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English to Indonesian: Terjemah Novel The Paladin General field: Art/Literary Detailed field: Printing & Publishing
Source text - English “It is because you are a very small animal
that you will be useful in the adventure before us.”
—A. A. Mime, Winnie-the-Pooh
The river of death has brimmed his banks,
And England’s far, and Honor a name,
But the voice of a schoolboy rallies the ranks,
“Play up! Play up! and play the game!”
—Sir Henry Newbolt, Vitai Lampada
PALADIN: One of the Twelve Peers or famous warriors of Charlemagne’s court, of whom the Count Palatine was the foremost; also fig. a knightly hero, renowned champion, knight errant.
—The Oxford English Dictionary
FOREWORD
THE HERO of this narrative is a real person. He is now in his fifties. His name is not Christopher Creighton.
This book is based on his extraordinary story, but the book is a novel and it employs the sort of license that is customary in a work of fiction. Perhaps only “Christopher” can say how closely and at what points the narrative coincides with the truth. I have done my best to insure that there are no errors of chronological or historical fact; if there are any such errors, they are mine alone, possibly the result of those re-orderings of reality that sometimes are done for dramatic purposes.
For generous assistance in the preparation of the book I should like to thank Jack and Rita Botley, Bill Cosgrove, Ted and Marjorie Hayes, Michael Korda, Marc Jaffe, Dan Johnson, Gaynor Johnson, Alan Maclean, Henry Morrison, Police Sergeant Donald Rumbelow, Ed Victor, and—especially—James Wright. And of course my very special thanks to “Christopher Creighton.” He is a remarkable man.
BRIAN GARFIELD
London and New York, 1979
PROLOGUE
London, 1965
IN THE CROWD stood a tall fair-haired man, fortyish, lean, muscular. His eyes were alert and his head, unlike most others, was not bowed. His swift glance swept along the route of the procession—Whitehall, the Cenotaph, a glimpse from here of Downing Street—and it was as if he were memorizing everything in sight so as never to forget this hour.
There was a dry bitter-cold east wind. The throng was immense and Londoners were still arriving to swell it. No one spoke. The only sounds came from drubbing feet and the mournful pound of the slow drums. The raised flags of many nations fluttered above the heads of standard-bearers in the crowd. The man recognized two of the people who held French flags aloft — he recalled their faces from the Resistance a quarter century ago and he was pleased to see they were still alive. The French- man was very old now and the woman, middle-aged, had an Oriental sort of face. She had saved his life once.
But he made no effort to make himself known to her.
In the biting cold the coffin, adorned by the chivalric insignia of a knight of the Order of the Garter, progressed slowly toward Trafalgar Square and the man watched its progress as he watched everything: with alert eyes that missed nothing. Beside him a woman wept openly and the man moved on past her, past men who were removing their hats and bowing their heads; he moved along behind the front rank of the crowd, keeping parallel to the procession. Newsreel and television cameras played across the scene, their lenses glinting dully the grey cold air, and upon a rooftop he saw a man in an RAF uniform draw himself to attention and raise his arm quivering salute.
Drawn by a compulsion he only half understood, he made his way steadily forward—he had a catlike ability to maneuver among them without drawing anyone’s attention more than momentarily—and once in Trafalgar Square he moved away from the procession’s route and increased his pace, walking swiftly on his long legs through Chandos Place and Henrietta Street and on along behind the Aldwych, everything deserted back here, shops closed up; he crossed Kingsway and skirted Lincoln’s Inn Fields—across Chancery Lane and finally through the back streets coming to post himself on a raised step from which, over the heads of the teeming silent crowds, he could see the face of St. Paul’s Cathedral. For an instant he remembered quite clearly the occasion on which that venerated structure had stood out alone amid the devastating fires of the Blitz.
His breath came in long easy streams of white vapor. He waited with the patience of a hunter in a blind.
He did not need to be nearer than this. He watched the royal car draw away and knew well enough what he’d see if he were inside: kings, queens, presidents, dictators, public servants, figures of substance, men and women of the armed services. By now Queen Elizabeth II and the royal party would be settled into their seats to await the cortege—the first occasion in recorded history when a reigning British monarch had attended the funeral services of a commoner.
The stray thought struck him that by exercising influence and persuasion he himself might have been marching in the place of one of the 108 Royal Navy officers and ratings who drew the lead coffin on its gun carriage up to St. Paul’s Cathedral. But it was better to remain anonymous as he always had done.
Mine eyes have seen the glory . . . The crowd was so still he could hear the ring of the hymn from within the cathedral but he was thinking not of this solemn ceremony and not of the great deeds of the statesman who after ninety years of strife and triumph was on his way to his final place of peace accompanied by such stately pageantry. No; he was thinking of the person, not the Prime Minister; the friend, not the hero. Tigger . . .
The man turned-put his back to the crowd and walked into the silent cold streets of winter. Now for the first time he ceased to withhold his tears; his eyes went opaque and moist-not so much in grief as in memory.
Translation - Indonesian “Karena kamu adalah binatang yang sangat kecil
maka kamu akan berguna dalam petualangan yang menghadang di depan kita.”
—A. A. Mime, Winnie-the-Pooh
Sungai kematian telah meluapi tepi-tepinya,
Dan England jauh disana, dan menghormati sebuah nama,
Tapi suara bocah sekolah mengumpulkan semua kelas,
“Bertandinglah! Bertandinglah! dan mainkan permainannya!”
—Sir Henry Newbolt, Vitai Lampada
PALADIN: Salah satu dari Dua-belas Jawara atau prajurit-prajurit ternama dari istana Charlemagne, yang diantara mereka Count Palatine adalah yang paling perkasa, juga tokoh pahlawan ksatria, jawara mumpuni.
—Kamus Bahasa Inggris Oxford
PENGANTAR
PAHLAWAN dari cerita ini adalah tokoh nyata. Sekarang usianya lima-puluhan. Namanya bukanlah Christopher Creighton.
Buku ini berdasarkan pada kisah hidupnya yang luar biasa, tapi buku ini adalah novel dan memakai semacam lisensi yang biasa dipakai dalam karya fiksi. Mungkin hanya “Christopher” yang dapat mengatakan seberapa dekat dan pada hal-hal apa cerita ini serupa dengan hal yang sebenarnya. Saya telah melakukan yang terbaik yang dapat saya lakukan untuk memastikan bahwa tidak ada kesalahan-kesalahan dalam hal kronologis atau fakta sejarah, jika terdapat kesalahan dalam hal apapun, sepenuhnya hal tersebut adalah milik saya, mungkin karena hasil dari penyusunan ulang realitas yang kadangkala dilakukan untuk tujuan-tujuan dramatis.
Untuk bantuan yang banyak sekali di dalam persiapan buku ini, saya ingin berterima kasih pada Jack dan Rita Botley, Bill Cosgrove, Ted dan Marjorie Hayes, Michael Korda, Marc Jaffe, Dan Johnson, Gaynor Johnson, Alan Maclean, Henry Morrison, Sersan Polisi Donald Rumbelow, Ed Victor, dan—khususnya—James Wright. Dan tentu saja terima kasih saya yang teramat khusus kepada “Christopher Creighton.” Dia seorang pria hebat.
BRIAN GARFIELD
London dan New York, 1979
PROLOG
London, 1965
DI TENGAH KERUMUNAN MASA berdiri seorang pria tinggi berambut tebal, empat-puluh tahunan, ramping, tegap berotot. Kedua matanya tampak selalu waspada dan kepalanya, tidak seperti kebanyakan orang yang hadir disitu, tidaklah tertunduk. Pandangannya yang cepat menyapu sepanjang rute arak-arakan – Whitehall, Cenotaph, sekilas pandang dari sini menuju Downing Street – dan seolah-olah dia sedang menghapalkan semua yang tampak di mata hingga dia tak akan pernah melupakan saat ini.
Angin timur yang dingin menusuk tulang pun berhembus. Kerumunan orang-orang luar biasa besar dan para Londoner masih saja terus berdatangan menjejali tempat itu. Tak ada yang bersuara. Satu-satunya suara berasal dari hentakan derap barisan dan pukulan lambat pada drum-drum pengiring. Kibaran bendera dari berbagai negara melambai-lambai diatas kepala para pemegang-panji di tengah kerumunan. Pria itu mengenali dua sosok diantara orang-orang yang menjunjung tinggi-tinggi bendera-bendera Perancis – dia mengenali kedua wajah orang itu dari kelompok Resistance seperempat abad yang lalu dan dia merasa senang melihat mereka berdua masih hidup. Pria Perancis itu sekarang sudah kelihatan tua dan si wanita, berusia paroh baya, memiliki bentuk wajah Oriental. Wanita itu pernah menyelamatkan nyawanya sekali.
Tapi dia tidak berusaha untuk membuat dirinya diketahui oleh wanita itu.
Dalam udara yang dingin, peti mati itu, yang dihiasi oleh lencana keksatriaan seorang ksatria dari The Order of the Garter , maju dengan perlahan menuju Trafalgar Square dan pria itu menyaksikannya maju sambil mengawasi semua. Dengan tatapan waspada yang tidak akan melewatkan satu hal pun. Disampingnya, seorang wanita menangis tersedu dan pria itu pun berlalu melewatinya, melintasi segerombol pria yang melepas topi dan menundukkan kepala; dia bergerak di belakang sepanjang barisan depan kerumunan itu, berusaha untuk sejajar dengan jalannya prosesi. Kamera televisi dan berita tampak di berbagai tempat, lensa-lensanya berkilauan temaram dalam udara dingin yang murung, dan di sebuah atap dia melihat seorang pria memakai seragam RAF menampakkan diri dan memberikan penghormatan terakhirnya.
Dipengaruhi oleh suatu keharusan yang hanya dipahaminya setengah-setengah, dia pun terus maju dengan mantap – dia mempunyai kemampuan menyelinap luar biasa diantara kerumunan tanpa menarik perhatian siapapun tidak lebih dari sesaat – dan ketika sudah sampai Trafalgar Square dia pun menjauh dari rute prosesi, mempercepat langkah-langkah, berjalan tangkas dengan kaki panjangnya melintasi Chandos Place dan Henrietta Street di sepanjang belakang Aldwych, dibelakang sini semua dibiarkan begitu saja, toko-toko tutup; dia pun menyeberangi Kingsway lalu menyusuri Lincoln’s Inn Fields — melintasi Chancery Lane dan akhirnya melalui jalan-jalan pintas muncul menempatkan dirinya sendiri pada anak tangga menaik yang darinya, diatas kerumunan sunyi orang-orang yang penuh sesak, dia dapat melihat bagian muka St. Paul’s Cathedral. Sekilas dia dapat mengingat dengan sangat jelas kejadian dimana bangunan yang terhormat itu terpaksa harus berdiri sendirian ditengah-tengah gempuran Blitz yang menghancurkan segalanya.
Napasnya berhembus perlahan disertai dengan uap putih. Dia pun menunggu dengan sabar bagai seorang pemburu dalam kegelapan.
Dia tidak perlu berusaha untuk dapat lebih dekat dari jarak ini. Dia menyaksikan mobil kerajaan meluncur pergi dan mengetahui dengan benar apa yang akan dilihatnya jika ia ada di dalam mobil itu: para raja, ratu, presiden, diktator, pelayan publik, tokoh-tokoh pengganti, pria dan wanita dari ketentaraan. Sekarang ini Queen Elizabeth II dan keluarga kerajaan sudah duduk dengan nyaman di tempat duduk mereka menunggu arak-arakan itu – peristiwa pertama kali dalam catatan sejarah dimana bangsawan Inggris menghadiri pemakaman seseorang yang sama sekali bukan keturunan darah biru.
Pikiran melayang-layang dalam benaknya, bahwa dengan memberikan pengaruh dan bujukan maka dia akan dapat berbaris pada barisan para perwira 108 Royal Navy dan menimang-nimang siapakah yang akan memimpin peti mati itu di depan dengan kereta kuda menuju St. Paul’s Cathedral. Tapi lebih baik bagi dirinya untuk tetap tak dikenal sebagaimana yang dilakukannya selama ini.
Mata ini telah menyaksikan kejayaan … Kerumunan para pelayat ini sangat senyap hingga dia dapat mendengarkan dering hime di dalam katedral tapi dia tidaklah memikirkan upacara yang khidmat ini dan juga tidak memikirkan tentang jasa-jasa luar biasa dari negarawan ini yang setelah sembilan puluh tahun perjuangan dan kemenangan saat ini sedang menuju peristirahatan terakhirnya disertai arak-arakan kenegaraan. Tidak; dia sedang memikirkan sosok pribadi itu, bukan sang Perdana Menteri; seorang teman; bukan seorang pahlawan. Tigger . . .
Si pria pun berpaling-membelakangi kerumunan dan berjalan menuju jalanan di tengah dinginnya musim salju. Sekarang untuk pertama kalinya dia tidak menahan air mata; kedua matanya pun mulai memburam dan berair—terasa lebih menyayat dalam kenangan.
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I'm an Indonesian & Javanese native speaker with more than 10 years of experience in the English-Indonesian-Javanese translation field.
Professional Translator: Localization, General Translation, Website Translation, Medical Translation, Translation of Manuals & Guidelines, Machine Translation Post-Editing/MTPE, Game Localization, Android Apps Translation, Novels & Books/E-Books Translation, Subtitle Translation.
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I'll translate and/or write any content (no pornography or gambling) with SEO compliance!
Localization services that bring new understanding and enlightenment to local readers!
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Educational background in Indonesian language & literature with Bachelor's Degree.
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Keywords: English, Indonesian, translator, editor, content writer, bahasa Indonesia, bahasa Inggris, localization, game translation, android translation
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