“Ah, don’t carry on so—there is nothing to forgive,” said Husam just as lightly as before. “Besides, we’re getting out. We’re survivors, remember?” He began walking around the cave, running his hands carefully, slowly, over the rocky walls.
“I watched a film once,” he said conversationally, “and there was a secret entrance to a cave in a wall. There was a kind of hidden lever you could lift, and the whole of the wall opened up.”
“A film!” said Dewi, taken aback.
“You could help me, little heart,” said Husam. He came over to her and touched her on the shoulder. “Come on, we should try and cover every centimeter of this cave. The lever could be anywhere.”
Dewi’s heart sank. Husam was clutching at straws. She shot a glance at the painted wall. The powerful strokes of black paint that made up the huge lizard were definitely more fluid, more…alive. One of the lizard’s eyes opened. Her blood turned to ice; her bones seemed to lose their hardness. She managed to croak, “Husam…Husam…”
“What is it?” he said, and then he turned, and saw it. His hair stood up on end, sticking out stiffly like bits of wire. The lizard opened its other eye. Those eyes were dark, fathomless, without reflection or shadow, deep and dense as stones. They stared straight at Dewi and Husam.
Dewi felt the power of that stare rushing through her frozen bloodstream, throbbing into her terrified heart. And then it seemed to her that the throbbings became—not words exactly, but something older, more primitive, more elemental. She understood them as you understand words you hear in a dream but could never repeat out loud. “Child,” throbbed the wordless voice. “Come. Come, we will help you. Come.”
Dewi stared into the black lizard eyes and understood. Awe and hope surged through her. She put out a hand to Husam, who took it in his own. In the other hand, she held the tiger’s claw tightly. She made a prayer, deep inside herself. And then she said, very quietly, “We have to come to it, Husam. It is calling us. It will help us. We have to trust it. We must.”
Husam was ashy gray, his eyes wide and staring. But he walked forward with Dewi, toward the painted wall, which was now bulging and stretching with the movements of the massive beast. They reached it, and Dewi held out a hand to it. Instantly, the lines of the ancient painting seemed to gather together, as the great lizard burst from the wall and sprang at them. A vast darkness roared at them, an enormous jumble of energy, a huge gathering of force that swept them up, the cave vanishing into a pinprick of light that soon winked out and disappeared.
They were in the dark. The kind of dark you can only find underground: a dark so thick that not only does your hand disappear in front of you, you can hardly imagine it being there at all. Dewi’s whole body had vanished from her sight, as had Husam’s. It was utterly, utterly silent. She still clutched the tiger’s claw in one hand.
“Husam,” Dewi whispered, and her voice sounded loud in her ears.
For a moment, there was nothing. Then suddenly his voice came, curiously flat and muffled. “I’m here.” She could not tell where it had come from. She groped around, trying to feel if he was near her, but she could feel nothing apart from a smooth, rather leathery surface.
“Dewi, where have you taken us to this time?” His voice, tinged with humor, came to her, suddenly closer.
She started. “I don’t know.”
“Ah!” he exclaimed, a cry echoed by Dewi. They had found each other’s hands.
“Little heart, I am glad to find you.” The old executioner’s knobbly, scarred fingers gently touched Dewi’s soft skin. “Now, what will we do?”
“The lizard-spirit might help us again,” said Dewi.
“But we can’t see anything, let alone the painting…perhaps we’re in the picture itself, in the creature’s belly?” said Husam.
“You know,” said Dewi with a funny little catch in her voice, “perhaps you’re right.” She groped around, trying to find the soft leathery thing again. She touched a hand to it gently. Nothing happened at first, no throbbing, no hissing; but it seemed to her that in her heart, a rhythm that was not hers began to beat. She bit her lip, trying hard not to be frightened, and concentrated on sending out images from her heart into the darkness around them. Please…help…light.
No reply. No sound. Yet…was the dark growing less dark? Was it graying, softening at the corners? Was that…could she begin to see vague shapes, like things seen in a mist? It wasn’t her imagination. It was real, it was happening! She saw Husam slowly taking form, then herself. She could see his hand. She could see hers!
“Well, little heart,” said Husam rather shakily, “I did begin to wonder if I really existed at all. Bless the Light! I am glad to see my solid flesh again. I would not like to be a ghost.”
“No,” said Dewi, laughing a little, relieved and thrilled also to see her own solid self. She had not wanted to say anything, or acknowledge it even to herself, but she had wondered if they were in the blank interspace between life and death—in the shadowlands that Senopati had spoken of.
“It’s a tunnel,” said Husam, looking around. “We’re in a tunnel.”
It was a large, rather unpleasant tunnel, with a low roof and an old, musty, unused smell. But it was a tunnel with a definite light at its end, in the distance, a tunnel that must lead out, into the light of day. Dewi could have cried with happiness.
“There are niches here,” said Husam, peering into the gloom, “and they have…oh…” He broke off suddenly, and Dewi, peering in the same direction, felt cold all over. In the niche there was a low white stone shelf, and on that shelf was a person—or rather, the remains of what had once been a person. It was a bag of skin, a boneless mummy, lying on its back with flat, leathery arms drawn up over its chest, its sightless eyes staring up, its legs crossed at the ankles. It was clothed in a brown robe with the remains of fur clinging to the edge. Into its dry, straight hair, which hung down the sides of its dry, dead, boneless face, were woven shells, beads of glass, and delicate strands of gold. And under its back, splaying out from its shoulders, were strange cloth shapes, like wings or sails. These were rather moldy and ragged, but the shapes were still clear enough.
Dewi made a tiny sound and took a step back. Husam said, in a voice full of awe and fear, “She’s not alone.”
And he was right, as the light slowly revealed to Dewi. There was not one niche, but many. It was a tunnel of the dead, a village of ghosts, the House of Dust itself.
“We were sitting by that one,” said Husam, nodding toward the first mummy; and then Dewi realized what it was she had touched when they were in the darkness. A sickness rose up in her throat; a terror and horror washed over her like a great wave. And then the wave had rolled over her and gone, leaving in its place a sensation of sad peace, a feeling such as she had known at Chandi Maya, when she had spoken with Senopati. There was nothing to be afraid of here; this was a place of rest. These people had once lived and breathed like herself.
It was their spirits who had helped her and Husam, she thought. The lizard on the wall in the cave had probably been these people’s spirit guide. Perhaps they had worshipped it, down in the depths of the underground, and had come to be buried here, in the tunnel? She had heard about such things at school, about the people who had lived in Jayangan long, long ago, before the island was called that, before Senopati’s people had come, before even the forging of the first kris. She looked back at the mummies now and felt gratitude, and gentleness, and even love.
“We thank you, O ancient guardians of the dark,” she said quietly, very quietly. “We thank you for your kindness and your protection. We will honor your memory every day.”
The throbbing had started again, the gentle purring and humming. And in it, Dewi felt thoughts being sent to her, over the darkness of centuries, the threads of millennia. “Child…you good…we help you…but you not tell…not tell…child…bless child.”
“I won’t tell,” said Dewi, tears in her eyes. “I will never tell anyone
of what I have seen here. And neither will my friend. You will stay undisturbed forever. And I thank you for your blessing. I only hope I am worthy of it.”
“Of course you are,” said Husam, speaking suddenly. “Of course you are—or they would never have helped us.” He inclined his head and whispered, “Old Ones, I am not of your land. But I honor you too.”
There was silence in the tunnel. But it was a silence that spoke of quiet gladness; a sigh of peace and waiting, as if a dreamer had turned over in a long sleep.
TWENTY
ADI HAD NEVER been in the palace before, though he had often dreamed of coming here. Wide-eyed, he followed in the Shayk’s footsteps as the guard took them through the courtyards. How amazing it was to be here, in the seat of the great Sultan of Jayangan! He only wished it could have been in different circumstances; that it could have been with his beloved master, bearing the kris that had been specially made for the Sultan.
The palace was a series of beautiful white and gold pavilions. There were flower gardens with colored fountains playing; multicolored birds sang in golden cages; and the courtyards were floored with pure white pebbles and sand. Guards in the smart brown and white and gold uniforms of the palace, their ceremonial krises at their waistbands, patrolled the grounds, and graceful women with flowers in their buns and elegant dark-blue and gold sarong suits walked busily from pavilion to pavilion, bundles of papers in their hands. In one pavilion, there was a shadow-puppet show playing, and in another, musical instruments had been set up, ready to be played. In other circumstances, Adi would have wanted to linger, but today there was no time, and he trotted breathlessly at the heels of the Shayk, who strode purposefully, without a look to right or left.
They crossed another courtyard and came to a great red and gold door. The guard who had brought them explained rapidly to the guard at the door who Adi and the Shayk were. The man at the door looked at them, his gaze level and not very friendly. “Wait here,” he said, pointing to a bench near the door. “I will see if you can be received.”
The Shayk smiled thinly. “I think you will find Crown Prince Yanto will not like us to be kept waiting like this, but do your duty, my son.”
The man returned look for look, and did not flinch. “I will not be long.”
“Well, Adi,” said the Shayk when they were alone. “Is it what you expected?”
“Oh yes, sir. And more!”
“You are impressed with this power and wealth, my son?”
“Why, yes, sir! It is so beautiful, and seemly. The Sultans of Jayangan are great rulers. It is an honor to be here.”
“But are they devout, Adi? Are they truly devoted to the truth? Or is it just wealth and power they crave? Are they true sons of the Light?”
Adi looked in alarm at the Shayk. He hoped no one from the palace staff was listening. Such talk could land you in great trouble. The Shayk saw his expression. He smiled. “I ask only because if our rulers are not devout sons of the Light, then they might become easy prey for the tricks and wiles of demons and unbelievers.”
Adi stammered, “S-sir, I believe our…our Sultan is indeed devoted to the truth.” He added, in some discomfort, “He must rule for everyone, not just those who follow the Book of Light.”
The Shayk gave him a quizzical look from behind his glasses. “Hmmm. That is so in Jayangan, indeed. Yet were we treated well by the servant of the palace?” Adi stared at him.
“But sir, he has to protect—”
The Shayk nodded and smiled benignly. “Don’t look so afraid, Adi. God listens to you, as well as men.”
Adi said nothing more, but secretly, he was shocked. He thought, No wonder the old Sultan exiled the Shayk, if that was how he spoke. The Sultan was the Sultan, to be respected and looked up to. It was unworldly to think that a Sultan should not have wealth and power. Wise rulers used both well, knowing that a wicked ruler might well oppress his people but in the end would pay for it, certainly before God, and even before men. The people of Jayangan did not meekly support tyranny. The present Sultan was a man very close to his people; his kindness was well known, as were his energy and his dynamism. Besides, the Sultan’s patronage had helped to make great craftsmen like Empu Wesiagi what they were, and hopefully would help to make Adi’s own career as well. As to the way the guard had spoken to them—well, it was the job of such a man to protect his masters. He hoped the Shayk would make no rash, stiff-necked Pumujisal statements in the presence of the Sultan or the Crown Prince.
The guard came out again. His manner had changed. Now he was polite, even deferential. “Excuse me for keeping you waiting.” He opened the red door. “Please come with me, sirs.”
The Shayk, shooting Adi a look of mild triumph, got unhurriedly to his feet. “We excuse you, my son,” he said calmly, and they passed through the doorway.
The guard led them down a long corridor, toward an open door at the far end. The doorway was well guarded by several armed guards, who stood aside to let them pass. Adi could not help giving a gasp as they came through this doorway, for the room they entered was quite the most splendid thing he had ever seen. The walls were of pure white marble, with tracery work in filigree silver and green; the ceiling was made of carved, beaten metal in silver and blue; the floor was carpeted in magnificent ancient rugs; and a long, painted banner depicting a Court pavilion, with a regal-looking woman sitting on a blue dais, was hung on a rod from the back wall. There was little furniture, other than a carved sandalwood chest in one corner and, before the painted banner on a raised dais, two chairs made of carved teakwood, inlaid with silver and blue and green stones. On the chairs sat two men, the Sultan and his son, the Crown Prince.
Adi did not look twice at the occupants of the chairs. He had dropped to his knees, head bent. Beside him, however, the Shayk stood straight, unmoving. No one spoke for a moment; then a low, rich voice broke the silence.
“Welcome, Adi,” said the voice. Adi raised his head. To his astonishment, he saw that just behind the Sultan’s chair stood a woman. She had a beautiful, ageless face, with deep dark eyes, and silver hair that was held back under a magnificent headdress of blue and green and silver. She was dressed in a shimmering sarong that looked as though it had been dipped in liquid moonlight and sea-foam, and on one of her well-shaped fingers, a great white ring glittered. Adi did not want to stare, but he could not help it. She looked exactly like the woman depicted on the painted banner behind her head. She was…
“Queen Rorokidul,” he murmured rather uneasily.
Rorokidul gave him a thin smile. “My human husband, the Sultan, has not been mindful of his vows. The time is very near.” She vanished, and Adi was left staring stupidly at the spot behind the Sultan’s head where she had been.
“You may rise, child,” said a kind voice, and, starting, Adi saw that the Sultan himself was beckoning him forward. He scrambled nervously to his feet. The Sultan was a rather small, rather tubby middle-aged man with a thick head of glossy black hair and a round, kind face. He sported smart glasses, behind which his eyes shone with an irrepressible twinkle. The Sultan was clothed not in traditional dress, but in a pale gray business suit and shiny leather shoes. On one of his pudgy fingers glittered a great white ring, exactly like the one the Queen had worn.
Prince Yanto was as short as his father, but as cadaverously thin as his father was comfortably well-fleshed, and as serious-looking as his father looked cheerful. His eyes burned with the light of dedication and study. He was dressed in a similar style to the Shayk, in a spotless white robe and turban. A thin silver chain, at the end of which hung a small medallion similar to the one Sadik wore, was his only ornament.
“Well, well, child,” said Sultan Sunan Tengah. In his cheerful voice there was not a trace of the languid disdain one might have expected of a king of such ancient lineage. “I am glad to see you. Your master, Empu Wesiagi, is a great friend of mine, and I am concerned for his safety.” Then he looked directly at the Shayk. “And I have heard a great de
al about you, Shayk Rasheed al-Jabal, from my son. He speaks most highly of you.” At these words, Prince Yanto smiled.
“I think you will find, Father, that the Shayk is more than worthy of my words.” His gaze at the Shayk was not that of a prince to an inferior, Adi noticed, but the humble gaze of a disciple to his master.
“I am most grateful that you have succored my young servant, Adi,” continued the Sultan to the Shayk. “This will not be forgotten.”
“Your Majesty, you do me too much honor.”
Adi breathed an inward sigh of relief. At least the Shayk knew how to talk to royalty, despite his words in the courtyard.
“Not at all. Credit must be given where credit is due. Besides, my son has often wished me to visit your community; perhaps it is time I did.” The Sultan smiled. “I’ve been told you have achieved real results and don’t just turn out preachers. We don’t need more tedious preachers, but people who actually get things done.”
Prince Yanto’s eyes widened. He cast a pleading look at the Shayk, who merely smiled. Adi waited uneasily for the Shayk’s reply. The old man merely said, coolly, “You are quite right, Your Majesty. I feel exactly the same myself. And it would be a very great honor to host you, Sire. We will prepare for this most important event, whenever Your Majesty wishes it.”
“Good. Now, I wish to hear everything that has happened.”
“My Lord,” said the Shayk quietly, “what we have to say should not be heard by any ears other than your own and those of His Highness Prince Yanto.” He looked meaningfully at the guards.
The Sultan clapped loudly. “Guards! Go, leave us alone. Close the door behind you.” He waved at Adi and the Shayk. “Now. Before we begin, there is something I must tell you. Adi, your master, Empu Wesiagi, was not coming here just to give me the kris he had made. He had learned something about the truth behind the terrible things that have been happening in Jayangan.” The Sultan’s eyes suddenly sharpened. “You see, he had begun to convince me that we have a very serious problem, and so I had entrusted him with the task of finding out more. He had learned much from his contacts with other wise men and women. He was journeying here to lay it all before me, because he did not trust any other way of communicating. It had to look like a normal journey, and yet he was nervous.”
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