You awaken to the sound of that mosquito, could it be the same one? And you open your eyes reluctantly but aware of your duty. You are a protector. The stars glimmer far in the black sky and the air pulses with the sound of insects. There is no other sound, no birds at this time of night, no stealth sounds of breaking twigs that would signify an elephant or some other animal. It is comfortable. You have been in this hut before since you reached manhood. No sounds from the other huts. You are comfortable in your post, in this time. Aware but unaware of voices of ancestors. You are comfortable. But you fold your arms around you in the gathering coolness and adjust your sarong to keep the heat of your body close. You are lying on your side propped on your left arm. Between dozing and awareness. You stay awake.
You dream in your awakeness. You dream of your ancestors, of their blood, the blood that courses in your body like water that courses from a sluice down to the paddy. That water is clear. That is a water of nourishment. That water provides. You dream in your awakeness about the slots and grooves that hold the rough wood panels that control the water. The water that brings life to the fields. You dream in your awakeness about the sounds the water makes. Gurgling. Sloshing. Pouring. Spilling. Turning. Whipping. Falling. Trickling. Water when it lies flat like at the surface of the wewa. But even that water you think, ripples slightly with an insect or a breeze or a drop that falls to it from the leaf of a kumbuk tree or the leaf itself, falling, landing, pierces but does not penetrate the surface of the water. The water is perturbed and moving in its way but noiseless to your ears. Maybe a dog could hear that water sound. But not you, a human.