Bebegigs
Chapter 45's

"That's!" Magenta let out a loud scream, and opened up the weeds, ran down, jerked his legs firmly, ran as hard as he could. His breathing was wheezing, his eyes fixed towards the stone hill that jutted into the waterfall as if trying to grab the dark forested river opposite him.

The bottle of vinegar and the book he found fell as Magenta ran.

he hesitated for a moment, then continued his run.

No time to read a book now, he thought.

There is no time for accusations and evidence.

At the height of the black rock hill, slippery because of the thick and damp dew, in the shadow of the sturdy rock hill, isolated and desolate, the, unless there is only a waterfall dam into the river without pity, Yasa is climbing with Orange.

Yasa is carrying the orange to a mysterious, heavily forested island that is inhabited.

There's no time.

There is no time for all the unproven silliness to save the orange.

Magenta ran to the edge of the river and did not stop until he reached the end. "That's!" he called out, cupping his hands to his mouth, trying to shout over the roar of the wind and the ripples of the river water. "That's!" yells.

The orange does not look.

The orange did not hear it.

Now the two figures are just dark shadows, twinkling like ghosts entering the darkness.

"I'm late" Magenta whispered to himself.

Seconds.

It takes precious seconds to reach the foot of the cliff.

Then the precious seconds again to climb one of the narrow slopes.

Tick tick tick. Seconds pass.

Now he could hear the ripples of water and the roar of the waterfall on the cliff wall, getting closer in front of him, calling him, asking him to come closer, sounding lamat-goals covered in the roar of the wind.

The river current was stronger than Magenta had imagined.

When he reached the foot of the cliff, bowed forward and pulled his arm back with all his might, the stream in which he stood felt as if sucking him deeper and deeper.

His stride swing felt like he was just sliding forward by one foot, and back by two feet. The stagnant water under his feet soaked his shoes, soaked his socks. The spray of water from the top of the cliff makes his eyes forced to close.

He looked up for a moment and saw that the two figures had disappeared. But in the next second, Magenta began to climb, pulling his body up onto the rock, sighing his feet running on that narrow slope.

I was late, he thought. Be late.

But he knew he couldn't give up.

Where are they now?

Maybe we reached the island.

Magenta winked towards the black shadow of the island in front of him, appearing in the water like a giant sea creature waiting to swallow him.

He could not see the orange.

When he looked up at the sky, he saw bats hovering over the island. And as he drew nearer, the sound of the flapping of their wings overcame the roar of water, wind, and all other sounds, even his own breath.

Hundreds of bats flew in rowdy, hovering among the trees, filling the sky, buzzing and squeaking, almost as thick as a crowd of bees.

As he got closer to the island, a glimpse of Magenta saw a small pier attached to the edge of the beach overgrown with trees.

At the end of the climb, he looked around.

A narrow, grassy path meanders through the trees.

Magenta began walking down the path, then suddenly realized that a piece of paper from the old book tear of the mysterious woman was carried away by him. My only weapon, he thought bitterly as horror ran down his spine. He bent over rushing through the trees, avoiding the flapping wings above his head, a squeak echoed in the forest.

The little rumbia-roofed hut at the end of the path was very dark. As he got closer, Magenta saw that the windows of the house were hollow without glass.

Magenta peered into the window. In the dark like a well, it's darker than night. He can't see anything.

With no other choice, he pocketed the tearing of the book, lifted his foot over the window sill, and ducked into the house.

The smell inside was very damp, even though all the windows were open.

Moist and smelling of death.

he gasped at the stench, then forced himself to breathe normally.

While waiting for his eyes to adjust to the darkness, he stood still, flapping the wings of the bats from outside following him into the house.

Little by little his gaze focused and could see the room he was in. A long and narrow room. A bedroom with an ancient bed with a deep black mosquito net, with bed linen and blankets, pillowcases, and curtains.

Then he saw the orange.

Lying on his back on the bed was covered in black cloth.

He was dead, he thought, rushing over, bowing to the side of the bed.

Yasa killed him.

But, no. he heard a soft orange breath, wafting softly, his lips opened.

Still life.

Still alive—but what has Yasa done to her?

Outside, the flapping of the bat wings sounded louder, closer and closer. The room grew darker as if the creatures were covering the windows, blocking all the moonlight from entering.

And what was that on the opposite wall, away from the window?

A scarecrow?

Magenta turned away from the orange, blinked his eyes in the darkness, trying to think between the flapping of bat wings that were getting rowdy and flickering with dim light.

Anes and Mutual.

"Oh!"

All over Magenta's body trembled. Both knees felt shaky. Waves of nausea again ambushed him.

He raised his trembling hand, venturing to touch—what his name was, like a black fibrous root statue but with a face similar to his friend's, wearing a robe with a headscarf like a scarecrow that he often made some time ago.

The surface is rough like a tree trunk.

Only wood! thought.

Why is it so similar to his friend?

His face, his hair, his height, everything was exactly the same as Anes and Reksa. Only his entire body was jet black.

Call it Anes and a shabby Mutual.

The sound of the flapping of the wings seemed to subside, then it grew louder. He imagined bats hovering in the sky above the house, preparing to storm through the window without the panels.

"Until, we have to get out of here" he said with a trembling voice that barely came out of his throat.

he quickly crossed the room back to the orange and shook his shoulders. "Orang? An orange?"

The orange moved for a while but his eyes did not open.

"Orang?" Magenta shook it a bit harder.

He moved again, but his head fell back to the arm of the chair.

Magenta raised his head, trying to open his eyes, shaking his shoulders again.