O res mirabilis (Latin): Oh miraculous thing
Ini adalah judul cerita pendek yang saya ambil dari lagu Panis Angelicus yang pernah dinyanyikan Andrea Bocelli, Josh Groban, dan banyak lagi.Â
Cerpen ini saya tulis lebih dari 20 tahun yang lalu saat saya sangat terinspirasi oleh aktor yang memerankan Frodo Baggins di trilogy The Lord of the Rings. Siapa dia? Yak, tidak salah lagi. Dia adalah Elijah Wood.
Saat itu saya rupanya juga dalam fase yang sangat emo. Jadi jangan mencari hal-hal yang riang gembira di cerita-cerita saya, misalnya saja dalam cerita yang satu ini.
Oh ya satu lagi. Cerita ini ditulis dalam bahasa Inggris.Â
Selamat menikmati.
London, 1853
 "Hey, Sooty!"
A bunch of scruffy-looking chaps stood idly about, some leaning against the dirty brick wall behind them, picking their teeth or folding their arms on their chests. A young boy, walking timidly past them, made a tentative gesture as though he was about to turn around and run but a small voice inside his head warned him not to. Slowly he advanced, careful not to make jerking movements that would stir those bullies' attention toward him if their attention had not been toward him already.
"C'mere, lad!"
The young boy, pale, underfed, rickety, with hunched shoulders -- a weedy boy, they would call him -- came to a standstill. He bowed his head, shivering all over his body. He did not want to go to those men -- never wanted to comply with their commands.
Yet he always had to go. Or else.
***
That morning he had agreed to go to a house to clean the chimney, it being empty of its occupants during the holiday season. Aye, that was what he was -- a chimney sweep. His job was indeed cleaning chimneys when the residents of a house were out. It was not that he liked it that way but because that was what usually happened.
He was not too fond of his job but this was the only thing he could do when he was sent off from the orphanage where he used to live. He did not want to be a beggar and he spat at the idea of being a pickpocket. Being a chimney sweep was not that bad, especially during the holidays. Many families left their houses in London to delight in Christmas at their houses in the country. They usually wanted to have their city houses cleaned thoroughly so they sent their maids to find hands to help with the work. The boy had several offers already for a couple of days ahead and he was quite pleased with that.
Never mind though, about the pay. He eyed the five-penny coins in his palms bitterly, feeling his parched mouth. He had worked for hours and had gone out when the morning was still dark, and this was all he'd got. He forced a smile to the maid who had handed the money to him, bowed politely, and walked out of the house with his long brushes, a piece of ragged cloth used to cover his mouth (though it oftentimes did not help at all to ward off the dust), and his high white fabric hat (which was no longer white and of no use at all for his work).
Now with the five pence clasped in his hand he had to face the threatening men.
***
One of the men went tetchy. He unwrapped a filthy scarf from around his neck, threw it to the ground, crushed it with his equally dirty boot, and grabbed it back before hurling it in the boy's direction. It landed on the boy's neck with a loud wet smack, leaving a big blotch there, adding to the smears of dirt that were all over him.
The young boy twisted round, flushed with rage. His hand was fastened around his brushes. Roars of laughter stung in his ears.
"Yeah, we're callin' ye, pretty boy! We wanna invite you t'come t' our party. What say ye?"
Heat suffused the young boy's face at the mention of pretty boy, and didn't believe a word about the party they mentioned.
"The name's Timmy," he spoke through gritted teeth. "And count me out of the party." He turned round and walked quickly away from the men, but not quickly enough. Snorting in utter amusement, some of them had caught up with him, bouncing gleefully while blocking his way. Timmy stopped, his eyes barely able to hide his fear though he was trying to look bold by waving the brushes around.
"Aww, yer a pretty boy, alright!" purred one bloke who was standing too close -- his stale breath felt warm on Timmy's face.
"I've nuthin' for you!" Timmy's voice was tight. The men were closing in on him.
"No!" Timmy cried when a hand grabbed the brushes and tossed them away. There was no stopping this time. Those thugs snatched and pawed at him, stripping him off his shabby coat, searching for whatever they wanted to take from him. They got only the rag, which they promptly threw away, and tore at his already tattered shirt. Eventually they found the money, clutched tightly in his hand...
***
At times like this Timmy wondered why he had to grow older. Why could he not have stayed a lad forever so he did not have to leave the orphanage? He was thirteen when they decided he was mature enough to stand on his own. Timmy swallowed his bitterness -- they decided...? It had seemed more like they had kicked him out so that they did not have to spend money for bread on him.
Scrambling up, Timmy tried to forget the soreness of his body. He was lucky the men had not beaten him to death. He crawled slowly to get to his brushes and cloth, the two most important things he owned, and rose, painfully aware of his torn shirt because of the chilling breeze seeping into his bones.
Timmy gathered the brushes and the rag in one hand and vainly attempted to cover his bare skin with the other -- it dawned on him then that he had lost his coat as well. His heart ached at the realization that people stared disgusted at him as he advanced toward his dwelling place. It could hardly be called that -- it was a few planks of wood piled under the bridge -- and he knew he scarcely had anything else to wear hidden inside them.
There was a shirt he had used to wear before he was given this one, which could only mean one thing -- its state was more disreputable than this one -- Timmy drew a shaky breath -- it would have been before those ruthless men laid their hands on it. He prayed that the only other piece of clothing he had was decent enough for work the next day. He still had to find a coat, though, or he would be dead from the cold. Timmy sighed dejectedly. He had had to beg for that.
Trembling, the boy covered the distance to his place. There was no sign at all of the men that had tormented him.
***
Timmy tried to ignore the stern look and wrinkled nose the maid of the house gave at what he was wearing as he went to work the next morning. He knew he was far from clean and sweet smelling -- but what did that have to do with cleaning the chimney? The first moment he was inside the smokestack, poking the brushes up into the chimney, he would immediately be smothered with dust.
"Here's the key." The maid put it into Timmy's palm. She tilted her chin up, avoiding looking at the boy. "Lock the house after you're finished and leave the key under the flower pot over there. I won't be back until tomorrow morning but should you need anything, just go to the house where I live, next to the coffee house down the street." Timmy just nodded. He did not like the woman and the contempt she showed towards him. He only wanted to get into the house as soon as he could, and begin his work ...and finish it, too. Besides, being clothed only in his thin shirt, Timmy wanted to get inside quickly so he could get warm.
Winter wind blew down the chimney, sending cold gusts of air across Timmy's face and chills down his spine. The boy quivered slightly while his feet scuttled about to find a flat surface to stand on. He had finished for the day; he just needed to climb down the stack and leave the house. Payment could be collected the next day if he felt too weary to walk to the maid's house.
Hop! Timmy jumped down to the next brick and he took another step, but -- oh, no! He missed it this time and that resulted in an inevitable dive into the fireplace. Timmy flinched at the thought of him crashing against the hard floor -- only a split moment before it happened. A sickening crack and a pained shriek sounded in his ears, and faded into darkness.Â
When Timmy eventually came to, he found himself in a sitting position against the wall of the chimney, one leg folded in an awkward position beneath his body, pain flaring up his leg from his ankle.
Timmy tried to move the leg but the attempt only made him cry out for it hurt so much. In the end he could only lie there silently, cringing at the stinging ache every time he made a small movement.
After some time, Timmy eventually managed to stretch out his leg. It took some more muffled gasps and tears. Never had Timmy felt so much pain. Every movement made him feel sick and set his head swimming.
The day was getting darker and so was it inside the fireplace. Timmy did not realize how long he had sat there or what time it was. He could not make his leg or body move because he knew he would simply pass out again. He had no idea how he could get out of the house.
It was pointless to shout for help. Every window was tightly secured and the fireplace was far away from them, in any case. No one would hear him shout. Timmy could not expect the maid to return, either, for she had definitely stated that she would come back the following day. The room grew colder, and Timmy had nothing to keep him warm -- he had not had anything to eat either since the meagre breakfast he had eaten in the morning.
The boy tightened the only thing he was wearing that might warm him up -- the new coat he had got that morning from an old man living under the same bridge. Nothing fancy but at least he had something. Even that was hardly enough to ward off the harsh wind coming down the chimney. Timmy also prayed that snow would not fall that night. Otherwise...
Attempting to curl up Timmy tried not to think about how bad the situation could be were there snow as well. He pressed harder against the wall. Unlucky for him, the fire seemed not to have been lit in the grate for a while. There was no warmth remaining within the bricks of the wall. He was beginning to shiver.
Timmy squeezed his eyes shut but a tear slipped from beneath his lashes. Another biting blast of wind struck him, making him tremble even more. Choking sobs escaped his blue lips as memories of sitting in front of a warm fire in the common room at his orphanage flashed in front of his eyes. He had never been very happy there -- not with all the strict rules and a very harsh master -- but at least he had never been hungry or suffered from the cold weather too much. Timmy never wanted more than that or wished that he still had the parents he had never known. Being in the orphanage was luxury enough. He was fed and warm, it was all he'd ever known.
A long breath was taken in in an effort to clear his lungs, and a shaky puff was let out. Timmy opened his eyes but that was of no use. Dark was all he could see. Timmy had never minded dark, having always slept in it. But this time in the midst of the deadly chill night, dark only added to his misery. He could not help but weep in despair.
***
Humming -- at first soft but getting louder all the time -- were heard over Timmy's head. Timmy opened his eyes and gazed up. His mouth fell open as he caught sight of something above him. At first he thought he was dreaming but he finally realized that he was not, judging from the coldness that still bit at him.
It might still be freezing but it was not dark anymore -- for thousands and thousands of fireflies were fluttering over his head! Not only that, but they were also singing beautiful songs. Christmas carols, thought Timmy.
Timmy straightened up, utterly bewildered by what he was seeing. Where did all these creatures come from? It was impossible for them to be there -- it was too cold for them!
Then Timmy felt a change in the temperature. It gradually grew warmer until Timmy decided to take off his coat. He was still looking up, bliss adorning his features, which seemed to glisten in the darkness with a thin sheen of sweat. A burst of laughter escaped his lips at the beautiful patterns those fireflies were making with their dance. In the end Timmy joined them in their chorus, singing and clapping his hands joyfully.
Timmy could still feel the pain in his ankle but he barely heeded it. Â It might diminish later but he didn't care. It didn't matter anymore.
The End
By the way, inilah video dari Andrea Bocelli menyanyikan Panis Angelicus.
