of the House of Temenggung!" Clink. A bag of silver. Pass. "I am the nephew of the Admiral!" Clink. A gold bracelet. Pass.
The Gatekeeper accepted the bribes with a bored expression. It was a filter. Those who had wealth could skip the first lesson. They bought their way in, just as they would buy their way through life.
Dara checked her pockets. She had the three copper coins the boatman had refused. That was it. She could not buy passage for a stray cat, let alone admission to the most prestigious academy in the Nusantara.
She took a deep breath. The line thinned until she was standing at the mat.
The Gatekeeper looked at her. He scanned her plain clothes, her dusty feet, her empty hands.
"No gold, little bird?" he asked, his voice rasping.
"No gold, Tok," Dara replied, keeping her gaze level.
The crowd behind her murmured. "Look at her." "Is she a servant?" "She's blocking the way. Kick her out."
The Gatekeeper tilted his head. "Then you know the rule. If the pocket is empty, the head must be full. To enter without payment, you must answer the Question."
Dara stepped closer. "Ask."
The Gatekeeper set his tea down. He picked up his wooden staff and drew a circle in the dust. Inside the circle, he drew a single vertical line.
"I have a spine, but no bones," the Gatekeeper recited, his eyes locking onto hers. "I have skin, but no flesh. I drink water, but have no blood. When I am young, I stand straight and proud. When I am old and full of wisdom, I bow my head to the earth. What am I?"
The murmur of the crowd grew louder. "A snake?" someone guessed. "A tree?"
Dara stared at the drawing in the dirt. A spine without bones. Skin without flesh.
It was a riddle about nature. But in the Nusantara, nature was never just nature. It was a reflection of the soul.
She thought of the fields back in her village. She thought of her father, bent double under the hot sun, his back breaking so that others could eat. She thought of the nobles she had just seen—chests puffed out, heads held high, full of nothing but air.
She looked at the arrogant boy who had paid gold to pass. He stood straight. He was empty.
Dara knelt down. She did not speak immediately. Instead, she took the bamboo brush from her satchel. She did not use ink. She used the moisture from the river mud on the tip of the brush.
Next to the old man's vertical line, she drew a curve—a stalk bending under the weight of its own grain.
"The Padi (Rice Stalk)," Dara said, her voice clear.
The Gatekeeper raised an eyebrow. "Explain."
Dara stood up, addressing not just him, but the whispering crowd behind her.
"When the rice stalk is young and empty, it stands upright, proud and tall," Dara said, her voice steady. "But when it fills with grain—when it has substance and value—it bows down to the earth in humility. Only the empty stalk remains arrogant."
Silence fell over the front of the line. The metaphor was a sharp slap to the face of every noble who had just strutted past with their noses in the air. Ikut resmi padi—follow the nature of the rice. The more you have, the humbler you should be.
The Gatekeeper stared at the drawing in the mud. For a moment, his face remained unreadable. Then, a slow, crinkling smile spread across his face.
He picked up the heavy pouch of gold the first boy had thrown. He weighed it in his hand, then tossed it carelessly aside into the grass.
"Gold is heavy," the Gatekeeper muttered. "But truth carries more weight."
He tapped his staff on the ground three times. The sound echoed against the stone walls.
The two massive guards banged their spears against their shields, stepping aside to create a path wide enough for an elephant, though Dara was small enough to slip through a crack.
"Enter, Dara of the Empty Hands," the Gatekeeper said, gesturing to the open maw of the Academy. "But be warned. The stalks that bow are often the first to be harvested by the scythe."
Dara bowed low—a proper, courtly obeisance that surprised the onlookers with its grace.
"Then I shall learn to be the stone that breaks the blade, Tok," she whispered.
She stepped past the mat, past the stunned silence of the wealthy students, and crossed the threshold into the shadow of the valley.
As she passed under the giant stone archway, the mist seemed to swallow the world behind her. There was no turning back to the river now.