The musicians beat a single note three times and Citra emerged from the temple, dressed just like the other dancers except for the silver thread woven through her kemben. She glided between the two rows to stand still in front of the prince for a heartbeat before bending her body like a leaf falling through the air to begin the dance.
The two lines of dancers parted to let Citra take the centre of the dance space. Her body was like a ribbon, weaving gracefully through the space, bending and gesturing towards the temple, towards the pendopo, towards the prince and towards the mountain. When she faced the pendopo she raised her head towards the tree where Kancil hid. For an instant their eyes met.
Kancil couldn’t be sure that her cousin had actually seen her, but the expression on her face took Kancil’s breath away – she looked so very sad. Then, with a flick of her patterned sash, Citra spun around to continue the dance. She was an excellent dancer.
“What have you got against Majapahit princes anyway?” Kitchen Boy asked.
“Eh?” said Kancil. The dance was over and the speeches had begun. Big Uncle was mumbling and most people had stopped paying attention. Kancil had lost interest herself and was watching the crowd, although her eyes kept being drawn back to Citra, still in her dancing costume and sitting stiffly next to her father. If Citra had been a nicer person, Kancil would have felt sorry for her, sitting there trying not to look bored.
“Before,” said Kitchen Boy, “you were moaning about having to look at a Majapahit prince like it was some big waste of your time.”
“I wasn’t moaning,” Kancil replied.
“Well, whatever it was, you made out like you’re the only girl in the village who’s not excited about the prince coming here. So my guess is that secretly you’re jealous of your cousin marrying the prince and you’re trying to hide it by pretending you hate royalty.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Kancil snapped. “For your information, your Majapahit king murdered my father. He also murdered the entire royal family of Sunda. It’s possible that Bhre Mataram isn’t as bloodthirsty as the king, but I’m not going to stick around to find out.”
“Oh?” said Kitchen Boy. “Where are you going then?”
“I don’t know,” Kancil sighed. “Home to Sunda if I can. Definitely away from here. I can’t stay mute for the rest of my life.”
“And who will you go with?”
“If I can convince the dalang to take me as a servant, I’ll go with his troupe as far as I can. If not, I’ll go by myself.”
“Now that’s ridiculous,” said Kitchen Boy.
“Why?”
“You’re a girl, you can’t go by yourself. And what about your mother? If you run away, who will look after her when she’s old?”
Kancil had been trying not to think about how Mother fitted into her plans for escape. “She should never have brought me here,” she said, “and in any case she’ll be treated better if she doesn’t have me with her, giving people like Bibi excuses to make snide remarks about bandit spawn.” Kancil thought about the haunted house that had once been Bibi’s home. It wasn’t surprising that she was bitter, but that was no excuse for the way she treated people.
“And I can go by myself but if you’d like to come along, I’ll consider taking you with me.”
“Thank you for your kind offer,” said Kitchen Boy, “but I quite like knowing where I’m going to sleep every night and I much prefer the predictable wrath of Bibi to taking my chances on the road.”
“Suit yourself,” said Kancil. She was a little disappointed that Kitchen Boy didn’t want to join her. At the same time, her disappointment was mixed with guilty relief. If she couldn’t convince Mother to go with her, she would feel better about leaving her behind if Kitchen Boy was here.
Kitchen Boy leaned back against the tree trunk. “What about your brother?” he asked.
“What?” Kancil’s head snapped around to face him.
“In the story your mother made up about Lawucilik, your father and brother were killed in the earthquake. You’ve said the king killed your father. You didn’t say anything about your brother. You think he’s still alive, don’t you?”
“Maybe,” Kancil said. She regretted confiding in Kitchen Boy now. She didn’t want to talk to him about Agus. She knew he would point out the futility of trying to find him. But Kitchen Boy didn’t mock her. “Perhaps you’re right,” he said, nodding his head slowly.
16
THE JOGLO
The next morning, Bibi shooed Kancil and Kitchen Boy out of the kitchen as soon as they had completed all the heavy chores for the day. “Go and make yourselves useful at the performers’ lodgings,” she ordered. Kancil knew this meant they would have to keep working while Bibi and Ida enjoyed a relaxing day, but she didn’t mind. In fact, she was rather pleased that Bibi was inadvertently helping her plan to escape the village.
When they arrived at the house behind the north pendopo, the dalang had already gone to meditate in preparation for his dusk till dawn performance, but the other performers were all there. As Kitchen Boy had predicted, the singer greatly appreciated the cups of tea and shoulder massages that Kancil provided. When Dalang Mulyo lit the lamp at dusk to signal the beginning of the wayang performance, Kancil and Kitchen Boy were seated in the pendopo in prime position. They were directly behind the singer where they could watch the dalang bring the colourful flat-leather puppets to life from behind the shadow screen.
Before he began the performance, Dalang Mulyo turned around to make sure each of the performers was ready. When his gaze fell on Kancil and Kitchen Boy, he startled, as though noticing them for the first time. He looked first at Kitchen Boy, who stared cheekily back at him. Then the dalang looked at Kancil. She bowed her head but something made her change her mind and she raised her eyes to meet the dalang’s gaze. When he saw her eyes, his brow furrowed as though he was trying to remember something. He inclined his head in a slight nod before turning to face the shadow screen.
Kancil was still wondering what the dalang’s nod had meant the next morning as she swept the kitchen. She hoped she might be sent back to the performers’ lodgings so she would have a chance to see him again. She knew it was foolish to think that he might have met Agus in Pekalongan and recognised the resemblance in her eyes. Even so, her mind kept leaping to that conclusion.
Her hopes of seeing the dalang again that morning were dashed when Bibi arrived at the kitchen.
“You’re needed at the joglo,” she snapped.
It was the first time Kancil had seen the joglo, which had been built on the foundations of the old Bhre Mataram’s joglo just outside and a little uphill from the village. Twin stone shrines, built long before anybody could remember, stood like massive gateposts at the front of the courtyard. A high stone wall looped around the whole complex, from shrine to shrine, leaving only a narrow entrance at the front.
The old joglo had burned down when Mbah Merapi destroyed the village all those years ago. Inside the walled compound, only the stone guardians and the front steps, also made of stone, had survived. Giant teak trees had been dragged from the forest to become the pillars and roof joists of the new building. It was built in two parts: an open-air pendopo at the front and an enclosed dalem at the back. The smell of newly sawn timber hung in the air.
Ibu Tari was waiting for Kancil in the front courtyard near a clump of black bamboo that screened the pendopo from the front gate. She was anxiously clasping and unclasping her hands.
“I’m so relieved you’re here,” she said, ushering Kancil around to the kitchen at the back. “I don’t know whether it was the excitement of the prince arriving or staying up all night to watch the wayang, but five women have decided to give birth today and the midwife can only be in one place at a time. I really must go and help.”
Ibu Tari looked over towards the quiet joglo. She drew Kancil further into the kitchen and lowered her voice. “When the old Bhre used to come here, he always brought servants to manage the cooki
ng and the cleaning. The village would provide help of course, but the royal servants would tell us when to enter the joglo and what meals to prepare. These ones though,” she shook her head disapprovingly, “they’re big strong boys who look good carrying a jempana. Apart from that all they’re good at is eating and throwing spears.”
She nodded towards a spike that had been set up in an open space. A pile of young coconuts with splintered husks lay around it. “You know, I don’t think they’re even up yet,” she said as she slapped at a fly with a dishcloth. Kancil was in no doubt that if the prince’s bearers had been Ibu Tari’s own sons, it wouldn’t be the fly that she was slapping.
At that moment, the back door of the joglo swung open and the parasol bearer emerged, sleepily scratching his belly. “Finally!” Ibu Tari murmured. “I’ll tell him you’re here then I’ll be on my way. I’ll be back soon, or I’ll send someone to help, don’t worry.” With that, she walked out of the kitchen and over to the parasol bearer, hunching her shoulders and bowing her head politely.
“Sir, excuse me, sir,” she said sweetly.
He grunted in reply. His hand moved from his belly to scratch his head, making his hair stand up on end.
“A girl is here to clean the joglo,” Ibu Tari said, nodding towards the kitchen door where Kancil was standing. “Perhaps if you could tell her when His Highness goes to bathe so she can clean without being in the way. She doesn’t speak, sir, but she understands and she’s a hard worker. Now with your permission, sir, I will take my leave.”
The parasol bearer looked over towards Kancil, and she quickly bowed her head.
When Ibu Tari left, the man went inside the joglo and silence returned. Presumably, the prince wasn’t up yet and wouldn’t be going to bathe any time soon. Kancil had the rare luxury of having absolutely nothing to do. She looked around the kitchen for somewhere comfortable to sit but the kitchen had not been designed for the comfort of servants so she wandered outside to explore the rear courtyard.
The kitchen and storerooms were on the north side of the courtyard and the latrine and pigsty butted up against the south wall. On the east wall a narrow gate was hidden behind a screen so nobody could see into the courtyard. Beyond the barred gate a deep ditch planted with spiky snake fruit bushes encircled the wall. A narrow bridge spanned the ditch and provided the only access to the gate from the east forest. As she peered through the gate, Kancil had the feeling that someone was in the forest watching her. Rattled, she turned away and picked up the broom, hoping that sweeping would calm the uneasy feeling in her stomach.
The morning was disappearing and still there was no sign of movement from inside the joglo. The air was becoming hot and steamy and even though the sun was hidden behind clouds, Kancil could feel it beating down on her. She stowed her broom and went to sit in the shade cast by the joglo. She was beginning to doze when she was snapped back to wakefulness by the sound of someone breaking wind on the other side of the wall.
“Pwoar! That reeks!” a voice said.
“Shhh!” warned another.
“Ah,” said the first, “the old lady’s deaf and she’s too busy bowing and scraping to notice anyway.”
“The old lady’s gone. There’s a kid here now.”
“Even better. You heard what Rat said, the kids here don’t know anything.”
“Keep your voices down,” growled a third voice. “Don’t take stupid risks.”
Kancil was sitting bolt upright. She had to get to the kitchen before anyone came out or they would know she had heard. She shot across the courtyard and dived into the dark hut. She stared at the glowing coals under the rice steamer for a moment, trying to collect her thoughts. Could she have imagined it? No, it wasn’t possible. There was no doubt in her mind that the first man had spoken in Sunda language. What was more, the way he said “bowing and scraping” revealed a particular dialect that Kancil used to hear often in the Muara Jati market. It was the dialect of pickpockets and tricksters.
Father used to be furious if he heard Kancil and Agus speaking the dialect, but Mother quietly encouraged them to pick up its nuances. “It doesn’t hurt,” she would tell Father, “to know what those low-lifes are saying. It’s all right for you, out there on the sea with your honest crew. A woman needs to have her wits about her when she spends all day in the market.”
Kancil tried to gather her thoughts as she picked up the broom again and started sweeping the kitchen that Ibu Tari had already swept spotless. It was unlikely, though still possible, that a Sunda market low-life could become the servant of a Majapahit prince. Father used to say they were like rats, always landing on their feet.
She was almost sure, though, that she recognised that first voice. It was hard to tell, because he had only given a short speech in polite Jawa at the welcome ceremony. Nevertheless, he had quite a distinctive voice and at the time she had thought that it went well with his glorious moustache. No matter how many ways she turned it around in her head, she couldn’t come up with a way that a Sunda market low-life could become a Majapahit prince.
The rattling of the gate brought Kancil out of the kitchen. The prince and his men were struggling to undo the complicated locking system of the bars. Once the gate was open, five of the men, including the prince, walked out, presumably heading for the prince’s bathing pool. The other three stayed behind to lock the gate. Kancil saw them stop and look through the gate towards the other end of the bridge, where she could faintly hear the five men talking – it sounded like they were greeting someone.
“What’s he doing here?” she heard one of the men inside the gate say. This time there was no doubt that he was speaking Sunda language.
One of the men, who had a scar across his left cheek, clapped his hands to get Kancil’s attention. “You,” he called as he pointed to the joglo, “clean now!”
“No,” moaned another, “tonic first. In there.” He motioned for her to go back inside the kitchen. Kancil went in, hoping there would be some clue inside to help her figure out what sort of tonic he wanted.
“Four cups. Pendopo,” he called after her.
Inside the kitchen, Kancil found raw rice soaking in cold water. There was a jar of tamarind pulp, a plug of palm sugar and four kencur roots wrapped in a damp cloth. She set to work making beras kencur tonic. Four cups? she wondered. Who could the men have met on the other side of the bridge, and was it the same person she had sensed watching her earlier?
When she rounded the corner of the pendopo there were, indeed, four men sitting around a plate of sticky rice cakes. Their conversation stopped when she appeared. Kancil couldn’t get a proper look at the newcomer because she was keeping her head bowed – only partly to be respectful. If they were Sunda market low-life, they might recognise her; some of the tricksters back home had got wise to the fact that she and Agus could understand them and would warn their friends to “watch out for the teak eyes”.
“Clean now,” Scar ordered when she had passed around the drinks. “Inside. Shut door.”
Kancil shuffled backwards into the dalem, taking a broom that was leaning against the wall as she went.
“Whose brat is that?” someone asked. Strange, Kancil thought, he sounds like a local.
“Don’t know,” said the moaner, “but she makes good jamu.”
“I hope she’s not related to that crazy witch,” said the local man.
“It’s all right,” said Scar, “she doesn’t speak. Even so, you are a fool to come here. What if the old woman had been here? She might have recognised you.”
“I’m not stupid,” said the local indignantly. “I waited until I saw her leave, and I had to come here. There’s a prob– Is she listening to us?”
Kancil realised too late that she was holding the broom in midair as she strained to hear them. If she started to sweep again now they would know she was listening. She hitched up her kain and in three desperate leaps made it to the other side of the room, offering up thanks to the village men for tying the flo
orboards firmly to the joists so they didn’t squeak.
A partition divided the dalem into a front and a back room. By the time the local had got up and opened the front door, Kancil was behind the partition, her heart pounding.
“Must have gone out the back, lazy bint,” she heard him say as he shut the door.
Strange, Kancil thought. That’s what Bibi calls me. She didn’t stop to wonder about it though. The man was talking more quietly and she could only hear snatches. She crept towards the door to hear better.
“… can’t find it … the well at the old house … that damned dalang …”
“We’ll see what Bhre Mataram has to say when he gets back,” Scar said. “Now go to the kitchen and see if you can find that girl. I want some lime water, this jamu is sticking to my gut.”
Kancil ran lightly across the floor and out the back door of the dalem. When the moaner came round the side of the house, she was halfway to the pigsty with a basket of slops on her head.
She made the lime water and tidied the dalem. Whenever she was near the men in the pendopo she tuned in to their conversation but she didn’t hear any more useful information. She made another round of beras kencur for the five bathers when they returned and went to crouch on the ground beside the pendopo like she did for the village elders, ready to serve should they need any more drinks or something to eat. She hoped the local man would tell his story again.
There was a gap between the pendopo floor and the ground. The air under there had been insulated from the heat of the day and now a breeze was blowing from the other side of the pendopo, pushing out the cooler air from under the floor towards Kancil. She had just manoeuvred herself to get maximum benefit from the cool breeze when the parasol bearer leaned over the edge of pendopo. “You can go now,” he said, “we won’t need you any more.”
Tiger Stone Page 11
