Epilogue: The Everlasting Spirit of Pasola
Edisi Indonesia: Semangat Abadi Pasola
Years had passed, and the village of Sumba continued to thrive. The festival of Pasola, once simply a thrilling spectacle, had become much more. It was now a symbol of resilience and continuity, a reminder that even as the world around them changed, some traditions endured—binding people not only to the land but also to their history and to one another.
Arya, now an esteemed elder, sat at the edge of the vast field, where he had once raced in the Pasola. His weathered hands rested on his knees as he watched the new generation of riders charge across the plains with the same fierce determination that had once coursed through his veins. His heart swelled with pride as he saw the young men, mounted on their horses, displaying the same unity, strength, and courage that Pasola demanded.
Beside him stood Merapu, his faithful black steed. Though the horse's mane was now streaked with gray, Merapu remained dignified and strong, a living reminder of Arya’s own journey through life. On the other side, Raja, now a senior companion to Merapu, stood peacefully by his friend's side. Together, they watched the new riders, their bond as deep as ever.
Arya looked out across the field, his thoughts drifting to the past. The sound of hooves striking the ground, the shouts of riders, the clash of wooden spears—it all felt like it had only just happened yesterday. Pasola had shaped his life, from a young man eager to prove himself to a leader entrusted with the future of his people. Now, as he passed on the torch, he could see the same spark of life in the eyes of those who now held the spears.
"Do you see them, Merapu?" Arya whispered, patting the horse’s strong neck. "They carry the spirit of Pasola, just as we once did. And they will carry it forward, for as long as these winds blow across the plains."
The horse snorted softly, as if in agreement, his ears twitching toward the field as the thundering of hooves filled the air once again. The energy of the festival, the unity of the riders, and the cheers of the village were all testament to the endurance of the Pasola spirit.
A familiar voice broke Arya’s reverie. "It’s good to see them ride, isn’t it?" one of the other elders said, sitting down beside him.
Arya smiled, his eyes still on the riders. "It is. They remind me of us—how we once were, full of fire and hope. But now, it's their turn."
The elder nodded. "Pasola has always been more than just a festival. It’s a way of life. It teaches them to fight, not with hatred, but with respect for their opponent. To ride, not for glory, but for the strength of their community."
Arya’s gaze shifted to the horizon, where the sun was beginning its slow descent. The sky was a deep, burning orange, casting long shadows across the field. "We’ve done our part," Arya said, his voice quiet but filled with peace. "Now, it’s up to them to keep the spirit alive."
The riders circled back after their race, their horses breathing heavily, but their faces lit with the same exhilaration Arya had felt so many times before. Among them, a young rider caught Arya's eye—a boy not much older than Arya had been when he first rode in Pasola. His eyes gleamed with the fire of youth, his posture upright and proud on the back of his horse.
As the boy passed, he raised his spear high in salute, and Arya couldn’t help but smile. This boy, and all the others like him, were the future. They would lead the village into a new era, just as he had, and Pasola would remain the thread that wove their destinies together.
The elder beside him stood, dusting off his robes. "Come, Arya. The day is drawing to a close, and the celebration will soon begin."
Arya hesitated for a moment, casting one last glance at the field. The wind carried the sounds of laughter and hoofbeats to him, and he knew that the spirit of Pasola—its courage, its unity, its fierce but honorable competition—would endure long after he was gone.
With a deep breath, Arya rose to his feet. Merapu and Raja followed him, their movements slow but steady, like two old friends who had weathered every storm together. As they made their way back to the village, the setting sun bathed the landscape in golden light.
"Let’s go, my old friend," Arya murmured to Merapu, who nudged his shoulder affectionately. "Our time here is nearly done, but Pasola will live on."
And with that, Arya, his horses at his side, walked toward the future—his heart filled with the knowledge that Pasola, the festival of their ancestors, would remain eternal, carried forward by the generations yet to come.
Pasola Trails
Prologue: Pasola Celebration: Following Marapu's Steps
Chapter 1: The Vibrant Pasola Festival
Chapter 2: Bonds of Brotherhood
Chapter 3: The Challenges of Pasola
Chapter 5: The Aftermath of Pasola – Reflecting on Traditionils
Epilogue: The Everlasting Spirit of Pasola
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