AFTER THE MUD

Short Story by Leni Marlina

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Dawn seeped over the Tumbang Lajar valley like cold blood spilling across the earth. Mist curled languidly from the hills, swallowing the rice fields still heavy with moisture. Far off, the alien rumble of engines punctuated the morning, a harsh rhythm in a village that had lost its own voice.

Mira opened the window. The air smelled of iron and wet soil, of wounds that had not yet scabbed over. From the threshold, she saw the rice stalks bowing to the ground: pale green turning to brown, then rotting before ever ripening. “The land is dying,” she murmured, staring at her palms coated in black mud.

She clenched them as if clutching the body of someone she had once loved. In the thick mud, her reflection stared back, a mother whose eyes had dimmed but whose resolve remained unbroken.

From the kitchen came the soft clink of a spoon against metal. Ari, her only child, sat at a small table, peeling boiled cassava. “Mother, the well water is getting black,” he said without looking up. “I tried early this morning, but it smells like oil.”

Mira nodded. She knew. Every day, the water grew murkier. Every rain, the well foamed with sludge. “Don’t drink it yet. Use the rainwater we collected yesterday,” she said quietly.

“What if the rainwater is dirty too?” Ari asked.

“Then we boil it longer,” she replied.

Outside, the sun rose, muted and hollow. A haze drifted from the west, where mining trucks shuttled back and forth, hollowing the earth’s belly. In the city, they called it development; here, it was faceless hands, coming, taking, leaving, never meeting the gaze of those left behind.

By seven, Mira walked the rice fields. Her feet sank into the thick mud that clung like memory. She looked at the fallen stalks, listening to the leaves whispering broken prayers. A hornbill flew low overhead, its harsh cry slicing the morning. It had once nested in the ironwood trees near the hill, now fell for the mining road.

“All that is tall is cut down,” Mira whispered. “All that sings is silenced.”

She crouched, touching the cracked earth. Black liquid, smelling of diesel, oozed between her fingers. This was where her husband, Rano, had once planted seedlings while humming songs. Two years ago, Rano had died lungs collapsed from the mining dust he brought home nightly as a coal truck driver.

“If I die,” he had said, “look after this land, Mira. Don’t let faceless hands take it.”

His words lingered, a seed she had planted in her chest. She nurtured it in silence.

By eight, the village came alive. Men departed for the mines, some with guilt etched on their faces, some with resignation. Daily wages were easier than rice planting, though the coughs they returned with were a bitter price.

Pak Jangguk, the village elder, stood by the surau, wooden staff in hand. “Once, when the gong rang, people gathered to discuss. Now, the mine sirens make them run faster,” he said.

“They’re hungry, Pak,” one villager said. “The mine feeds them; the fields don’t.”

Pak Jangguk’s smile was bitter. “They feed them with the land they stole. Trading rice for ashes.”

Mira listened from afar. Truth often is lost to necessity. Yet in her heart, Rano’s voice flowed like a river refusing to be dammed.

By noon, the massive trucks returned. Dust clung to skin, hair, and banana leaves that had once flourished in her yard. Ari stood, jawed tight, watching the procession.

“Mother, if they keep digging, the river could break,” he said.

Mira looked at her son, now growing tall. “The river won’t break,” she murmured, “but hearts can.”

Suddenly, an explosion shattered in the morning. The ground trembled; windows rattled. Birds scattered. Mira cried, “Ari! Inside! “But the dust raced ahead of her voice.

Within seconds, the sky shifted from white to gray, gray to dark. A day that had forgotten how to be bright.

They sheltered in the kitchen. The walls trembled like a chest holding back tears. Ari pressed a cloth to his nose. “Mother, what did they blow up?”

“The hill,” Mira said. “They blew its belly open to find gold.”

“Why must the earth be split?

“Because humans fear hunger yet never learns to be full.”

The explosions ceased. Rain came heavy, relentless, carrying mud from the hills. Within an hour, water lapped in their yard. Mira’s fields were submerged. Banana trees toppled; straw washed away. The Batang Siwah River overflowed, carrying oil and stone.

Mira ran outside. Water rose to her calves. She tried to reinforce the door with planks, but the current was merciless. Ari’s bucket was useless against the flood.

“Upstairs, child!” Mira shouted. They climbed to the small attic of their wooden house. From above, the village had become a lake.

Voices cried: people shouting, children weeping, dogs barking. From afar, the Azan rang from the half-submerged surau trembling yet defiant sound.

The rain persisted. Water rose further. Through the window, Mira saw the old ironwood tree tilt. The tree, once Rano’s playground and the hornbill’s refuge, fell slowly into the raging current.

Mira wept silently. “He’s tired too,” she whispered.

Noon bled into evening; the sky stayed dark. The water paused but did not retreat. The village was trapped in silence. Fires flickered in boats, boiling water sparingly.

Ari sat in a corner, drawing with charcoal: a river, birds, and a woman clutching a bundle of rice stalks. “This is you, Mother,” he said.

“Why are you in the middle of the river?” she asked.

“Because the land is gone.”

Mira studied drawing. “If the land is gone, we plant again. If the river is murky, we purify it.”

“And if everything dies?”

“Only those who stop loving truly die.”

By maghrib, the sky glowed red. Rain stopped. Water receded, leaving mud in thick layers. The metallic scent was sharp.

Mira descended to inspect the house. Mud covered the floor. The sun-dried rice had floated away. Yet she stood. She would not surrender.

In the distance, two black cars approached. Men in jackets moved swiftly toward the village head, Pak Darlan. One held a camera, another a large folder. They spoke briefly, then left.

“Who were they?” Ari asked.

“Perhaps emissaries of faceless hands,” Mira replied. “Marking what will be bought.”

Night fell. Only a single star remained. Mira lit the oil lamp. She and Ari ate the remaining rice. Outside, crickets chirped, mingling with the dripping roof.

“Mother,” Ari said suddenly, “if they come again, I’ll stand in front of the trucks. I’ll tell them to stop.”

Mira looked at her son. In his eyes burned the same fire she had seen in Rano’s. “Don’t stand in front of trucks,” she said gently. “Stand in front of time. In front of forgetfulness. More dangerous than machines are humans who forget.”

At midnight, Mira wrote on a scrap of paper:

“We are not rebels. We are merely uninvited guardians. This land is not ours, but trust is the one we cannot betray. If the world chooses silence, let the water bear witness.”

She placed it beneath Ari’s pillow.

Outside, the moon emerged from the clouds. Water receded, leaving traces like veins in the earth’s skin. Mira opened the door, touched the wet soil. Mud clung to her palms. She kissed it softly.

“Forgive me,” she whispered. “I wasn’t strong enough today.”

Yet the earth answered in its own way in a pulsing silence. From the mud, a pale green shot emerged, a promise newly born.

Mira smiled. The earth had not surrendered.

In the distance, the rumble of machines came again, soft, like the breathing of a sleeping giant. But this time, Mira did not cover her ears. She stood, facing it, and whispered:

“If you come again, we are still here. This land remembers.”

The oil lamp swayed. Mira’s shadow danced across the walls. Night closed in, a silence not of endings, but beginnings, something growing between mud and light.

The End.

(Leni M_NN_Storynet (3)-13/1/2026)

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The List of Vocabulary

Tumbang Lajar: The name of the village in the story. “Tumbang” is a common prefix in some Indonesian place names, often referring to “fallen” or “overturned,” though here it’s a fictional village. Non-Indonesian readers may not recognize this naming convention.

Rice fields / rice stalks: Rice farming is central to Indonesian rural life. Rice stalks refer to the plant bearing grains. The description of “bowing to the ground” and rotting is symbolic of environmental destruction.

Cassava: A starchy root commonly eaten in Indonesia as a staple food. Boiled cassava is a simple, traditional meal, especially in rural areas.

Surau: A small prayer house or Islamic community gathering place, common in rural Indonesia, especially in Sumatra and Kalimantan. Different from a mosque (masjid) in size and function.

Pak Jangguk: “Pak” is an Indonesian honorific meaning “Mr.” or “Sir,” commonly used for elder men. Jangguk is a unique Indonesian name.

Hornbill: A large tropical bird native to Indonesia, often associated with old forests and ecological balance. Its absence signals environmental destruction.

Batang Siwah River: Fictional river. “Batang” in Indonesian can mean “trunk” or “river,” depending on context, commonly used in river names in Kalimantan and Sumatra.

Azan: The Islamic call to prayer. Hearing it from a “half-submerged surau” emphasizes the resilience of local culture even amid disaster.

Maghrib: One of the five daily Islamic prayers, performed just after sunset. Indicates the story’s timeline and reflects local religious practices.

Oil lamp: Common in rural Indonesian areas without full electricity. Lighting an oil lamp is a cultural marker for nighttime activity in villages.

Faceless hands: Metaphorical term used to describe corporations or outsiders exploiting natural resources in Indonesia. It resonates with local contexts of mining and land grabbing.

Coal truck driver / mining trucks/ explosions: References to coal mining and environmental degradation. Many Indonesian rural areas face similar issues, linking the story to real-life social and ecological problems.

Rainwater collection: Traditional practice in Indonesian villages for drinking water when wells are contaminated, showing adaptation to environmental challenges.

Rice for ashes / trading rice for ashes: Metaphorical phrase representing how villagers give up productive land for destructive industrial gains. Non-Indonesian readers may not grasp the local context of “rice” as a core economic and cultural resource.

Mud / wet soil symbolism: Mud and soil are deeply symbolic in Indonesian agrarian culture, representing life, sustenance, and connection to ancestors.

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About the Author - Leni Marlina

Leni Marlina was born in Baso, Agam, West Sumatra, and is currently based in Padang, West Sumatra, Indonesia. She is a poet, writer, and lecturer in the English Literature Program, Faculty of Languages and Arts, Universitas Negeri Padang, where she has taught since 2006. Her recent publications include the single-author poetry collections "The Beloved Teachers" (2025) and "L-BEAUMANITY: Love, Beauty, and Humanity" (2025), as well as the "English Stories for Literacy" trilogy (2024–2025). Beyond poetry, she writes short stories, essays, literary criticism, and reviews, and translates a wide range of literary and journalistic texts. Her work consistently engages language as a space for reflection, empathy, and the affirmation of human dignity.

Alongside her academic career, Leni is actively involved in literary and cultural journalism. She works as a freelance writer and contributor for various digital platforms and is also entrusted as an editor and redactor for several media outlets. Among them are "Suara Anak Negeri News Com" and "Negeri News Com", where she focuses on issues of education, literacy, literature, culture, and humanitarian concerns. Both platforms are guided by a shared commitment to “voicing the voiceless.”

Her contributions to literature have received both national and international recognition. She was awarded Best Writer 2025 by SATU PENA West Sumatra at the 3rd International Minangkabau Literary Festival (IMLF-3), chaired by Sastri Bakry; received the ACC International Literary Prize 2005 from the ACC Shanghai Huiyu International Literary Creative Media Centre; and was honored by the international literary community The Rhythm of Vietnam (2025). Since 2025, Leni has served as the Indonesian Poetry Ambassador for the ACC Shanghai Huifeng International Literary Association (ACC SHILA), while also holding the position of ASEAN Director for ACC SHILA Poets. In the same year, she was appointed by the Capital Writers International Foundation as National Director (Indonesia) for the Panorama International Literary Festival (PILF), held in India in January–February 2026. For futher information, visit panoramafestival website.