Snow, Fire, Sword

by Sophie Masson

  “That is why we went by back roads and little routes,” said Adi.

  “Did he manage to tell you anything, Your Majesty, before he disappeared?” said the Shayk.

  “No, nothing at all. He only thought it safe to tell me in person. So, now, begin. I want to hear it all. Don’t leave out anything.”

  TWENTY-ONE

  DEWI AND HUSAM hurried down the tunnel. The light got brighter and brighter, but it was a curious light that seemed to fall in strips, as if it were partly blocked. It reminded them both of something else—the way the light had fallen back at the mouth of the cave. When they finally reached the end of the tunnel, they realized that this was indeed the case. The mouth was blocked by a large, oddly shaped boulder. It looked immovable, but nevertheless, Husam put an exploratory shoulder to it. He winced. “Just as I thought. It won’t budge, little heart.”

  Dewi’s heart sank. To come so far and be blocked by a simple stone! She tried to mind-speak to the guardians of the ancient tombs, but there was only silence. A sense of oppression engulfed Dewi. She had to get back out into the air; she could not stand being underground anymore! She clutched the tiger’s claw and spoke aloud. “Please, Lady Kwanyin. Queen Rorokidul. Lord Bupatihutan.” Nothing. The spirits were not answering. Her voice rose, ringing with a sudden panic. “Fire! Kareen Amar! Help us! Help us!”

  Husam tried to hush her. “You don’t know what’s beyond there. You…” A knocking sound came to their ears, sharp and metallic.

  Dewi and Husam looked at each other. Dewi was about to speak when the sound came again, louder and more distinct. It sounded like metal on stone. They looked at each other again. “Oh,” said Husam quietly, “I think we should move back.”

  Again came that sharp sound. And then, quite distinct, a human voice, an old man’s voice, filled with terror. “God preserve us from evil spirits. God preserve us, for we have done no wrong.”

  Throwing caution to the winds, Dewi shouted, “We are not evil spirits! We are prisoners, trapped in here. Help us, please!”

  There was silence. Then the voice quavered, “Who are you?”

  “Dewi, dukun’s daughter, and Husam al-Din,” said Dewi, much to Husam’s consternation.

  “You are the dukun’s daughter?” The voice had changed. Now it sounded full of a wild joy. “Wait. Wait! I will be quick!”

  “Oh, little heart,” said Husam into the silence that followed, “I hope you know what you are doing.”

  “Not at all,” said Dewi, with a forced little laugh, “but we cannot stay here to starve to death, Husam, and there is no other way out.”

  “No, there isn’t, but who knows what we will find out there, and who will greet us, and why they sounded so happy to hear who you were?”

  Dewi did not answer, for there was no sense in doing so. The same fears were passing through her mind, the same terror that she had entirely done the wrong thing. Time passed, and still nothing happened. Then all at once, the metallic sounds started again, much louder this time. A low hum, rather like wordless chanting, accompanied them. Then came a deafening crack that made Dewi and Husam jump, a loud screeching and groaning, and suddenly the boulder seemed to turn, to roll away as if on hinges, and Husam and Dewi were pulled out, blinking and blinded and almost deaf, into sunlight. Behind them, the boulder twisted again, and fell back against the entrance of the tunnel with a mighty crash, sealing it shut.

  They were in a great quarry, cut into a hill, rocky and bleak. High white and gray walls of stone rose sheerly above them. There were several people clustered in a ring around them. They had heavy chains at their waists, around their ankles, and loosely at their wrists, so they clanked as they moved: the sound Husam and Dewi had heard in the tunnel. They were holding picks they had obviously just been breaking stones with. They were all strangers to Dewi. Except one. And that one, for a paralyzed moment, Dewi could only stare at—for it was her father.

  Bapar Wiriyanto’s face bore the unmistakable marks of suffering. One eye was shut, puffed and angry-looking; there were bruises and cuts and a deep slash on his cheeks, and his hands were cut and bruised as well. But he was smiling, his eyes filled with immense love and joy. He said nothing, only opened his arms wide. Suddenly unfrozen, Dewi flew into them, tears running down her cheeks. He felt thinner, more fragile; but he was warm, he was real, he was alive! For a few moments, the world seemed to stop around them as they held each other tightly. Then Bapar Wiriyanto gently disengaged himself from Dewi and turned to Husam. “Forgive us, sir.”

  “Nothing to forgive,” said Husam gruffly, with a telltale glitter in his eyes. “Nothing at all.”

  “Father,” said Dewi tenderly, looking into his face, “Father, you are hurt. What have they done to you, Father?”

  “Nothing that won’t heal,” said the dukun with an attempt at lightness. “I am just a little bruised and battered, but still alive for the moment. Unlike too many of our fellows, whose broken bodies have been left to rot where they fell.”

  Dewi swallowed. “Father, Anda Mangil…he…he was killed…by them.”

  Her father put a hand to his head. “My poor friend,” he said softly. “My poor, innocent Anda Mangil.” He looked away, overcome. “We cannot allow him to have died in vain,” he said in a muffled voice. “We just cannot.”

  “That we will not, sir!” said Husam firmly.

  The dukun’s eyes flicked over to the old executioner.

  “Father, this is Husam al-Din. He is a dear friend too,” said Dewi. “He saved me from the hantumu.”

  “Husam al-Din, I am most pleased to meet you, sir. I am Wiriyanto.” The two men shook hands. “I thank you greatly, Husam al-Din, for being my daughter’s companion and helping her,” said the dukun gravely. “I am ashamed that I was taken so easily, and was not able to protect her and Adi as I should. So I am most grateful to you, Husam al-Din.”

  “It is I who am most grateful,” said Husam. “I had been away from the world too long, selfishly enjoying my last years fishing, while Jayangan was attacked by the forces of evil. If I can be of any use in this great task, then I am grateful.” He smiled impishly. “Besides, I am finding that I missed the excitement of being in the world.”

  “Husam,” said the dukun thoughtfully. “That is a name from Al Aksara, the Great Desert, isn’t it? Having traveled there in my youth, I know a little of your language, sir—surely Husam means Sword?”

  “Yes,” said Husam. Leveling a steady gaze at Wiriyanto, he said, “It was also how I lived my life, sir, by the sword. I was the official executioner to the old Sultan.”

  “Ah,” breathed the dukun, his eyes locking on Husam’s. “I see.”

  “We have found Fire, too,” Dewi gabbled. “She is a Jinn, Father.”

  “A Jinn!” the dukun exclaimed, his eyes shining. “Of course—they are creatures of fire, being made of the smokeless flame.”

  “Snow we haven’t found yet.”

  “And Adi? Where is he?” said the dukun, seeming to notice the boy’s absence for the first time.

  “I don’t know, Father,” said Dewi miserably. “We became separated.”

  The dukun sighed. “Why were you in that place, the ancient burial ground of the Old Ones?”

  “We were helped by their spirit-guide. The afreet had left us to die.” Rapidly, she told him the story, and he nodded.

  “Ah. That is a great thing indeed.”

  “Father,” said Dewi, “how did you know to help us? It was you, humming, wasn’t it, that caused the boulder to open?”

  The dukun nodded. “Bupatihutan came to me,” he said. “He told me you were in need. He showed me what I should do.”

  Dewi, opening her hand, showed her father the tiger’s claw. “But I called on him earlier, in the cave, and he didn’t answer.”

  “He could not while you were in there,” said her father. “The spirits of the Old Ones are more ancient even than his people, and he cannot command them to do anything. His power does not extend into
such places. The Old Ones were good people, though everyone hereabouts has forgotten that, and fears them as evil ghosts. That’s why it is safe for them to hold us captive here; the local people are so scared of this place, they would never come looking around. The Sorcerer’s servants cannot enter into the burial tunnel of the Old Ones, for it is of very old magical protection, and they cannot break the seal.”

  “You know quite a lot about it, then, sir?” said Husam.

  “Together we have an understanding of this place,” said the dukun, “but we cannot escape.” He pointed to a hole in the quarry, some distance away. “In there are the stone cages where they keep us at night. We cannot escape; the walls are too steep for a chained man to climb. And the Sorcerer’s magic negates our own, so we cannot use it—he has set a shield against it. I was able to help you then only because both Bupatihutan and the spirits of the Old Ones wanted it.”

  “But why are they holding you, Father? Why haven’t they…” Her voice broke.

  The dukun said gently, “Why they haven’t killed us? They kill those who resist too strongly or who have learned too much about the Sorcerer and his plans. The Sorcerer thinks he may learn something from the rest of us, or that he will win us over to his cause. He has already tried to do so, by sweet ways and bitter ones.”

  “Father, do you know who the Sorcerer is?”

  “He is a man, that I know,” said the dukun bitterly, “but he has never shown his face to us. He comes veiled and disguised to watch and listen as his servants interrogate and torture us. I have seen him order the execution of those who tried to resist or escape. There is no mercy or compassion in that creature’s heart, only a burning desire to remake the world in his own image. That is what we know of him.” He paused. “But I am lacking in both manners and courtesy, my friends,” he went on, turning to the other prisoners, “for I have not even introduced you. Will you forgive me?”

  “Hmph, Wiriyanto, we know you well.” A bright-faced man with a pronounced limp who stepped forward, chains rattling, laughed. “We know you find it hard to stop talking. I am Bapar Suyanto,” he went on, turning to Dewi and Husam. “I am a musician, from Kotabunga.”

  So this was the man they were to have met when they first arrived in Kotabunga. “I am very glad to meet you, Bapar Suyanto.”

  “And I you, Dewi. Your father has told us much about you. You make him proud, Dewi.”

  Dewi blushed. “Thank you.”

  “And you, Husam al-Din. I am pleased to meet you.”

  “And I you,” said Husam heartily, and they bowed to each other.

  “I am Ibi Timur, bird witch, from Demityangan.” A small, fat woman with a broken nose and bright amber-colored eyes gravely stepped forward. “It is an honor to meet you both,” she said in a very deep voice. Dewi looked at her in awe; she had heard of the bird witches of the great forest of Demityangan in the east, but never met one before.

  “I am Agung, hermit from Priangan,” said another woman, as tall and thin as Timur was short and fat. Dewi was startled to see she was blind. “The spirits of the mountain bless you.” Priangan was the mystic mountain in the west of Jayangan, home of some of the remotest and shyest of Jayangan spirits. To be blessed by them was a rare honor indeed.

  “I am Shayk Abdullah Kitab, teacher, who lives near the Tomb of the Five Saints,” said a stooped old man in a quavering voice—the voice they had first heard in the tunnel. “God preserve you, daughter! We are glad you are safe.” The Tomb of the Five Saints was a famous pilgrimage site for Mujisals.

  “And I am Empu Wesiagi, kris maker, from Jatimur.” A big, broad man with the brawny shoulders and forearms of a blacksmith smiled at them. What that smile cost him one could only imagine, for like Bapar Wiriyanto, Empu Wesiagi had evidently been badly treated; his face was a mass of bruises and cuts, and several of his teeth had been broken.

  “Oh! You are Adi’s master, the great kris-smith,” Dewi breathed.

  “Well, others say I am great, but I know I am still learning,” he said lightly. “I am Adi’s master. One day he’ll be a very great kris-smith indeed.”

  Dewi burst out, “I wish he were with me now. He would be glad to know you are alive, sir. He was afraid, very much afraid.”

  “He was right to be,” said the kris maker. “I do not know how much longer they will keep us in life.” He looked at Dewi’s father, who seemed to take it as his cue.

  “Is there any chance—did you go to see the Sultan at all, Dewi?”

  “No.”

  “You and Husam must go to Kotabunga—leave us here, and don’t even try to help us escape. We are not important right now. We are sure the Sorcerer is about to strike at the very heart of our country.”

  “But Father, Father, we cannot leave you.”

  “Look, my dearest child, if this Sorcerer is not stopped, he will enslave all of Jayangan and destroy everything that is dear to us.”

  “And he has learned exactly what it is that will be needed to defeat him,” put in Shayk Abdullah Kitab earnestly. “He has learned—and so he will seek to use those things against the forces of good. That is why he is so dangerous.”

  “But does that mean he can use Snow, Fire, and Sword against us?” asked Dewi, casting an anxious look at Husam. “That cannot be so, because Sword is with me, and Fire is safe, and Snow…we haven’t yet found Snow.”

  “He will seek to neutralize those forces in some way,” said the kris maker. “Or he will attempt to destroy them; or he will turn them in some way, with tricks and deception.”

  “This is why you must leave at once, and go to the palace of Kotabunga to put everything to the Sultan,” said Dewi’s father. “If the Sultan is not warned, the Sorcerer will have an advantage of surprise that will be difficult to overcome.” He paused and looked deep into his daughter’s eyes. “Now listen. The sun is into afternoon, and our guards will be returning to bring us our food very soon. Up there, on the western wall of the pit, Bapar Suyanto’s keen eyes have seen a breach you may climb; and behind it, according to the keen ears of Shayk Abdullah, is a stream that you should walk along. This stream will take you to a remote, protected village, as Ibi Timur has seen in a dream; and Agung has pronounced that these people are good people, if a little strange, and will help you, if you follow their lead. Now go, at once, Dewi and Husam, and don’t look back.”

  “Father, I can’t just leave you like this.”

  “Do not be afraid. You must not worry about us. God willing, we will be safe.”

  Dewi gulped. She said, “Father, please, I want to give you back your talisman. At least then I’ll feel a little better.” She held out the tiger’s claw. He did not take it, shaking his head. “Please, Father, it’s for you and the others. I have Sword, I have Fire, I’ll find Snow. Please, you must have this! They might well come and kill you now,” she pleaded, almost in tears. She saw a vision of Bupatihutan rising up behind her father, placing a clawed hand lightly on his shoulder. Her father’s eyes widened. Wordlessly, he nodded and took the talisman. He looked at her.

  “Thank you, my dear child,” he whispered. Behind his shoulder, Bupatihutan nodded too, his yellow eyes fixed on Dewi. Then he vanished.

  “Now, please, my daughter, you must go. Please. Go!” Her father’s eyes filled with tears; then he mastered himself, turned his back deliberately, and said to the others, “We should get back to breaking those stones, before the birds of the air wonder why it is so quiet here and gossip about it too widely.”

  Husam put a hand on Dewi’s shoulder. “Come, little heart,” he said softly. “Your father’s courage and honor cannot be cast aside. You must do as he asks you.”

  And so, heavyhearted, leaden limbed, Dewi turned away from her beloved father and his fellow captives and began the painful slog up the steep rocky wall of the quarry.

  TWENTY-TWO

  THE SULTAN AND the Prince listened in silence to Adi’s story. When he had finished, the Sultan stayed for a while in deep thought, the twinkle in hi
s eye replaced by an uncommon gravity. Then he said, “Yanto, my son, bring out what came for us this morning.” The tone in his voice was now steely and determined; it also held an element of fear.

  Yanto rose from his chair and went to the sandalwood chest. In the silence that hung expectantly in the room, he reached into the chest and took out something wrapped in silk. He brought it to his father, who, also in silence, unwrapped it.

  “Oh, dear God in Heaven,” gasped Adi. There, lying on the silk, was the kris he and his master had made together for the Sultan. It had been such a beautiful thing, its blade so finely tempered, its red-gilt hilt and scabbard decorated with the crown of the Sultan. And now it lay in pieces, the blade snapped into three bits, the hilt and scabbard scratched and defaced.

  Quite forgetting his awe in front of the Sultan, Adi said, “Who did this? How did it get here?”

  It was Prince Yanto who answered. ‘One of the guards on duty early this morning said it was delivered by a masked man dressed all in black, riding a motorbike. He vanished before he could be arrested.”

  “Now, what you have told me, Adi,” said the Sultan, “makes me understand: The one who has your master also had this delivered. It is a message to us, see….” And here he beckoned Adi and the Shayk forward. He pointed to a place on the defaced scabbard. “Look at the crown.”

  Adi’s flesh crawled as he saw what had been done to his carving: The crown had a great jagged line running through it, and what were clearly meant to be drops of blood, flowing from the place where it had been cleaved.

  “This message is for me and my family,” said the Sultan. “I understood it this morning as an insult, an empty threat. Now, after listening to you, I know it is more than that. It is a declaration of war by the master of the hantumu. He must believe he and his henchmen are invulnerable; otherwise, why deliver such a thing in broad daylight? He intends to strike at the very heart of power in this land, at my own family, my own power. I had hoped it was not so. I wanted my reign to be peaceful and prosperous, but now I see such hopes were in vain and that we must confront this threat directly.” He turned to his son. “Yanto! You are to make sure that the guard is doubled on all the gates; make sure my elite soldiers are called up too. We do not know yet when the enemy will attack, but we must be ready, for nothing is surer, it seems to me, than that they will attack.”