The Tropical Sun - Belief, Love and Hate

The Tropical Sun - Belief, Love and Hate Page 2

by J. S. Philippe

  ~~~~~

  After the rainstorm during the past few days, the early morning sun over the eastern hills shone bright and watery. The skies were clear again and the wind had dropped, although the sound of the surf still drowned out the dawn chorus. Wayan emerged onto his porch, having slept well. He looked around. A beautiful day he thought.

  As he ambled past the house of his middle son, he caught the faint sounds of a young woman’s soft giggling. It brought back intensely warm memories of his early married days, and injected a happy spring into his step as he walked briskly onto the beach to wet his bare feet in the surging foam.

  It was low tide and some scattered pieces of jetsam lay on the damp sand: coconut husks, coral pieces, shells, some leaves, seaweed, wood of various sizes and shapes. Wayan also saw a couple of shiny sea sponges which had come adrift from their holdfasts on the sea floor. Smiling, he picked up the sponges and walked up to Puteri’s kitchen where he could smell native coffee on the brew as she prepared their sarapan.

  “What are those, Grampa?” Untung asked.

  “Ah well, that’s a question!.. I think they’re plants from the sea.”

  “But your uncle Bandri thinks they’re made from small animals,” Puteri said, as she poured out Wayan’s steaming black drink.

  “Can I see?” The boy held out his hands. “What’s inside?”

  Wayan broke open the stiff, dark, glossy, wet object.

  “You see, it looks a bit like coconut husk inside,” he explained to the young boy.

  “Why have you got it, Grampa?”

  “This..” And then he got up to find a soft brown bath sponge “This is what we use it for!”

  “Eeeeah – it’s all slimy.”

  “But when it dries, and we wash it out – we get a sponge!”

  “And does the soap come from the sea?”

  Wayan thwacked his hand down on the table.

  “Aaah – Bandri’s soap!.. Well, that is ‘something else’!”

  Wayan and Puteri laughed.

  “That!.. I don’t think I should tell you what that’s made out of?” Wayan smiled enigmatically at his grandson.

  “Why?”

  “Because, you might not use it again!”

  “Why?”

  Puteri handed Wayan one of the waxy soapy lumps, and he passed it down to Untung.

  “Will you still use it, if I tell you?”

  Wayan gave the boy a broad smile. Untung looked at the lump, and then back at his grampa, nodding hesitantly.

  “It’s made by boiling sea water and honeycomb and ‘pig fat’!, and..” Wayan sniffed the brownish lump, adding “And calamansi juice, I think.”

  Untung stared at the odd shaped lump in his hands.

  “It comes from pigs!?” the boy exclaimed in astonishment.

  His mother laughed.

  “And from bees!” she told him, smiling and running her hand lovingly through her son’s hair.

  “But honey comes from bees?” said Untung definitely.

  “And so it does!” said Wayan as he scooped a dollop of the amber syrup into his coffee using a wooden utensil, and stirred.

  Next Wayan stuck his finger into the bamboo pot of forest honey, sucked his sticky finger, and then offered the pot to Untung. Puteri frowned, but said nothing. Grandfather and grandson smacked their lips, enjoying the fragrant smoothness that ran sweetly over their tongues.

  Walking back to his house, Wayan thought about honey and bees. Now would be a good time to hunt for honey. The little bees would be easy to spot on such a sunny morning, and they needed some more honeycomb before the heavy rains set in.

  From the kitchen beside his house, he casually picked up his honey-hunting equipment and dropped them into a rattan backpack. Endah was still asleep, so he opted not to wake her. After picking up his bow and quiver, he put on his nipa hat. Walking the short distance to the edge of the village, he stepped over the low wall and out into the surrounding forest.

  Just under the spreading branches of the old acacia tree at the edge of the forest proper, he paused. There were several paths he could choose. Along the coast southwards ran the dappled, green-gladed sandy path. Off to the right of the sandy path, underneath arching denser vegetation, wound a route up through the jungle towards the mountains. To his right, past the village ran the route west, along the coast past Bahoi, and then eventually across and down to Manado. There was also a sloping smaller path, between the others, that zig-zagged up towards an area of woodland that had plenty of fallen and rotting tree trunks.

  Within a short while he was in dense vegetation with multi-coloured flowers arrayed amongst the myriad shades of green foliage. The old woodland was full of humid fragrances, birdsong and the murmuring of innumerable bees at pasture.

  Wayan stopped for some private moments in a particular glade, where a group of ornately carved wooden posts stood in a partially cleared area. He then walked on further into the wood, inspecting the visiting bees on the flowers.

  There were lots of black bees, as tiny as ants. Many of the other bees were quite small honeybees with furry brown striped abdomens. Some of the bees were very big wild honeybees with furry black and white or fawn-yellow stripes on their abdomens.

  Today, he looked particularly at the smaller honeybees with brown striped bodies. He watched as they landed, clung on and stuck their heads into the flowers, moved around a little and then took off for another flower. Patiently, he watched until he noticed a couple of the satisfied insects fly off back to their home, somewhere nearby. Following them, it wasn’t long before he located their nest in the hollow of an old ebony tree.

  “You’re not a rotten tree,” he mused, almost silently to himself.

  A little later he found what he was looking for - a honeybee colony in an old rotten tree trunk lying on the forest floor.

  “Aaah.. just right,” he whispered in a confidential tone, as if he was speaking to the little bees flying frenetically in and out of the entrance.

  Putting his backpack and bow on the ground, he gathered large green leaves, laying them on the forest floor, and then handfulls of dryish sticks which he placed on top of the leaves. In the middle of the sticks he added some carefully-chosen, dry, mossy kindling, and then some of the fibrous kindling he had brought with him. On his knees now, he took out his equipment - humming quietly to himself and the busy bees. Picking up the old dry bamboo stalk, about the length of his forearm, he pushed some dry fibres into the hole at the bottom. Placing the bottom end strategically in the kindling, he propped the other end still with his stomach. Next he wrapped a small charred piece of fabric around the sharp end of a chip of obsidian lava. With practised skill, Wayan quickly rasped the chip down the length of bamboo towards the kindling - leaning over and carefully blowing, gently, just gently and then a little more as the glowing fabric on the tip of the chip grew brighter. A little plume of smoke appeared from the kindling, and then a tiny flame.

  “First time,” he mumbled with contentment.

  Now he arranged the smaller fuel around the burning kindling, and then larger sticks. Once the sticks were well-alight he wrapped the leaves around and tied it into a sheaf-like bundle. Soon, masses of whitish smoke poured out of the bundle, which he placed between him and the entrance to the bee house. The buzzing sounds grew to fever pitch as more and more bees became panicked into incredibly fast moving dots in the air by the thick smoke, which wafted up and out through the trees.

  He pulled Agung’s short knife from its hiding place in his nipa hat. After gazing for a moment at the distinctive tool, contentedly he started chipping away the soft wood around the entrance. Around him, the forest lived busily as the birds, insects and other animals called and clattered in the background. Wayan worked steadily within the pleasant smelling clouds emanating from the smoker, while the bees buzzed about him harmlessly.

  Gradually he uncovered the bunch of combs, hanging parallel to each other from the top of the wooden cavity. For a few moments he st
udied the hoards of jiggling bees covering the combs, and then directed more smoke into the cavity. More bees gave up and abandoned their treasure trove.

  Kneeling, he reached his hand in and slowly pulled off the first delicate waxen comb. He glanced at the familiar but amazing hexagon structure, before putting it in the backpack. Then, he reached in for the second comb, which he could feel was heavier and full of the golden honey. He inspected the beautiful honeycomb, where the top of each little cell had been capped by the bees using fresh cream-coloured wax..

  Pain stabbed him in the back of the neck!

  Dropping the honeycomb, he clutched his neck with a startled yell. His fingers fumbled into something sticking out – thin and wooden, intensely painful. He twisted his arms around to try and get at the thing - with an abrupt shock realising it was an arrow!

  Another arrow spiked brutely deep into his side!

  Why?! Who is it?! He couldn’t understand.

  Groaning, his face contorted with the searing pain, as the poison racing in his blood took its effect on the nerves and muscles. His spirit screamed to get rid of the arrows! The arrow shaft in his neck snapped off in his hand. The barbed stone arrowheads, as sharp as needles and plastered with poison, had buried deep into his flesh. Yanking at the arrow in his side, the shaft came away leaving the head inside - a trickle of blood was all that he could see. A third arrow stung his thigh.

  Cursing, he grabbed his bow and snatched out an arrow from the quiver that still lay on the ground. Fighting now, he got to his feet. Fingers stiffening, he nocked it onto the tautened cord. Turning and ducking, he strained with blurring vision to look for the attacker. Yet another arrow buried itself in his back. Wayan swung round, squinting desperately.

  “Di manakah anda? - Haram!” - “Where are you? - Bastard!” he swore in an anger that seared his mouth.

  No answer came. His fading eyesight could see no-one in the leafy forest. And now the cruel injustice caught in his gullet.

  “Bastard! - Coward!”

  He let loose the single arrow, somewhere, missing. He couldn’t find his quiver! Ugly anger morphed into a sickening flood of despair, and then into choking panic. Struggling to catch his breath, he started running, downhill, home?!

  Pain, tight strangling pain, coursed down across his shoulders and crushed his chest. Gasping “can’t breathe! - can’t breathe!” he tripped, crashing down into the undergrowth. Staggering to his feet, bowless, he fell again, unsteadily onto one knee, madly gasping for air, helpless.

  Another arrow hit his numbed body and then, much harder still, a clarity struck. In this excruciating moment, with his body failing, he knew many things. Soon, very soon, he would leave this world. He would leave his family – leave the ones he loved with every fibre of his being! He would leave Endah, his childhood sweetheart, leave his precious sons and daughters, leave his grandchildren, and the children he hoped for Ayu. He would leave dear Rukma and everyone he loved in Likupang. In wretched yearning, he reached inside himself for strength, seeing their faces as his spirit reached out to touch them, whimpering “Love.. love you..”

  Wayan raised his eyes to the all-seeing Mother Spirit, and stared fully into her sunrays piercing between the trees. His spirit pleaded “Save them..!”

  Teetering, he fell forward, headlong onto the forest floor, his face ploughing into the deep leaf litter. Only now did he hear the rustle of feet as someone stood over him. Unable to turn his head, Wayan strained for a last breath before his spirit slipped away, sensing the musky full-bloodedness of the earth.

  3 Hope and Yearning

  Shading his eyes from the glaring sun, Bandri scanned the trees further up the mountain, and then called to his younger brother.

  “Harta.. Look up there!”

  His brother scrambled up the little ravine to join him.

  Several dark crescent shapes hung amongst the branches of the towering trees ahead. Clambering up the slope, they reached a flatter area and stood under the first tree. Bandri studied the shapes high above and then the tree’s branches below it. He walked on and gazed up at the next tree, deciding that it was easier to climb.

  “This one I think.”

  Bandri dropped his bow and untied his quiver. Shrugging the coconut coir rope off his shoulder, he put the rattan backpack on the forest floor. Bending over, he retrieved the few items they had carried up the foothills of Tongkoko. He felt beads of perspiration trickling down his bare back, as the heat started to build. They had set out at first light but now the morning sun had climbed higher in the sky.

  In the dappled shade of the small clearing there was a peaceful tranquility. Within the surrounding shrubby vegetation he could hear the calls of male birds of paradise - detectable from amongst the background clamorous hum of the rainforest. Around the blue pea vine flowers, the scented air danced with the iridescence of tree nymph butterflies, lifting, fluttering, settling.

  He turned to look for Harta. His kid brother was sitting on a fallen trunk in the shade of the acacia trees - looking back the way they had come.

  Bandri sniffed with acceptance and joined him, choosing the patch of ferns in front of the trunk. Flopping down on the ground, Bandri draped his legs amongst the soft leaves with his arms spread apart over the mossy log. The light breeze rising up the escarpment cooled their bare chests and rustled the foliage around them.

  They surveyed the magnificent view. They were high enough to oversee the immense forests on the lower slopes, all the way around to the right. Away to the left bulged the high mountainous peak of Klabat, still shrouded in wispy white clouds.

  The thick dark-green canopy made a rolling continuous carpet down to the coast, dotted with coloured trees in bloom. A thin mist steamed off the lush vegetation. To Bandri it seemed as if he could step out and walk on the tops of the trees back to his nipa and bamboo house by the beach.

  Beyond the sumptuous carpet at their feet lay the turquoise blue of the bay, and beyond the bay lay the islands. From this high up, he could see the coral scribbled in the sea around the islands - lustrous green lagoons inside with long streaks of foam tailing away from the reef. The almost-bent line of the ocean horizon stretched across, and above it all was the incandescent sun.

  Bandri focused his eyes on Bangka Island, always liking to study its outline. It reminded him of a whale in the act of breaking the surface of the sea, like a motionless deep green monster. The central peak resembled the fin on the back of the monster. At one end he could see a plume of steaming, malodorous fumes from the hot springs he remembered playing in when he was a boy. He imagined the fumes as the animal breathing out, just before sucking in another deep breath to plunge back into the depths of the unending ocean.

  Sometimes he wondered whether there was an end to the ocean - but it looked like it was endless. When the family had paddled all the way out to the biggest island, and when they climbed to the highest point, they could see no other land out there. There was nothing as far as the eye could see - nothing as far as the taut line between the restless blue water and the open sky above. He remembered so clearly standing there on the summit of that island with his father. Bandri took in a deep breath.

  The pain tore at his very sanity, nagging him into violent revenge. Seven moons had come and gone, and each and every day he had hurt, and when the pain hurt too much Bandri thought of the summit of that island where he and his father had stood together, proud and happy.

  “I can see Bahoi from here,” Harta muttered, the scowl on his face reflecting the hatred in his voice.

  Just then, the brothers felt a slight tremor beneath them, which stopped almost as soon as it had started. They were used to the occasional shaking of the ground.

  “Tongkoko mempunyai gatal.” - “Tongkoko has an itch,” Bandri quipped, clouting his young brother on the leg. Harta rather liked being referred to like a mountain and a smile flickered through the scowl as he shrugged his silent reply.

  Bandri looked in the direction of Bahoi; he c
ouldn’t see their houses but he could see the inlet on the other side of the mangrove swamps and the tops of the trees that would be around the Java village. The pain wrenched his stomach, spilling sourness onto his tongue. He took a swig from the pig-skin water container, and then passed it to Harta.

  “Try not to think about Bahoi,” said Bandri. “This season we’ll try to get the boat ready.” Waving an arm over the splendid forests below and the inviting blue of the bay between the mainland and the islands, he added “Look how beautiful the world is!”

  They resumed their work, looking around for some suitable leaves and dry sticks. Bandri tutored his younger brother, as they wrapped the long green leaves around the sticks. He delved some twine out of the deep pocket of his knee-length kathok, and then bound his large bundle together. Finally, in an open end he pushed some kindling between the sticks. Likewise, Harta bound and prepared his bundle.

  “Father used to light it first,” Harta said reverently - almost with a tone of recrimination.

  Bandri glanced sideways.

  “Just wanted to try it differently.”

  Kneeling down against the slight breeze he put more kindling on a broad green leaf. Next he pushed dry fibres into the hole at the bottom of the dry bamboo stalk. Placing the bottom end in the kindling, he propped the other end still with his stomach. Wrapping charred fabric around the sharp end of the black obsidian lava, he rasped the chip down the bamboo towards the kindling, leaning over and gently blowing - before raising his head.

  “Father did it first time.”

  Bandri breathed in and tried again, ignoring the comment. Rasping and blowing gently, he then blew a little more as a tiny flame appeared in the kindling - nurturing it until he was satisfied that the little knot of fire would not go out. Now he carefully moved the handful of flames next to the kindling in the bundle. In a short while the flames caught hold of the sticks and tried to burn the leaves, producing billowing dense clouds of whitish-grey smoke.

  Harta followed his example, and soon had another smoker of his own.

  Together they moved upwind of the tree to help direct the smoke up towards the large ominous shapes hanging from the branch high above. They made a low whistling sound. The jostling crescents became more animated.

  In an instant, the dark crescent shape exploded into life.

  A loud buzzing noise and a dark haze of agitated bees filled the air.

  Each bee was as big as child’s finger and there were thousands upon thousands of them; fifty thousand angry bees to a comb and the smoke had disturbed several combs. The bees tried to dodge the smoke and hang on to their comb, but gave up and took off again as if looking for someone to punish. Bandri had learnt to respect the power of these wild honeybees.

  With one hand he held the smoking bundle, with the other he threw the rope up over the large branch above. The weighted end looped over the branch and descended towards him. Deftly Bandri threw a knot around the end, pulled it tight, and then tugged it to test it was secure. Kicking off his kasuts he gripped the rope, put both feet on the broad trunk and pulled himself upwards, one hand over the other, climbing steadily and assuredly, with the smoker wedged in his backpack, upwards towards the mass of excitement.

  Once his brother had climbed onto the branch above, Harta pulled himself up the rope.

  Half way up the acacia’s trunk forked into two. Using this convenient toehold, Bandri levered his body so that he could reach a branch higher up, then lifted himself and hooked one leg over the same branch, pulling up the rest of his body afterwards. Hugging the trunk he stood upright on the branch. The soles of his feet gripped the rough corrugated bark as he pulled himself further up.

  The frenetic buzzing subsided a little as the bees vacated the comb enveloped in the thickening smoke. They had been tricked into thinking that a forest fire was about to consume their home, but before they abandoned it they tried to drink some honey, giving them strength to escape the oncoming flames. As long as the honey hunter was careful he should not be stung.

  When level with the nearest comb he blithely, yet smoothly, swung himself on top of the branch that supported the large crescent comb of wax, honey and brood that belonged to the wild honeybees. This was accomplished with such athletic prowess that there was no discernible impact on the branch and the bees appeared unaware of his presence. He was now laying face-down along the branch which grew at a slight upward angle. The comb hanging underneath the branch was nearly the length of his body which lay above.

  Holding his smoker, Harta watched with admiration from the branch below.

  Bandri grasped the branch with his knees and carefully slipped off the backpack, taking care to avoid sudden movements which might provoke the bees. From a sheath he withdrew a long knife which had a burnished bronze blade and a carved wooden handle, to which was attached a plaited noose. Diligently he wrapped the noose around his right wrist. Then, with his left hand, he guided the rattan pack under the upper part of the large thick comb.

  Steadily he started to slice off a portion of wide honey-bearing comb, which flopped into the open pack. Gradually he removed more slices, working inwards towards the trunk of the tree. Pale golden, runny honey oozed out from each incision. Syrupy golden rain dripped to the forest floor far below - falling onto the green leaves of ferns, onto white fungal fruiting toadstools, and falling between the flitting butterflies onto blue flower petals.

  Some bees returned to defend their colony, intent on punishment. Bandri felt a sharp pain on his right arm, and then another, and another. Clinging on desperately, he brandished the smoker to drive his attackers away. Harta called up to his brother on the smoke-shrouded branch above:

  “Are you alright!?”

  “I’m fine – coming down soon.”

  Bandri paused briefly to rest, licking honey off the back of his knife wielding hand. The deliciously-smooth fragrant sweetness pleasured his palette. He pushed a sizeable chunk of honey-filled wax into his mouth. As he chewed, he cut off more honeycomb and then some brood comb laden with young bees.

  It was time to make a retreat. After securing his knife, he edged his way back along the branch. Bracing his legs against the crook of the branch where it met the trunk, he hauled the heavy backpack up and onto his shoulders. Coming down was more challenging than going up. The heavy burden hampered his ability to find good purchases for his feet and twice he had to save himself. Once Bandri reached the rope the final drop to ground level was easier.

  Harta was already on the ground, and witnessed the descent.

  “Why didn’t you throw the comb down?” he asked when his brother was within talking distance.

  “It would make a mess,” panted Bandri, feeling an exhilaration at his accomplishment: “Damaged the honeycomb.”

  The exercise had bathed Bandri’s whole body in a sheen of sweat; his thick black hair was shiny and wet. With the pack on the ground he stood upright and stretched, enjoying the cooling breeze.

  “If we had more rope I could have lowered the pack – it would have been easier.”

  “I could catch it.”

  “Yes, maybe,” he admitted. “I just wanted some perfect honeycomb.” Looking up he added “Remember, we should thank the bees.”

  As he watched, the large bees started crowding in the air above, and then landing to cover their shrunken home with their bodies once again. The remaining comb on the branch had given the honeybees a foundation on which to rebuild their colony. For a couple of moments Bandri closed his eyelids as a gesture of gratitude; Harta followed his example.

  Bandri winced, feeling the stings getting more painful now. The brothers gathered their belongings and moved away from underneath the bee colonies. The large bees searched, hovered and landed on their moist skin, seeking out the patches of sweet honey. Even more bees haunted the backpack.

  Casting away the dead smokers they began the trek down towards the coast, with Bandri occasionally pausing to tutor his brother. They had been raised in this v
erdant landscape. Their father had taught them to watch where their feet were placed, avoiding venomous snakes, particular plants and other perils - their feet had become skillful. Although they felt at home in the forest they also knew there are dangers, especially for a lone traveller, or for those that made their presence known.

  They edged along the hot exposed cliffs, down through head-high clumps of wax ginger with glossy-red intricate flowers sprouting amongst the stems, before scrambling over large boulders and into palm, ramin and dipterocarp woodland, where they became encased within the shadowy-green of the thick jungle.

  The humid air vibrated with the blurring vision of flight and the clamorous cacophony of sound; a frenetic hum and clatter of insects overlaid by the whoops, whacks and whistles of birds. Shrill cries of wee-oo-wee from ornate lorikeets, the waack-waack calls of red-knobbed hornbills, and whistling squawks of the painted parrots came from every direction. Gangs of macaque monkeys uttered grunts and squeaks, chortling and chattering.

  Scented jasmine flowers of reddish-cream, decorated their vines which tangled in the spaces between the splayed buttress roots supporting lofty ebony, mahogany, compass and fig trees. The multi-coloured trunks of rainbow gum trees stood tall, helping to hold up the living green roof of the jungle. Here cucus marsupials and arboreal mammals paused to feast on fruits in season: golden apples from the ambarella tree, pale-yellow langsat from the duka tree or purple mangosteen from the garcinia tree. With their leaves and clusters of bell-shaped yellowish flowers in the bright sunlight of the canopy, the woody stems of long lianas trailed to the crowded shade of the jungle floor.

  Within the dank understory, strange putrid-smelling flowers of giant arum-lilies grew taller than themselves. On vines and in amongst the thick leaf-litter, were enormous mottled-orange rafflesia blooms, so large that a man’s arms would not reach around them.

  In one place more sunlight fell where a great agara tree had fallen, leaning against the trees that still stood. A rapid climber, growing right to the top, flaunted sprays of red and gold, humming with bees. In the sunlight on another side, creepers had woven a sprawling jade-green mat. Saplings reached upwards for the sun, and gentle gusts entered the jungle, rustling foliage and nudging a stand of giant bamboo stalks to rub against each other, creaking and cracking. Walking more easily through this bowl of heat and light, the brothers grinned at each other through the gaudily iridescent butterflies that danced over waist-high aromatic bushes.

  High jungle closed in again, swallowing them.

  Pushing and weaving through vegetation, evading the clutches of the scrambling rattan vine, they progressed more slowly. After following a narrow track, evidently frequented by anoa buffalo and other large animals, they came to a gorge formed by a silvery stream flowing off the mountain. From the eroded banks of the gulley Bandri could see that the babbling watercourse became a gushing torrent in the rainy season. Wading ankle-deep in the crystal clear water, flashing with rainbowfish, they picked their way around the smoothed boulders with their bare feet.

  They passed through a tunnel of sky-blue trumpet flowers, created by the thunbergia vine smothering the limbs of ancient trees, and emerged into an arcade of tall trees on both sides. Around the trunks, the large fingered-leaves of epipremnum vines tangled upwards, interlaced with branches frothy with epiphytic ferns and fancy-flowering orchids. Myriad greens of mosses and pitcher plants coated the banks of the stream, luxuriating in the weakened sunlight perforating the overhanging ceiling of translucent green.

  Making good progress down through the natural gallery they came upon the top of a waterfall, where the flow bent over the rocky lip before cascading down into a plunge pool. Bandri picked up a brown coconut husk that had been softened by lying in the stream, wedging the husk in a convenient fork of the serpentine rooting branches of a banyan tree. Then the two young men picked their way down to the rocky banks of the pattering water pool below, where at last they put their packs down and rested for a short while.

  Bandri selected a fist-sized stone, and with casual force he flung it hard at the husk above. With a satisfying thud the stone hit the husk clean out of the fork.

  “Your turn.”

  Harta clambered up to replace the husk, came back down and had a go - his stone ricocheting off the hard grey bark of the fig tree. Another two goes and he succeeded in knocking off the husk.

  “Good – but keep going until you do it first time!”

  Stepping under the waterfall, Bandri rejoiced at the cooling affect on his body and the cleansing of his skin from the sticky bits of bark and other debris. The smudges of honey gradually dissolved. Catching the fresh falling mountain water in his mouth he quenched his thirst, and removed his kathok to rinse - throwing the kathok over a low hanging branch to drip dry in the heat. The bright water danced over his slim, muscular frame as he took time to enjoy this freedom.

  “I’ve done it first time – twice now!” declared a triumphant Harta.

  “Good, now shoot it with your bow.”

  His young brother pulled out an arrow from the quiver of about twenty he had tied to his waist. Bandri turned away to get on with another task.

  “You’ll need to make a new arrow,” he said with a wry smile. “– for every one you lose.”

  Harta shrugged and pulled an insolent face behind his older brother’s back.

  Nearby a group of wild banana plants grew. After breaking off a few of the large glossy leaves Bandri returned to the stream bank to lay them out on a flattish bare rock. As he opened the backpack a single bee escaped and flew off. With care he fished the comb pieces out of the pack. In the bottom of the pack he found a few dead bees, drowned in their own honey. Scooping the bodies out, he dipped his hand in the flowing stream - letting them wash away.

  Bandri heard another curse “Tuhan!” as an arrow missed its target to get lost forever in the jungle. He watched his younger brother nock another arrow above the tied mark on the bowstring, and then raise the bow, drawing back with his left hand as he did so, one finger above and two below. His right hand was well-placed, and the arrow settled across the inside of the knuckle. Harta drew the bowstring back to touch his lips, as he had been taught, sighting along the arrow shaft. Just before the release there came that impulsive twitch as his young brother willed the arrow to its target. Bandri sniffed quietly, and said nothing; the more his brother practised the sooner the twitch will stop – it’s better to be dead-still.

  Harta’s stance and smooth action as he fetched another arrow pleased Bandri. His young brother will be a fine archer; now the men can tutor him in the use of poison. Bandri’s eyes flicked to the pouch attached to his own quiver, leaning against a rock. Made from a pig’s scrotum, the pouch contained the viper venom made sticky with poisonous plant sap, ready for dipping the arrow heads. Never again would any of their tribe venture into the forest without poison.

  Bandri breathed in deeply and forced himself back to the present, returning to a more pleasurable task. In the centre of a cross of two oval banana leaves, he arranged a pile of perfectly intact honeycombs. Into a second pile he placed the brood and slightly squashed honeycomb, some of which he ate as he worked. With care he wrapped the leaves around the first pile, which he then bound neatly with twine in two directions to make a neat package.

  After rinsing his empty pack in the pool, he lined it with fresh leaves. He put the second pile into the pack and then added a few more leaves. He then placed the package in the top of the pack and fastened it. Finally, he pulled on his damp kathok.

  By now, Harta had used up all the contents of his quiver, and was trying to retrieve his arrows from the soft husk now pinned into the fork of the tree.

  “How many did you lose?” Bandri asked in an innocent tone.

  “Three – but lots are broken!” his young brother said with vexation as he tried to pull them out of the hard tree trunk.

  “Not bad young man - not bad at all,” Bandri declared with a mocking refrain. “I us
ed to lose a lot more!”

  Harta slipped and slid down towards his laughing brother, grappling him around the neck. The two wrestled in the pool, attempting to drag each other’s head under the falling water. Bandri could feel the growing strength in his kid brother, the tussle being all the harder for his brother’s lightening reactions. Very soon he would be a match.

  As Harta rinsed out his kathok and gathered his belongings, Bandri sat down and waited, thinking. His young brother was growing up fast and muscle showed on him now. He had plenty of confidence and his courage was strong, as was his sense of justice. Maybe his argumentative young brother really was ready to join the men?

  They pulled on their packs and then checked their quivers and weapons. When all was ready they set off again. Their route wound down beside the stream. Bandri pointed out other honeybee colonies - perhaps he may come this way again. Today, he had chosen to go a little further away and higher up, where the air seemed less humid, and where the smoke was less likely to draw attention.

  Following the stream he knew it would meet a familiar path, underneath the over-arching forest, gently downwards and out under the spreading branches of the old acacia tree. From there they walked more quickly towards the cluster of wooden structures, which were arranged beside the lazy river which flowed out through the sandy beach into the lapping sea.

  “Harta – I think Praba wants you now.”

  Bandri pointed in the direction of the river bank where their oldest brother was working.

  “Terima kasih!” – “Thank you!” Harta said in a jovial manner, and jogged off to his next assignment.

  Turning from her washing, Ayu’s deep brown eyes glimpsed him walking towards her between the coconut palms. Her lips parted a little, and then changed into a warm welcoming smile. Dropping the wet clothes, she ran lightly towards him.

  Bandri cherished the elegant way she moved. He stood still and let her come to him, opening his arms to accept her embrace, and then wrapped them around her. The touch of her cool wet hands on his warm back, and the freshness of her impact against his body exhilarated him.

  “Cantik mata ..Suka hidung..Lancar bawah..”

  They stood hugging each other making intimate greetings. He bent his head down to plant kisses onto the beauty of her upturned face; kissing the smoothness of her cheeks, the gentle curve of her lovely nose and her eyelids, which she closed as his kisses chose their destination. He kissed her eyes again and her long eyelashes tickled his lips. He smiled and she turned around coyly in his arms, while his hands appreciated her figure. He kissed the nape of her neck, swaying her gently as she clung onto his right arm.

  Feeling the slight swellings on his arm she looked down to see the red patches in the cinnamon-brown of his skin.

  “Apa yang berlaku di sini?” – “What has happened here?” Her voice was soft, but laden with concern.

  To distract her fussing, he took off his backpack and laid it on the ground. From the top of the pack he lifted out the parcel and placed it into her hands, with a big smile, but saying nothing. He watched her face.

  She cupped both hands to accept the slightly sticky and weighty green package. It took a moment or two for her expression to change from worry into a knowing radiate happiness. Tipping her body forward she leant into him in tearful appreciation and thanks, holding the gift as if it was a baby.

  With his arm around her shoulders the young couple ambled back towards the porch of their house to sit on the log that was shaped like a bench. Between them she placed the parcel and he watched as her nimble fingers undid the twine binding and peeled back the green leaves. The gold and cream honeycomb unfurled before her. She gazed at the gift of fresh forest honeycomb for a brief moment, and then abruptly threw herself into his arms. Catching him off balance, he fell backwards laughing, nearly onto the ground.

  Sitting back on the bench more properly, she daintily picked up a choice piece of honeycomb and went to put it into his mouth. He held his lips closed. Taking the honeycomb he placed it on her proffered pink tongue. She managed to close her mouth with just a small dribble of honey on the smoothness of her chin.

  “Itu lazat.. mmma.. Terima kasih.” – “It’s lovely.. mmma.. Thank you,” she mumbled, lost in the delectability of the floral taste and the thoughtfulness of the gesture. Her soft voice was pitched in an unselfconscious teasing manner. She giggled a little and removed the dribble of glistening gold with the tip of a finger and a pink tongue.

  He watched her mouth and her lips. They had been married nearly a year, yet he yearned for her more each day. He watched her as she arched her back and used her forefinger to lift off a drip of golden honey on the fabric of her sarong. She placed the honey between her lips - smiling brown lips that showed pink around the sucked finger.

  It was mid-day. The overhead sun bore down, and in the shade of the porch the door to their house was open. Inside the cool shadiness of the room he could see the inviting lustre of their bamboo couch.

  Bandri collected a container of fresh mountain water from the stream, carried it inside and then closed the door. She lay on the couch, waiting, smiling.

  Dipping a coconut shell into the clear fresh water, he trickled it into her open mouth. She tasted and swallowed the thirst-quenching liquid. A little more he trickled around her neck, cooling, dribbling and tickling. She giggled, her eyes glistening.

  Dipping again, he trickled water onto the bodice of her sarong. The liquid soaked into the fabric pulling it down closer to the skin. Dipping and pouring, he moistened the material, gently outlining the two mounds as they pushed up and became more defined.

  He kissed the honey-coloured skin of her neck under her upturned chin, and then kissed slowly down to the tiny pool of water caught between the smooth tendons meeting at the top of her breast. He sipped from the trembling liquid. His lips ran over the wet fabric, pausing to tease the sensitive crests of her firm young breasts, gently moving up and down as she breathed.

  Untying the sarong around her body, he lifted the material, unwrapping her, peeling off the flimsy under-fabric until her nubile nakedness lay beside him. Carefully she pulled off his kathok. Freed from their clothes, they lay together, naked. Washing and teasing, they splashed the cooling water. Fresh from their bodies, the water ran around, slipped through the bamboo slats and dripped onto the greedy floor, vanishing into the sand.

  Lightly, he ran the tips of his fingers over her consenting skin, bending to kiss for the thousandth time the many favourite places. From each place another place beckoned: a closed eyelid, the corner of her mouth, the arched skin under her ear. Giggling, she raised her shoulder vainly in defence of the ticklish spot and a favourite perfect imperfection - the single small freckle on the nape of her neck. Down her body, he kissed and caressed her, wanting her to be his like this forever, wanting to have her totally.

  He devoured the smooth firmness of her breasts surrendered to him. Roaming freely, he explored the toned curves of her blissful body, tracing the tips of his fingers over her flawless skin, and the modest cluster of downy black hairs. Reaching around to grasp her, he pulled her even closer, devouring the intimate softness of her femininity.

  Closing his eyes, he allowed his senses to focus on touch and sound alone. He felt himself penetrating her warmth, snug and moist. He heard her murmur “Make it last a long time.” Opening his eyes, he looked down into her eyes, willing and intoxicating. Pausing for a few moments, he overcame the urge for release, prolonging the delicious intensity, relishing the pleasure and the joy; the pleasure of unsheathing himself, and then the joy of sheathing himself into her again, and again the pleasure and the joy.

  The bamboo couch gave out creaks as the couple make love on top of it, moving a little as they moved, yielding a little as she yielded, witnessing their moans and ecstasies. Speckles of sunlight seeped into the torrid warmth of the room, where the gentle sea-breeze funnelled under the nipa eaves and in through the gaps above the bamboo walls, wafting over their exertion
s.

  Satiated, they lay in each others arms, their bodies bathed in perspiration. Bandri reached for the coconut shell and dipped it. Chuckling, he tipped the cool water over their stomachs as she giggled and rolled into him, taking the shell away and dipping it herself.

  “Did Harta help you get the honey?” she asked, pouring water over his back.

  “He’s doing well,” he mumbled, with a stretch of delight.

  “Did you throw the honeycomb down?” she asked sweetly but perceptively, dipping the shell.

  He smiled, rolled back a little and kissed her forehead.

  “You didn’t really need to carry it down from the tree – you didn’t have enough rope. Drini - you could have fallen.”

  Her ability to adapt his name into some new whimsical affectation amused him.

  “Anda adalah saya semangat.” – “You are my passion,” he replied, chuckling.

  “And you are mine!” she retorted, tipping the water over his face.

  “Alright! – alright,” he conceded, laughing.

  She hugged him tightly, kissing him on the neck.

  “Praba wants to get the boat decking finished before the rains come,” he said, stretching as if to get up.

  Ayu made a pouting expression and changed the subject.

  “Yesterday,” she said, holding on to him. “When we visited your father’s spirit by the bee houses -”

  He became thoughtful, turning on his side to look into her eyes.

  “I was thinking that a whole rainy season had gone by, and now everything is dry again,” she said softly. “It means that we’ve been married longer than that - and I wanted to tell you this. That you will always have me.. Because I love you.”

  His heart felt as if she had reached in to hold it in her hands.

  “And you are my passion,” he breathed, hugging and kissing her.

  They cuddled some more.

  “Before you go to Bitung,” she said, as he finally sat up on the side of the bed. “Let’s ask everyone to join us for a meal tonight?”

  “Your brother has a pig ready,” he said, standing up. “He’s better at killing it.”

  A roasted pig or panggang was often the centrepiece of a village feast. Bandri preferred that the bloody business of stabbing the animal in the neck was done by someone else, since he could not help feeling sorry for the poor beast as it squealed and struggled.

  The bercadik design of the big boat had been based on the best shape from the village’s three small outrigged fishing boats. It was to have an enclosed lower deck and a strong upper deck. Two masts were to rise from the keel through the decks; square rigged sails could be supported on each mast. Forward of the steering oars there would be a cabin for shelter.

  Important joints were reinforced with pegs and bound with coconut rope. The seasoned wood on the hull had been rubbed thoroughly with plant resin and beeswax. Water-proofing corking between the planks utilised the cleaned sennit pith from coconut husks and beeswax.

  The work was going well, although they were slowed by the need to cut and shape hardwood for the structural beams and planking for the hull. The bronze skewer for making holes, the axe head and the knife blades needed frequent sharpening. If the bronze tools were applied with too much force they tended to bend.

  With this boat they could catch bigger fish in deeper waters, or carry copper ore back around the coast from Bitung - instead of needing to perform the exhausting task of hauling the heavy rock overland. But there was a far more important reason for building this big boat.

  After the mid-day rehat or ‘siesta’, Bandri joined Praba, Andhika and Harta. The men were lashing bamboo outriggers on each side of the boat.

  “The boat will be too heavy to move,” Bandri observed.

  The comment was enough to divert the other three workers from their current focus. Andhika, who was standing at one end of the boat, put his shoulder up against the hull and gave it a shove. Nothing happened.

  “It will be alright if everyone pushes,” Praba said confidently.

  “We can lever it forward - and use ropes,” said Andhika who had worked on big boats before, but not one this big. “But it’s going to get heavier.”

  “The hull is not strong enough yet,” insisted Praba. “It will leak if we move it now.”

  “When it gets heavier, the hull could be damaged,” countered Bandri.

  “No, it won’t!” answered Praba curtly.

  “How do you know it will float straight in the water?” Not waiting for an answer, Bandri went on “If we get it in the water we can see what happens.”

  “We can give it a try,” Harta said, now joining in but getting a disparaging look from Praba.

  “If we push it in the river now,” said Bandri more confidently. “We can fix the decking and the rest when it’s floating.”

  “See what Rukma thinks!” Praba demanded, running a hand through his hair in exasperation.

  The men sent Harta to ask Rukma and Agung to come down to the boat yard. They placidly listened to more debate between the others until Rukma finally said:

  “The tide’s rising - we can push it in now.”

  Agung nodded in agreement, and Praba bit his lip.

  Harta ran off to gather people to the event. The others cleared the structure of tools and obstacles, and then readied some rolling logs.

  It was not long before people started appearing, chattering excitedly. The children were made to stand well back from the scene, with Kusama and Endah taking charge of the juvenile audience.

  “We have to keep a lookout for crocodiles!” Rukma reminded them. “Keep the children away from the water.”

  Praba tried to take charge of the socially intricate task of allocating pushing positions along each beam of the stern outriggers: Ayu, Sukma and Melati on one side, with Joyah and Puteri on the other side. Untung wanted to push with his mother. Then Puteri, who was pregnant, was told by Joyah to swap places with Kusama. At that point, Joyah let slip that she was pregnant too; there was a pause in events for congratulating Joyah and Andhika.

  Agung took a position at the stern of the hull, flanked by the two other large men - Praba and Rukma. Andhika and Bandri got ready to lever the hull forward and Harta positioned the logs for the keel to roll over.

  Finally, at Andhika’s call: “Satu..Dua..Otot!”, almost drowned out by the sound of children yelling joyous encouragement, the heaving, pushing and levering began.

  The boat shifted, then faltered, then shifted some more, until the bow was just touching the edge of the rising water. Now a different problem presented itself, since the leading edge of the keel was starting to dig into the fine wet sand. A break was called.

  Drinks and refreshments were brought down to the scene, which turned into an impromptu party with offerings of various and often bizarre ideas of how to get the boat into the river. A couple of the kids had been enjoying themselves bouncing up and down on one of the coconut palm trunks that leant right over close to the beach.

  “You could put a rope over that trunk,” Puteri said, pointing across the river at another tree leaning over. “And jerk it into the water?”

  “Alright, we can try,” Rukma said obligingly. “But we have to watch out for crocodiles - nobody splashes about in the water.”

  With the tide now full, the tribe decided on this one last attempt to complete the launch today. Long lianas were gathered and knotted together. One end of this improvised rope was tied to the prow of the boat, and then the rest carried across the river in a small fishing boat. While Bandri and Harta bounced the trunk, Agung alternately heaved and pulled down on the rope, wrapping the slack around a convenient stump, thus yanking it tighter and tighter.

  Now everyone else went back to pushing the big boat, in concert with the team across the river. This time the jerking and pushing freed the hull, nudging it further into the water - until at long last it slid right in and was launched. And it floated, a little to one side, but it floated effortlessly -
as if it weighed hardly anything at all.

  Spontaneously, the celebrations began.

  The pig’s screams were ear-piercing, as the two men hauled it by its ears and long curved tusks through the middle of the village. A gaggle of children followed it, eager to see what would happen next. Joyah and Puteri appeared, pulled away the children and scolded their drunken husbands for their crude joking references to shafts and anuses.

  Down on the white sandy beach in the late afternoon sun, the jolly men decided that Harta should join in as they jostled around the grunting animal. The pig panted and gathered its strength. Praba and Andhika sharpened the bamboo stake. The men took it in random turns to hold the pig down, giving each of them time to swig the alcoholic toddy.

  Harta and Rukma changed places. The pig wriggled and felt the weight on top lift itself briefly - and made its bid for freedom. It shot out from under them at top speed. First it scuttled downhill towards the sea. Realising it needed to change direction, it then slipped and swerved back up the beach towards the village, dodging past the laughing and shouting men.

  Now the chase was on. The terrified beast desperately looked for hiding places, staying for a brief while until it was flushed out by its pursuers. The women tried their best to understand and manage the whole affair. Then the squealing pig darted inside Andhika’s house. In dismay, Joyah swept up her crying child and screamed instructions at her husband who was trying to corner the pig somewhere inside. Beside himself with glee, Praba ran round the outside of the house, jibing encouragement at his friend through the bamboo walls. Joyah now unleashed her fury, verbal and physical, onto her annoying brother, until at last Andhika appeared at the door, dishevelled but triumphant - towing the hapless victim.

  Once again on the beach, Bandri and Praba held the sobbing creature. Agung placed the sharp point of the stake strategically to one-side of the neck - directed at its pounding heart. The big man swung his heavy mallet onto the blunt end of the spear, driving the point deep into the chest. Bright-red blood spurted from the wound as the stricken animal bucked, giving out gurgling squeals - briefly appeared to be paralyzed, before entering its death throes. Meanwhile, Andhika helped Harta hold the wooden vessel so that he could catch the gushing life-blood.

  This would be Harta’s initiation into the acceptance of him as a young man amongst the other men in the tribe. As he held the vessel of warm crimson blood, each of the men dipped in a hand and patted him around the naked shoulders. Andhika then told Harta to smack his bloodied hand onto each of their bare chests.

  With mixed feelings of sadness and pride, two of the women watched this ritual from a distance. Kasuma and Endah had witnessed the blooding and now they would gather the plant roots they needed. Tomorrow they will rub the charcoaled root dust into the perfect skin of the youth. Then, with a sharp edge of a shell, they will scratch out the marks of manhood over his left shoulder blade. Harta had been proclaimed a man with a man’s rites. Now he could attend their meetings, and if necessary he could fight for the tribe. If agreed by the tribe, he could take a wife.

  Leaving the dead body on the sand, the men jogged down into the surf where the blood red marks dissolved into the vastness of the water.

  Bandri built a hearty fire near the beach shelter, while Andhika and Harta disembowelled the pig. They washed the carcass in seawater, and then impaled and fixed it lengthwise on a bamboo pole, with a handle at one end for turning. Agung hammered in two stout forked branches either side of the fireplace to suspend the panggang just above the hot glowing embers. Roasting the whole pig would take well into the evening.

  Praba and Puteri washed clean the innards of their contents, and carried everything over to Kusama and Endah whose cooking experience and status allowed them to delegate tasks for the forthcoming feast. Meat was stewed with spices of cinnamon, nutmeg and wild lemon grass or skewered onto bamboo splinters, complemented by katuk, kedondong and native vegetables. Smoke bearing the rich smells of native cooking wafted up into the still air. The girls decorated tables with flowers, jack fruit, water apples, star fruit, rambutan, kumquat, coconut and calamansi juice, together with sizable quantities of honey and brood comb.

  Suspended in the tropical sky, the golden-yellow orb of the Mother Spirit threw down her beckoning path over the sea. On the beach, the children and parents played tag games. Meanwhile Harta and the men took turns to wrestle. This natural enjoyment, practised for millenia, nearly always obeyed the unwritten rule amongst tribe members of not harming your opponent.

  Taking a break from the wrestling, Bandri sat on the beach. Idly, he raised his arm over the glinting orange path, observing that the sun was now just a finger’s width above the western horizon. Rising above the eastern horizon was the waxing moon, three-quarters full, with his pearly face smiling at the sun. As he looked at Father Moon and Mother Sun, he wondered about how they were related to each other, deciding that it must be the sun shining at the moon. Wasn’t the sun like a big fire that lit up the faces of people sitting around it?

  Bandri sat and watched as the sun smouldered and descended with perfect precision. The sun didn’t pause when she hit the horizon, but sank steadily out of sight, suffusing cool violet shades across the twilight waters, and yet still crowning the mountain with radiant gold. Across the sky Bandri observed the moon with its familiar face, still illuminated by the sun over the horizon.

  Breaking out of his dream-state, Bandri looked around to see Rukma push torches into the sand, while Ayu stuck beeswax candles onto sea shells next to the women preparing vegetables and scraping the soft white linings of young coconuts. Murni played happily on a rattan mat close by her mother’s feet. The village seemed at peace. Bandri peered back up at the moon in the splendid stellar vault of the night sky, and wondered if the sun now shone on other lands across the ocean.

  Aroung the fire began the singing and dancing. The typee dancing favoured this night involved a leader who contrived the moves. This choreography had to be mimiced by people of their choice; the mischievous romping evolutions bringing every limb into requisition.

  Bandri knew Praba was in his element. In a strong baritone voice, loosened by toddy, he led the assembly into a string of native songs:

  Tak tong tong galamai jaguang

  Tagunda-gunda ka cambuang basi

  Jan suko duduak bamanuang

  Urang pamanuang jauah rasaki

  Jan suko duduak bamanuang

  Urang pamanuang jauah rasaki..

  meaning that: ‘If we do nothing but just daydream all of the time, we get nothing.’

  The family delighted in the crystal-clear voice of Melati. Although shy, when she was obliged to sing she soon lost herself in the melody that seemed to be borne within her. When she felt too exposed, she called on Ayu and Sukma to sing with her; the three then dancing with a floating sway of supple limbs and precious pretty faces to an appreciative audience.

  Bandri admired the musical talents of his big brother and younger sister, but felt self-conscious of his own singing voice, knowing it to be rather poor. But everyone was called on at some time to contribute a song, and under duress, bolstered with a little toddy, even he and Agung joined in.

  Melati loved the melodies. She could sit, oblivious to the world around her, humming and singing quietly to herself, tapping out rhythms on lengths of bamboo. Rukma had made several wooden musical instruments for her as gifts.

  Since those days of horror and grief after father had been found murdered, she had spent even more time with Musang. This is what she had been doing today – feeding Musang in his cage and singing to him, while Sukma cleaned out his bedding. This was when she heard Harta calling for everyone to come and push the boat into the river.

  Melati still lived with her mother and Harta in a house next to Bandri. But now she looked after her mother who had become increasingly frail since her father’s murder. She felt that looking after her mother was the least she could do. The pain of loosing her father was as nothing compared to
the affect it had on her mother, who often seemed quite deranged. Melati did her best to listen, but her own grief sometimes made it very difficult.

  What made it all bearable was the close bond she had with Dri and Ayu, and Suk of course. Agung was Agung. Still she didn’t know what he felt about her, and still she was afraid to look him in the eyes, but he was impossible to ignore.

  Her mother had said something yesterday which made Melati very quiet and anxious. Endah seemed to say many strange things these days, but what she had said seemed very earnest.

  “Dear daughter – you are growing up so fast,” said her mother, holding tightly onto Melati’s hand. “Have you been thinking about who you want to marry?”

  Melati had never considered marriage as something she could decide, until that moment. Right now however, she was not interested in having anything to do with boys or men, no matter who they might be.

  Melati hadn’t replied to the question, so her mother had then said:

  “Your father and I want you to be happy – with a good man to look after you.”

  Her mother often talked as if her husband was still alive – but Melati had come to accept this and still said nothing. She just waited to hear what her mother was going to say, which was:

  “Agung will be a good husband for you..”

  Her mother was saying something else but Melati was not sure what it was. That her mother wanted her to marry was a surprise, but that she wanted her to marry Agung was shocking. She had been preoccupied with these thoughts ever since. She was even too bewildered to risk sharing this confusion with her two best friends, who were Agung’s sisters.

  Melati had been looking at Agung today as they launched the boat. All this evening she had been looking across at the big man, trying to sort out her feelings. She could sense that he had an inner depth to him, but he spoke so little and never seemed to look at her.

  She studied him as he hunched by the fire. She found herself fascinated by him; there was something deeply mysterious about him. Even on an evening like this, he wore his giant bow with the big arrows in a quiver on his back – and he carried that big spear around with him. And always he had the sheath that held the great bronze machete.

  Ever since her father’s murder, Melati had felt an aching loneliness, even in the company of Sukma and Ayu. Looking at Agung she yearned for his attention. Maybe he would make it all better?

  Late in the evening, Agung had seen her watching him. She felt sure of this, because he had looked across at her, seemed to smile for a moment - and then looked somewhere else beyond her! Melati turned her head away and pretended that she was looking for something she had dropped in the sand.

  He got up and walked towards her. Her heart pounded. But then he walked straight past her! He didn’t even look at her! He just walked off down the beach towards the river. He paid her no attention. She knew it now - Agung wasn’t interested in her.

  Bandri thought it wasn’t the best time, but he knew what Agung could be like. After explaining the situation to Rukma, he jogged back down the wide beach where the river flowed out into the sea at low tide.

  Rukma chaperoned Ayu and the girls to Praba’s house, where they could sleep together with Puteri’s family. Praba, Andhika and Harta settled down to sleep on the porches outside the houses, being too drunk to be allowed inside; each of them had consumed copious quantities of toddy that evening.

  Slinging two large bows over his shoulder, Rukma hung the quivers of arrows at his waist. Picking up three flaming torches in one hand and carrying several strong mangrove-wood spears under his arm, he then joined the two young men on the beach.

  “I see what you mean!” exclaimed Rukma, cursing under his breath.

  “We could wait until the morning,” suggested Bandri. “Better in the daylight – and the others will have sobered up.”

  However, Agung seemed determined:

  “It will be in the river before morning,” he growled. “After feeding.”

  “It’s a big crocodile,” said Bandri, remembering the others they had dealt with.

  In the bright moonlight, on the stretched slope of the beach, they all stared at the long sinuous bulk of a salt water crocodile, waddling along with apparent impunity - ambling ever closer to the village. Its enormous scaly body and thick long tail made deep curving tracks in the sand. The moonlit creature was magnificently defined and awe inspiring, while the shadows of its tracks appeared behind it like a giant plaited rope on the glistening beach.

  “Ia adalah luar biasa!” - “It’s incredible,” murmured Bandri as he admired the sheer evil beauty of the carnivore, but he knew the others found it repugnant.

  “Incredibly dangerous!” Rukma told them gruffly. “It’s a male – marking out his territory. It’s bold enough to walk into the village anytime. Nobody’s safe from it.”

  “Kill it tonight!” growled Agung.

  The very idea that any of the children or girls could be preyed on as food by this reptile was loathsome in the extreme. It was clear that Agung intended to kill it now, on his own if need be. Bandri accepted the proposition with dread in his heart.

  “Alright - but we need to think about this.”

  “We wait until it’s far from the river then all three use bows at the same time - aim for the sides. Watch out for the jaws and the tail can break your legs!” Rukma instructed. Almost as a joke, he added: “And don’t shoot each other!”

  When the three human attackers spaced out around the monstrous meat-eater, it appeared to regard them more seriously, possibly as potential prey. The stalking men crouched lower to minimise their visual impact as they closed in, each then pushing their torches and spears into the sand. They loaded their bows. The immense jaws opened a chink, revealing the rows of teeth catching the moonlight as shining white daggers. A guttural growl vibrated as a chilling warning. This apex predator had recognised that they were the enemy.

  Checking each of them were at angles to lessen the chance of an accident, Rukma uttered the signal:

  “Pergi!” – “Go!”

  As three large arrows struck the scaly hide, the animal jolted into action. Raising itself clear off the ground with an odious hiss, its gaping jaws whipped around for a target to grapple – running fast at Rukma, biting savagely with horrifying intent. As Rukma scrambled backwards, Agung and Bandri released arrows at close range into the sides of the belly. The arrows thunked into the animal’s armoured flesh, piercing yet having no impact apart from enraging it still further and diverting its attention. It lunged for Bandri.

  Agung grabbed his spear. Snarling “Die!” he drove the point hard into the crocodile’s flank – holding on to the shaft as he rammed it further in. The beast hissed louder and writhed towards Agung, reaching viciously for his bare legs with grasping jaws. Abruptly, the huge body rolled and the spear-shaft snapped cleanly, forcing him to jump clear of the thrashing tail.

  Bandri had now taken hold of his spear. For a fleeting moment, time seemed to stand still as he watched Agung’s spear break, the beast rolling towards his friend with the lethal jaws wide open. Running at the moving mass, Bandri struck from the opposite side.

  The spear lodged in the scaly folds of the neck. Holding on grimly, he tried to push and angle the spear more effectively into the throat and possibly the heart. Bandri heard the others shouting but could only watch the rows of snapping white teeth near his legs. Frantically he hopped and skipped, striving to find purchase on the damp sand.

  The hissing demon rolled again, snatching the shaft away from Bandri’s grasp – the shaft cracking hard against his temple. Before the raging animal could right itself, Agung leapt forwards, snarling “Die now!”, and with two hands powered the machete deep into the exposed underside, then wrenched it back out. The giant convulsed, hissed and swung its tail wildly in the air while Agung stabbed again, crazed stabbing, seeking its heart.

  Blood, black in the moonlight, spouted into the air as the behemoth’s demonic utterances scre
amed in their ears. The great tail hammered down on the beach as the dragon rolled groggily onto its stomach, hissing blood from its gaping jaws, shooting caustic droplets onto their bare skin.

  Almost stunned from the blow to the head, Bandri hesitated in a moment of sympathy as he witnessed the struggle for life. Now Rukma thrust mightily with his spear deep into the cavernous mouth. The great jaws clamped shut, fracturing the wooden shaft. The unworldly din silenced and the heavy body collapsed. For a moment the clawed legs paddled and spasmed until it lay still.

  The contest was over. Vigorously alive, the three men celebrated in wild abandon, performing an ageless jig of victory.

  “Crocodile steak!” declared Agung, sitting astride the conquered monster.

  Bandri ran his hands over the scales, relieved and happy, yet still feeling a pang of sorrow that the living spirit had just left such a stupendous creature. He ran his tongue around his mouth and discovered a cut on the inside of his cheek, tasting the saltiness of his own blood.

  “Maybe you two will like Bitung,” joked Rukma. “It’s full of snakes and crocodiles!”

  He clasped the younger men around the shoulders, proclaiming that he was proud of both his sons. Like that, the three men strode bloody and triumphant back to the sleeping village.

  In the crisp morning sunlight, the two girls hastened to join the others milling around the spectacle.

  Covered in hard grey scales, a gigantic salt water crocodile lay on the beach: over six paces long from the tip of its grisly nose to the end of its whip-like demon tail. Rows of blackish-grey gnarled scales ran the length of its back and down along the hard muscular bends. Underneath, paler-grey scales concealed the bloated belly. Folds of scaly reptilian flesh joined the heavy head to the thick neck and massive body, with four squat legs ending in gruesomely clawed feet. The grimace of protruding long, white carnivorous teeth hid even more stout teeth inside the huge laughing jaws, set under the broad log-like skull, with its nostrils and watchful eye sockets.

  Melati studied its hideous body. Was it breathing? Maybe the monster would wake up!? Then she saw the remains of arrows and broken spears sticking out of its scaly armour. Dark-red stains had been splashed around its neck and stomach, and the stains spread over the kicked up sand all around. With an intake of breath she understood the stains, and watched the crabs and noisy sea birds pecking away at the bloodiest bits. She stayed at a respectable distance, although Sukma went right up and patted the mountainous corpse on the end of its snout.

  “Go on, Mel,” laughed her friend. “Dare you to touch it!”

  Melati stood closer to the protective figure of Sukma’s father, and looked up.

  “It was killed last night,” Rukma explained gently. “It was getting too close to the village.”

  “Who killed it?” Melati asked quietly, almost as if the crocodile was asleep and might hear.

  “Agung,” said Rukma with pride in his voice.

  Melati thought again about last night, when he had walked past her down the beach. Had he seen it then? She found the thought distressing and pushed it away from her mind.

  “My big brother!” Sukma chirped with delight, and then added “Hatty was ‘very’ drunk last night.”

  “My brother had lots to drink,” said Melati with disgust. “He was being sick.”

  “Yes,” Rukma gave a little laugh. “Yes - Harta was too drunk to see it.”

  “It’s horrible isn’t it?” Ayu said, making a shudder as she joined the three of them. “But we love Agu for looking after us.” She smiled and hugged Sukma who grinned in total agreement. Ayu then put her arms around Melati who was grateful for the embrace.

  “That’s one of the reasons we have a big fire here at night,” explained Rukma. “So we can see any crocodiles. They can move fast, and jump out of the water to grab people, even big people. And they swim in the sea.”

  “That’s why we have to be careful where we swim,” Ayu said. Melati knew she was trying to be light-hearted.

  “Yes. Listen to what Ayu says,” Rukma said. “Swimming is only allowed in places we know are safe – and make sure the children don’t play near the water.”

  “When we were pushing the big boat into the river,” said Melati. “Do you think it was watching?”

  By mid-morning, the revellers of the night before were still pulling themselves together. Bandri stood looking at the half-finished boat moored alongside the river bank.

  “Tell me?” began Harta hoarsely, who was standing next to him. “I heard Rukma saying something about why father was killed?”

  Turning to look at him, Bandri saw now, not so much a kid brother, but a very young man filled with suppressed anger at the unresolved outrage of his father’s murder. Harta’s voice was in a sorrowful state:

  “I felt sick,” he admitted. “I wanted to know last night – but I don’t get told things.”

  Bandri put his hand on Harta’s shoulder and bade him to sit down with him on a nearby tree trunk.

  “It was something that happened at the meeting with the men from Bahoi. Father got angry,” said Bandri, but he didn’t want to go over all this bad feeling again. “Rukma had a lot to drink last night -”

  “He must have had a reason!” Harta cut in. “He was so kind – he wouldn’t have got angry without a reason. What happened?”

  “When they met with the men who wanted Mel and Suk – it didn’t go well,” explained Bandri with a sigh. “Rukma and father didn’t like them. The man who wanted to marry was much older – and the girls are much too young. The man felt insulted by father. Rukma tried to reassure them but -”

  “Rukma’s too soft!”

  “Don’t say that Harta! You don’t know what happened. He was angry too but he was trying to be careful not to annoy them.. Of course he cares for his own daughter!.. Our father was killed many days after that meeting – but it could have had something to do with it.”

  “Did Rukma tell you his name?”

  “He didn’t know the name. It’s the son of the Bahoi senior - quite tall and strong looking, with a thick beard – but maybe it wasn’t him that killed father.. The arrows were fletched with reed - that’s what the Java often use - ”

  “They killed father, didn’t they?!”

  “We have no proof.. Father was on his own when it happened - it could have been anybody who attacked him.”

  “Look at the way they’ve taunted us since? When Praba and me saw those men from Bahoi on the path by the mangroves – I saw the look on their faces!” Harta moaned. “If we know it was that man - we should kill him!”

  “But Harta, we don’t know it was him!”

  “We know he came from Bahoi – one of them should be killed!”

  The cracking sound of torment in Harta’s voice affected Bandri’s composure and he had to turn his head away in anguish, feeling tears welling up from inside.

  “We don’t even know he came from Bahoi!” he said firmly to his young brother, even though he looked now at a random spot across the river. Bandri’s thoughts wandered to the summit of Bangka Island as he struggled to compose his feelings. He felt the anxiety in the pit of his stomach for the safety of Ayu and the girls. He hated that his family had to live in fear like this. The men must protect the women and girls - and the children. He didn’t want to imagine what could happen to Ayu if she was taken. Likupang could not afford to start a war with Bahoi. He turned to look again at his brother.

  “Harta – we can’t just kill anyone,” he said, trying to heal the gnawing wound in their lives. “They’re from Java. We need to try and understand them better – they have different customs. It’s difficult but we need to try and keep the peace between the villages or other people will get hurt too – we have to protect the women and children.. If we kill one of them - they’ll start killing people here.”

  The two brothers crouched together on the log without speaking. Harta’s youthful thoughts mingled indiscriminately with his impulses. Bandri’s thou
ghts strived to form within his intellect and seperately from his emotions, before the two could fuse into prejudice. They sat thinking, vaguely looking across the river in the general direction of Bahoi.

  Praba joined them, standing opposite his brothers.

  “I know what you two are thinking about,” he declared. “Be careful not to upset mother. She really enjoyed herself last night – seeing all her family so happy.”

  “Her hair has gone white,” Harta said bitterly. “She’s changed since father was killed - she doesn’t know what she’s doing now.” Tears fell from Harta’s cheeks. “It’s killing her.”

  Harta’s head was down, his eyes staring somewhere near his feet as his sadness was unloaded into the air. His older brothers accepted his words without reproach.

  “Working on the boat helps a lot,” Praba told them. “It helps me forget about what happened – it’s what we agreed would make us stronger. We must get more bronze so we can make better weapons and tools – and defend ourselves so it never happens again.. It’s what father wanted.. Never forget this boat can save the girls from the dogs in Bahoi. It’s strong enough to save all of us. It can take us all to Manado so that we can join our Malay brothers.”

  Praba continued his speech, turning to point as he spoke:

  “Look what we’ve done – it’s bigger than any boat they’ve got. Can they get near a boat this big? No they can’t! Not sitting in their little boats – we can stand and shoot the dogs with big bows before they get near! I hate the Java dogs!” Picking up a length of heavy timber, he swung it hard against a nearby coconut trunk, breaking the timber in two and shaking a coconut free from on high. Ignoring the thud of the coconut as it hit the ground he cursed and vowed: “One day I will make them pay for murdering father – the cowardly dogs!”

  Praba wiped the sweat of anger and frustration from his brow, and paused from his rant. He dropped the shortened length of timber and looked back at Bandri and Harta, still crouched on the log together. Bandri held his older brother’s gaze, seeing within the blustering violent man the gentle kind man who also loved and missed his father.

  “Brothers, I want to pay them back for father’s murder as much as both of you do!” Praba told them more placidly. He turned again and paced closer to the boat, running his fingers through his hair.

  “Oars through holes - just here,” Praba said, pointing to the handrail.

  “Two oars on each side – maybe three,” said Bandri, thankful that for now the storm appeared to have abated. “Before we leave for Manado, I was thinking how we could tie a small boat on each side - on top of the beams.”

  “We can tow a boat,” said Harta, making the effort to focus on this project that united them all.

  Before breaking for the mid-day rehat, Bandri sought out his friend Agung. After waking up on the porch, he had retired back to his own house, from where he had yet to emerge. Putting his head around the door of Agung’s house, Bandri saw the big man sat polishing a small bronze item of some sort.

  “Baik pagi!” - “Good morning!”

  His friend seemed surprised - looking up to reply “Pagi” in a good-humoured tone. He wrapped the item in the cloth, leaving it on his seat as he got up.

  This sparked Bandri’s curiosity since he had never seen Agung behave this way before - as if he was trying to hide something. Casually letting himself in, he came and stood close to the seat where the wrapped item lay – smiling at the large man in front of him.

  Agung’s ruggedly handsome face with its wispy short beard was part-covered by the unkempt long black hair. His features were relaxed as he gazed down at Bandri. After pushing some hair away from his brown eyes, he blinked and smiled awkwardly.

  “You want to see?.. But it’s just an idea.” Agung spoke in a deep placid tone, picking up the wrapped item and putting it into Bandri’s hand. “But don’t tell the others – but maybe Ayu,” he added nervously.

  Bandri unwrapped the cloth to reveal a bronze figure of a bird with wings spread out, well detailed and polished, lying in the palm of his hand.

  “It’s wonderful Agung!. How did you make it?”

  “It needed tidying up when it came out of the mould – I wanted to try and get the shape on both sides.”

  “It’s the best piece of bronze I’ve ever seen – it’s really good! The loop at the back – is that for a necklace?”

  “Maybe - I was thinking it could be a brooch for a sarong.”

  Bandri could not help but grin at his friend in dumbstruck surprise. It was a gift for a girl.

  “I cut the model out of a block of beeswax,” Agung said in a matter of fact manner, handing Bandri the parts of the mould he had used. The big man pointed to the small sprue channels in the broken dried clay fragments. “The wax melts out when you heat it up,” he explained. “Then I poured in the metal.”

  The artistic intelligence needed to make such an item deeply impressed Bandri, but he avoided being too generous with his praise. He knew it would make his good friend feel uncomfortable.

  “I was watching Ayu and the girls do their batik when they melt the beeswax, and it gave me the idea for the mould.”

  Agung had recovered from his temporary embarrassment, and launched into a detailed description of the process. This verbal capability only appeared to surface when he became immersed in technical detail.

  While Agung talked, Bandri thought about the likely recipient of this extraordinary gift. His immediate assumption was that the recipient would be Mel, but he said nothing. Mel was still very young and he was uncertain about her opinion of Agung. There was also another possibility. Aware of his friend’s delicate sensitivities, he decided not to follow these streams of thought into open topics of conversation.

  The talk turned to the journey they were planning tomorrow so that they could get more ore for smelting. When Bandri left Agung’s house, he had been sworn to secrecy about the brooch, except that he could tell Ayu – but that she should tell no-one else!

  The first thing Ayu said to him was:

  “Bandy, you could do with a wash!”

  The accumulation of sea water, sand, smoke, wood-chips and blood since this time yesterday had yet to be removed. He nodded in agreement, and then told her:

  “Hey, your brother seems to have a soft spot for a girl!”

  “Really!?”

  Ayu grinned widely.

  Bandri made sure he added:

  “But you must promise not to tell anyone else.. you will promise?”

  Ayu did a little jump up and down:

  “Yes, yes, but who is she – it’s Mel isn’t it?”

  “He didn’t tell me – and we don’t know.”

  “Mel is so young isn’t she?”

  “She is too young – he would have to wait.”

  “Agu has been on his own for too long,” mused Ayu. “He’ll tell me if he’s thinking of Mel.”

  “You promised you wouldn’t say anything – you can’t ask him!” he reminded her. “Just give him time - you’ll know when he’s ready.”

  He told her about the brooch and they speculated a bit more, but when he reached out for a hug he was reminded:

  “You still need your bath - or I’m not coming near you!”

  After collecting plenty of fresh water from the stream, Bandri rummaged through some waxen soapy lumps. After choosing a satisfactory lump he then picked up one of the sponges. In their simple bamboo cubicle beside the kitchen, he kicked off his single item of clothing, the kathok, and used an empty coconut shell to repeatedly tip water over himself and lather-up the sponge, with his back to the kitchen where his wife prepared their mid-day meal.

  Ayu paused to watch her husband – being able to see much of his nakedness as he took his make-shift shower. They were used to each other’s intimacies, but just looking at him like this always excited her. He had an unusual grace for a man: powerfully muscled shoulders tapering to compact buttocks and strong, straight legs. His back and legs were darkly tan
ned while his middle was less so. Apart from the mat of black hair on his head she could see just a thin fuzz of hair on his lower legs, and his chest had a sparse covering of hair. She liked feeling the soft stubble on his chin.

  She had learned he was a thoughtful man when he courted her - giving her little gifts, like pots of scented honey wrapped in her favourite flowers. Frighteningly deep, this mysterious side of him used to scare her. She can even remember hiding from him. She remembered now that she had fallen in love with his eyes first – they always seemed to demand her attention when he looked at her. She loved those eyes of his. Once she was able to hold his gaze, she knew that she wanted to be his.

  “Dri - You will take care, won’t you?” she called out tenderly to him. Her dear husband and her brother would soon be trekking through the jungle to collect bronze ore, and this knowledge worried her almost beyond words. Her father had told her what Bitung was like.

  “Don’t take risks,” she added, deciding to be more instructive.

  “We don’t go into the town,” he replied. “We just pick up ore from the ground.”

  “I want you here with me,” she declared selfishly. She hated not knowing where he was for days on end. She hated nights without him; she needed his hard lean body beside her, to reach over and hold close; when she could feel that passion, and down inside the stretching, filling sensation, the sliding, satisfying movement, and the delirium that comes and goes; when she wondered about a baby, his baby.

  4 Pantai

  At the first light Bandri slipped out of bed, leaving Ayu still asleep. He and Agung prepared for their long trek to Bitung to collect bronze ore.

  The men had agreed that only two of them left the village at any one time for fishing, hunting, getting building materials, gathering fruit, honey-hunting and collecting ore. Presently the village had one machete, two bronze knives, an axe head, and a skewer. They had decided another trip for ore was needed so that all the men could have long knives or machetes.

  Agung wore a large bow with its quiver of big arrows on his back, plus the machete at his waist. Bandri chose to carry a spear and a smaller bow with arrows more suitable for shooting small game, plus a sharpened bone dagger. Both had prepared provisions for the journey in strong rattan backpacks; however the packs were mainly intended for carrying the heavy rock back home to the village.

  Harta had been assigned the task of keeping a lookout on the hill - the high vantage point north of the river, from where he could run back to the village if needed. Bandri called in at his mother’s house to make sure his young brother was well awake and knew what to do. Agung roused Praba and Andhika.

  Bandri returned to find Rukma and Kusama had arrived. They had already lit a fire in his outside kitchen in readiness for cooking the sarapan; they and Sukma would stay with Ayu while he was away. The promising sun started to break the eastern horizon. Kusama tended the crackle of flames in the hearth from which sweet smelling wood smoke crawled lazily into the cool air.

  “We’ve got plenty of crocodile steak to eat,” Rukma quipped. “So no-one will need to go hunting until you get back.”

  “Thank you,” Bandri said simply, being unable to express his emotions too intensely towards Rukma, although he felt all the gratitude in the world to Ayu’s father. Rukma put his large hand on his shoulder, and for a brief time they clasped arms. They used to avoid eye contact, but at some point this didn’t seem to matter anymore. Their relationship had become like father and son.

  Bandri picked up a long, flat pebble and with a soft pumice stone scratched some white marks on the smooth, granite-grey surface. He wanted to leave something for Ayu, using some symbols that they had invented together to leave little messages for each other.

  meaning ‘se-ma-n-ga-t’ – ‘passion’ or ‘spirit’.

  Smiling, he put the pebble on their log that was shaped like a bench.

  Looking up briefly, he scanned across the beach, the placid surf line, and beyond to the islands sitting on the horizon across the bay. After a reflective pause, he turned and slipped quietly into the house to say goodbye to Ayu, closing the door behind him.

  The early morning light glowed through the gaps above the bamboo walls of the room. Ayu lay on their low bed, her bare shoulders just visible above the batik bed sheet. She appeared to be sleeping, with her head turned away from him and long black hair partly covering her sultry features.

  He knelt down on the floor beside the bed and looked at the form of his wife in her relaxed posture, studying the outline moving slightly up and down as she breathed. After some moments he carefully lifted the edge of the sheet to see the curve of her hips, and then slowly put his head underneath the material, not yet touching but so close to her smooth skin that the delicate warm smells treated his senses, reviving the intimate memory of their passion during the night. The amber light under the thin fabric offered a rich vision of her naked body: a vision of radiant, shapely, sensuous skin. She hardly moved or made a sound as he kissed her, gradually and gently, rising up the listless length of her legs, tasting her. Upon her snug-flat stomach he laid an ear, listening to the little movements inside and her hurried heart beat. Then he kissed and licked upwards to reach her firm brown breasts, coaxing their shy dark nipples, and then some more until his head emerged onto the honey-coloured skin of her neck, pausing as his lips sensed the intense pulse under her chin and the depth of her breathing. Softly he pulled back the tresses of her scented hair to nuzzle the exposed ear and only now did she turn her head to kiss him longingly, silently, wrapping her arms around his neck.

  When their lips fell apart she whispered:

  “Menjaga dalam perjalanan anda cinta saya.. i akan berada di sini untuk anda.” - “Take care on your journey my love.. I will be here for you.”

  Before he could speak she put a finger over his lips:

  “Ssssh, Sukma’s asleep over there.”

  With a small purse of her lips, she indicated in the direction of their bamboo couch. Bandri turned his head and in the dimly lit corner of the room he could make out the still shape of Ayu’s younger sister, dressed in a sarong and stretched out on the couch, with a pillow under her pretty face and her eyelids closed.

  “She was still sleepy this morning,” Ayu whispered close to his ear.

  He turned his head back, stupefied and wordless, raising his eyebrows in understanding. Very quietly he kissed and hugged her some more until he got to his feet and stepped to the door, looking back before slowly opening, slipping out, and closing it.

  He stood thinking for a few moments, then, standing on tiptoe he reached and pushed his right hand inside through the small gap above the door. Reaching down with the tip of his fingers he pushed across the top wooden bolt.

  Ayu watched the top wooden bolt being slid across. She felt an emptiness grow, as she listened to the faint sounds of his farewell to her parents and then some more distant talk with her brother and then nothing – just the audible stillness of the room.

  The room was still. Dust motes hung in the shafts of sunlight beaming through the gaps above the bamboo walls. She looked across at her sister. Sukma stirred in her sleep, and turned over.

  Ayu lay under the batik bed sheet and breathed in long deep breaths of reflection, wanting to relive his goodbye. She wanted to relive his kisses onto her legs that slowly woke her - all of his kisses. She had remembered Sukma and could have stopped him. Perhaps she should have stopped him, but as long as he was quiet and the room was quiet? She trusted him and wanted to surrender herself to him.

  She knew the journey could take many days. Until they came back Ayu would not know if her husband and brother were safe, or in harm’s way.

 

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