Eman inclined his head, “Indeed,” he replied, his tone grave and unwavering. “Your uncle.”
Doctor Zein’s brow furrowed, a flicker of caution entering his voice, “And what makes you so certain, Master, that my uncle is destined to stand as my greatest adversary?”
Eman drew a slow, deliberate breath before answering, “Because such a fate is inscribed within the annals of ancient lore records decipherable only by the custodians of Aramia’s legacy. I am one such custodian.”
Doctor Zein and Zara turned to one another, their eyes locking in mutual astonishment.
“You are one of them?” they echoed together, their voices a blend of disbelief and dawning understanding.
Their expressions betrayed a mixture of shock and reluctant reverence, an unspoken acknowledgement of a truth too formidable to deny.
Neither spoke. Silence gathered in the room like mist at dawn, thick with the weight of revelation.
They began to grasp that what Eman had shared was no conjecture, no idle speculation drawn from fragments of rumour or legend.
It was knowledge, structured, guarded, and preserved through generations. A truth not easily dismissed.
Eman inclined his head with quiet solemnity, then rose from the tatami with the grace of a man well-acquainted with ritual.
He crossed the room in silence, his steps measured, purposeful, until he reached a wooden cupboard nestled unobtrusively in the far corner.
With deliberate care, he opened its door.
Behind neatly arranged layers of garments, there lay a wooden panel, flush with the rear wall of the cupboard, unassuming to the untrained eye, yet subtly distinct in its craftsmanship.
He pressed the upper right corner with a precise touch, then drew the panel gently towards him.
It yielded with a soft click.
Concealed beyond it was a narrow recess, no more than half a metre wide and a third as deep, an alcove untouched by time.
Within this hidden space rested a long box, rich in hue, a deep, timeworn brown, fashioned from solid hardwood, its surface polished to a quiet sheen.
It was perhaps eighty centimetres in length, and bore upon its lid a most striking motif the head of a tiger, mouth agape in a silent roar, its twin fangs rendered with fierce symmetry.
The carving was meticulous, each groove deep, each line sharp, testament to an artisan’s unwavering hand, and to the gravity of whatever secrets the box might guard.
Eman bore the long wooden box with a reverence that spoke volumes, laying it gently before Doctor Zein and Zara.
His palms lingered on its surface, as though the very act of letting go might betray its significance.
Then, slowly, he turned his gaze towards Zara.
“Zara,” he said softly, with a glint of quiet mischief in his eyes, “how old do you suppose I truly am?”
Zara blinked, slightly taken aback by the oddity of the question, but answered with a hesitant smile.
“Last year I baked you a birthday cake. I was quite certain then that you were seventy. So now... seventy-one, surely.”
Eman let out a low, almost wistful chuckle, nodding as if indulging a private joke, “Yes... that is what I allowed you all to believe. You and Dadan most of all.”
He drew a slow, deliberate breath, his expression growing solemn as his eyes drifted between Zara and Doctor Zein.
“But listen well, Zara... and you, Mr Zein. The truth is this... my age is not seventy-one, nor anything so ordinary. My true age... is four hundred and fifty years.”
Zara and Doctor Zein stared, their eyes widening in disbelief.
Almost as if bewitched by the weight of revelation, they spoke in unison, “Four hundred and fifty years?!”
CLATTER!
A sharp sound rang out from near the doorway, the unmistakable crash of something dropped in haste.
Eman merely smiled, unshaken, “Come in, Dadan.”
KNOCK! KNOCK!
Two polite taps preceded the creak of the sliding door.
Dadan stepped inside, his face awash with astonishment.
In his trembling hands he held an empty wooden plate likely the very object that had slipped from his grasp.
“Four hundred and fifty years, Sensei?!” he blurted out, his voice a mixture of shock and awe.
Eman turned to him with a chuckle, his tone half-reproachful, half-indulgent, “So… you were eavesdropping, eh?”
Dadan’s head dipped instantly, “F-Forgive me, Sensei. I... I couldn’t help it. I was simply... stunned.”
Eman regarded him for a moment, then gave a slow, almost paternal nod, “No harm done. Now, tell me! Has the meal been prepared? Bring everything in, if so.”
“Yes, Sensei!” Dadan responded, almost with relief.
Eman’s voice deepened, growing solemn, “You’ll dine with us tonight. Sit. Eat. And listen well what I am about to share must never be forgotten.”
Dadan inclined his head solemnly before hurrying back towards the kitchen.
With quiet efficiency, he placed the empty plates upon the low table, then moved briskly to and fro, ferrying dish after dish from the kitchen to the room.
Within moments, the table was adorned with an elegant array of the finest delicacies he had so meticulously prepared.
“We shall dine first,” Eman said, his voice laced with a serene smile. “Dadan, see to it that Mister Zein and Zara are served.”
“At once, Sensei,” Dadan replied with crisp obedience.
He stepped forward, gesturing courteously for Doctor Zein and Zara to draw closer to the table.
With a quiet dignity befitting a disciple of the old ways, he selected two wooden plates and began to portion the food with deliberate care.
Each dish was arranged with an eye for detail and balance.
The rice was steaming and white, the miso soup fragrant and clear, the main course rich in savoury depth, while the vegetables, lightly blanched, retained their vibrant hues.
A small side of pickled roots added a traditional flourish.
“Please, Mr Zein... And Zara,” Dadan murmured, offering the plates with both hands, as was the custom.
Zein and Zara inclined their heads in gratitude, receiving the meal with quiet reverence.
Eman, having resumed his seat at the head of the table, watched them with a faint, knowing smile.
A tranquil silence settled over the room, broken only by the gentle clatter of wooden chopsticks and the soft hum of low conversation.
The moment was peaceful, deceptively so.
For all of them sensed, in the stillness between bites, that once the final morsel was consumed, the tide of truth would return.
And with it, the weight of a tale centuries in the making.