"Say that again, Grandfather Har! Surely, my ears deceive me? You and my grandfather created this swamp? What on earth do you mean? I cannot make sense of this!"
Havi's voice rang out in the stillness of the night, his disbelief evident.
His heart thundered within his chest, his mind racing to grasp the weight of the old man's words.
Grandfather Har merely smiled, a knowing, almost wistful curve of his lips.
The moonlight cast deep shadows upon his lined face, illuminating the years etched into his weathered skin.
He exhaled slowly before answering.
"That is precisely what I said, lad. Your grandfather, Sudirjo, and I, this place did not exist before us."
Havi took an instinctive step back, his hands running through his tousled hair. The notion was absurd.
Swamps were ancient things, born of time and nature's slow, unyielding hands. To claim that two men had created one was beyond belief.
"No… no, this is impossible," he stammered, shaking his head.
"This swamp is vast! Teeming with trees and roots that look as though they have stood for centuries! Water flows through it as though it has always been here! How could the two of you have made something so immense?"
A low chuckle escaped Grandfather Har's lips, tinged with nostalgia. "Not in a day, of course. Nor a year. But yes, this land was once barren, nothing more than dry, cracked earth."
Havi swallowed hard. He needed more than mere words. His mind demanded reason, an explanation that could tether this fantastical claim to reality.
Grandfather Har sighed, lowering himself onto the gnarled remains of a fallen tree. He patted the space beside him. "Sit, boy. This is a tale best told with patience."
Still reeling, Havi hesitated before sinking onto the damp earth.
The scent of wet foliage and rich soil filled his nostrils, the distant hoot of an owl punctuating the silence.
"Many years ago," the old man began, "When your grandfather and I were young, this land was nothing but a wasteland. The sun beat down mercilessly upon it, the soil was cracked and lifeless. No trees. No water. Nothing but endless dust stretching beyond the horizon."
Havi furrowed his brows. It was near impossible to picture this swamp as a desolate expanse.
"But your grandfather," Grandfather Har continued, his gaze distant, "Was a man who saw not what was, but what could be. He believed this land was not beyond saving. That it could be transformed, given time and effort."
A pause. The old man's expression softened, his voice heavy with reminiscence. "We were young, foolish perhaps, and determined beyond measure. We took up our tools and began to carve the land."
"We dug channels, diverting water from a source far beyond these woods. We planted trees, though many perished before they could take root. Day after day, we carried water in great earthen vessels, pouring life into the earth, willing it to drink and flourish."
Havi could see it in his mind's eye, two men, their skin bronzed by the sun, their bodies caked in sweat and dirt, bending nature to their will.
A task so impossible it should have broken them.
"You mean to tell me," he whispered, "That you dug this swamp?"
"Aye," the old man nodded solemnly.
"With our own hands, over long, relentless years. The first rain was our greatest blessing. The land, at last, drank deeply. Water pooled within the furrows we had carved."
"The trees that had survived grew stronger, their roots gripping the earth with newfound determination. And in time… the land began to hold its own water. It became this."
Havi exhaled slowly, wonder blooming in his chest. A story he had never imagined, a history hidden beneath the water's murky surface.
"But why?" he asked after a long pause.
"Why endure such hardship? What was the purpose?"
A soft smile touched Grandfather Har's lips, his eyes glistening with something akin to pride.
"Because your grandfather had a vision," he murmured. "He knew that one day, this land would serve those who came after him. He sought not wealth nor recognition, only to leave behind something that would outlive us all, a sanctuary, a gift to generations yet unborn."
Havi lowered his gaze, his fingers tracing idle patterns in the damp soil. For the first time, he felt as though he could hear his grandfather's voice in the rustling leaves, see his touch in every rippling reflection upon the swamp's surface.
"He was remarkable," he murmured, half to himself.
"That he was," Grandfather Har agreed, his voice thick with emotion.
A deep, sacred silence settled between them. No longer one filled with doubt, but with reverence.
This place, once a mere curiosity to Havi, was now a monument to his grandfather's unwavering will, a legacy carved not in stone, but in earth, water, and time itself.
Havi shook his head, trying to gather his scattered thoughts, yet one question refused to leave him.
It lingered, pressing against the edges of his mind like a persistent whisper. The Percha trees.
His gaze drifted to the towering sentinels that loomed over the swamp, their trunks thick and timeworn, their roots twisting into the earth like fingers grasping secrets buried long ago.
The moonlight caressed their dark, glossy leaves, casting a spectral sheen upon them, as though they bore silent witness to a story long forgotten.
"Grandfather Har," Havi's voice was softer now, laced with something between wonder and unease. "These Percha trees… was it you who planted them?"
For a moment, the old man said nothing, his eyes shadowed with memories of another time. Then, at last, he inclined his head.
"Aye," he murmured, his voice touched with the weight of the past. "It was us."
Havi stood motionless, the weight of the revelation settling upon him like a hush before a storm.
He had suspected as much, yet hearing it uttered by Grandfather Har lent it an undeniable gravity, as though the very air around them had thickened with the burden of history.