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English to Indonesian - Standard rate: 0.05 USD per word
English to Indonesian: The Runaway McBride General field: Art/Literary Detailed field: Poetry & Literature
Source text - English DRUMORE CASTLE, SCOTLAND, 1885
It was February, the coldest, most miserable February in Scottish memory. Out on the North Sea a tempest raged, and fishermen had long since drawn in their nets and steered their boats to the safety of the harbor. Gusts of raging wind
and torrential rains blasted the coastline, driving everyone to find shelter.
John Sievewright, the landlord of the local tavern, dried off a tankard as he glanced out the window at the overcast sky. “It’s the witch’s doing,” he said. “Lady Valeria McEcheran,” he added respectfully for the benefit of the stranger who had taken shelter from the storm and was
nursing a whiskey in a dark corner.
The few locals in the bar bobbed their heads. They were well aware of the name of the celebrated witch who had come to live at the castle when she became a widow.
“Drumore Castle is her son- in- law’s place,” Sievewright felt obliged to add. He was a businessman first and foremost, and he made a point of making strangers feel welcome, especially strangers who ordered the best whiskey
the house had to offer.
One of the locals took up the story. “When the storm dies, it will be all over for Lady Valeria.”
“Aye,” said another. “The witch will be gone, and
another will take her place.”
The landlord’s wife straightened from the table she had been scouring. “What superstitious nonsense!” she declared.
“No one believes in witches these days. We’re living in the nineteenth century, for heaven’s sake.”
No one contradicted her. She was a newcomer to the area, having married Sievewright a scant ten years before.
Besides, she was English. One had to make allowances for furreigners.
Mrs. Sievewright sucked in a breath when a sudden shriek came from outside.
“It’s only the wind,” her husband soothed.
An ancient graybeard spoke to his tankard of ale.
“Could be a banshee,” he offered. “They only comes out when someone is near death, someone like a witch. She’s calling her own.”
Mrs. Sievewright shivered. Her voice wasn’t early as confident as before. “That’s only a fairy tale. She can’t be a witch. She is a great lady, isn’t she?”
Another sudden shriek had the landlord’s wife scurrying to the back of the bar counter. There were subdued chuckles, but not from the landlord. He looked at each customer with a steely eye. Few could withstand that hard stare, and they looked away.
“Dinna fash yerself, m’dear,” Sievewright said, then, remembering that his wife was English, translated from the vernacular. “Don’t upset yourself, my dear. It’s not the storm that tells us her ladyship is not long for this world. The family is gathering. Her three grown grandsons are already there. They wouldna travel in this kind of weather unless they were sent for.”
“What of the rest of the family?” There was a quaver in her voice. “I don’t trust those trains. What if the wind has blown their train over? There have been accidents before now.”
Her husband gave a reassuring laugh. “There will be no trains out in this weather.” He spoke with as much confidence as he could muster. In fact, he’d never been on a train and wouldn’t travel on one even if someone paid him. “Take my word for it, Esther. They’ll be holed up in some comfortable
inn at the border, waiting for the storm to pass.”
The wind had lost some of its bluster, and the shrieks had died to a moaning lament.
“That would be the fairy bagpipes calling the witch
home to her own,” a voice piped up.
Someone coughed into his hand. Another slurped his beer.
Mrs. Sievewright knew when she was being mocked.
She lit a candle from an oil lamp on the counter. “I’m going upstairs to see to the little ones,” she said, her chin jutting aggressively.
“Aye,” said her husband, “you do that, lass.”
She pushed through the door to the vestibule and quickly mounted the stairs. The Sievewrights had three boys, only a year or two apart, and the hurricane-like storm had made no impression on them. They were snuggled together in the big bed, sleeping blissfully.
Translation - Indonesian KASTIL DRUMORE, SKOTLANDIA, 1885
Saat itu adalah Februari, bulan Februari terdingin, paling manyedihkan dalam kenangan tentang Skotlandia. Di luar sana, Laut Utara tengah berkecamuk penuh kemarahan, dan para nelayan telah lama menarik diri ke dalam sarangnya, dan menambatkan perahu-perahu mereka dengan aman di pelabuhan. Hembusan angin yang mengamuk serta hujan deras menghantam tepi pantai, memaksa semua orang mencari perlindungan.
John Sieverwright, sang pemilik dari kedai minum setempat, mengeringkan gelas bir sembari menatap ke luar jendela, jauh ke arah langit temaram. “Ini akibat perbuatan para penyihir,” ujarnya. “Lady Valeria McEcheran,” Ia menambahkan minuman dengan penuh hormat untuk orang asing yang berlindung dari badai dan menyibukkan diri dengan Wiski di sudut gelap.
Beberapa warga lokal di bar menegakkan kepala mereka. Mereka tahu nama penyihir ternama yang telah tinggal di Kastil tersebut ketika ia menjadi janda.
“Kastil Drumore adalah kepunyaan menantunya,” Sievewright merasa perlu untuk menambahkan. Ia adalah pebisnis, itu hal yang pertama dan yang terpenting, dan ia tahu pasti caranya membuat orang asing merasa diterima dengan baik, khususnya orang asing yang memesan wiski terbaik yang ditawarkan kedai tersebut.
Salah seorang warga lokal melanjutkan cerita tersebut, “Ketika badai berhenti, maka semua akan berakhir bagi Lady Valeria,”
“Aye,” ujar yang lain. “Penyihir tersebut akan lenyap, dan yang lain akan segera mengambil alih tempatnya.”
Istri sang pemilik kedai menatap dari meja yang digosoknya. “Tahayul omong kosong!” sergahnya. “Tak ada seorangpun yang percaya tentang tukang sihir saat ini. Demi Tuhan. Kita ini tinggal di abad kesembilanbelas.”
Tidak ada yang membantahnya. Wanita itu adalah pendatang baru di wilayah tersebut, menikah dengan Sievewright kurang lebih sepuluh tahun sebelumnya. Disamping itu, ia adalah wanita Inggris. Mereka membuat pengecualian untuk orang asing.
Nyonya Sievewright menahan nafas ketika sebuah jeritan tiba-tiba terdengar dari luar.
“Itu hanya angin,” suaminya menenangkan.
Seorang tua berjanggut kelabu berbicara dengan cangkir bir keras-nya “Bisa jadi itu banshee,” ujarnya pelan. “Mereka hanya keluar ketika seseorang hampir mati, seseorang seperti penyihir. Dia tengah memanggil miliknya sendiri.”
Nyonya Sievewright menggigil. Suaranya tidak lagi penuh percaya diri seperti sebelumnya. “Itu kan hanya dongeng. Tidak mungkin wanita itu adalah penyihir. Dia adalah lady yang agung, bukan?”
Jeritan panjang lain terdengar, menjadikan istri sang pemilik kedai berlari ke belakang meja bar. Terdengar suara terkekeh pelan, tapi bukan dari sang pemilik kedai. Ia melihat ke arah masing-masing pelanggannya dengan pandangan dingin. Beberapa orang tidak tahan ditatap setajam itu, dan mereka berpaling ke arah lain.
“Dinna fash yerself, m’dear,” ujar Sievewright dalam Bahasa Skotlandia, kemudian mengingat bahwa istrinya adalah berkebangsaan Inggris, ia menerjemahkan bahasa daerah yang digunakannya barusan. “Jangan khawatir, Sayang. Bukan badai yang mengatakan pada kita bahwa sang lady tak lagi lama usianya di dunia. Keluarganya tengah berkumpul. Tiga cucu lelakinya yang telah dewasa sudah berada di sana. Mereka tidak akan datang dalam cuaca seperti ini kecuali mereka datang karena hal itu.”
“Bagaimana anggota keluarga lainnya?” Ada getaran dalam suaranya. “Aku tak percaya kereta api itu. Bagaimana jika angin meniup kereta api tersebut? Sudah ada kecelakaan sebelum ini.”
Suaminya tertawa kecil, berupaya menenteramkan. “Tidak ada kereta api yang berjalan dalam cuaca seperti ini.” Ia berbicara dengan sisa keyakinan yang terkumpul. Kenyataannya, ia tak pernah naik kereta dan tidak akan bepergian menggunakannya, bahkan bila seseorang membayarnya. “Ingatlah kata-kataku ini, Esther. Mereka akan bersembunyi di beberapa penginapan yang nyaman di perbatasan, menunggu badai berlalu.
Angin baru saja kehilangan suara gemuruhnya, dan suara jeritan tersebut menghilang, berubah menjadi desah ratapan.
“Itu pastilah lantunan musik para peri memanggil sang penyihir pulang ke rumah,” sebuah suara terdengar.
Seseorang terbatuk sembari menutup mulutnya. Yang lain menyeruput gelas birnya.
Nyonya Siewvewright sadar bahwa orang-orang tersebut menggodanya. Ia mengangkat lilin dari lampu minyak di atas meja kasir. “Aku akan naik untuk melihat si kecil,” ujarnya, dagunya nampak menonjol dengan keras.
“Aye,” ujar suaminya, “Lakukanlah, sayang.”
Ia mendorong pintu ruang depan dan dengan cepat naik ke atas tangga. Keluarga Sievewrights memiliki tiga orang putra, masing-masing hanya terpisah dua tahun, dan angin-badai ini sama sekali tidak mempengaruhi mereka. Mereka meringkuk bersama-sama di ranjang yang besar, tidur dengan bahagia.
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Years of experience: 15. Registered at ProZ.com: Sep 2009.
I’m an English to Indonesia translator. I provide high quality and reliable translation service. I have handled various translation materials like articles, websites, game, social media, correspondences for personal and Non-Government Organizations, and books. Also one of official Linguist for TermWiki (Sidharta Taha).
You can reach me 24/7 by email at [email protected] or Skype at sidharta.taha. I will do my best to respond your message as soon as possible.
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