by Toombs, Jane
The call of the monkeys changed as she approached, the shrill chattering turning to menacing hoots. She stopped and stared up at them and they stared back, shifting restlessly among the green fronds. One leaped to another tree, dropping a half-eaten banana, and Romell hurried to pick up the fruit. Whether or not her quick move had anything to do with it, she didn't know, but suddenly the monkeys began to toss bananas at her. Some of the fruit struck her and she fled, pausing long enough to scoop up five bananas.
The monkey's pursued her overhead for awhile, but soon lost interest and left her. Romell slowed, stopped, and ate three of the bananas, savoring the rich, creamy taste. The dripping from above had almost stopped. Romell glanced up at the canopy that had all tints and tones and shades of green, showing gray, brown, or black where tree trunks pierced through the interlacing leafiness. To her surprise and relief, she spotted a tiny wedge of blue sky. The jungle was thinning.
She walked on, seeing more and more blue between the leaves, but at the same time finding her path blocked by underbrush now that the sun got through to encourage the smaller plants. Romell struggled through the brush and at last came to a clearing where she stopped in astonishment.
Two square stone buildings thrust from encircling growth. She'd never seen such buildings in Java before. The native villages, the kampongs, had thatch and bamboo huts; the houses in Batavia were wood. Hesitantly, she walked into the clearing, staring in wonder at the carved stone.
As she came closer, she saw that the buildings were not dwellings but shrines with niches for statues. The stone statue of a man, twice human size, sat cross-legged in the nearer of the two shrines. As Romell stared, she became sure she was looking at the image of an alien god. Gooseflesh pricked her arms despite the heat.
The statue was so old! Already the edges crumbled, and the darkened stone was pitted with age. Vine creepers had snaked out to crawl up the side nearest the jungle, and a small tree's growth had cracked both shrines. Moving to her right, Romell examined the second shrine where the likeness of a woman could barely be made out. Pieces of rock had fallen from the statue and a vine wound completely around the bottom, like a large jungle snake crushing its victim.
Romell turned away. If natives lived nearby, wouldn't they be taking care of their gods? She thought of the wooden shrines she had seen near the villages, where figures made of rice straw sat amidst offerings of fruit. Still, this clearing had been made by burning, for there were charred stumps from an old fire and this was how the Javanese cleared land.
She picked her way through a tangle of bushes and vines, hoping against hope to find a kampong. The sun had lowered to the treetops when she came upon an abandoned village. Romell stood among the ruins of huts, fighting tears. How could she survive another night in this wilderness? Was there really a spotlessly clean little house in Amsterdam where her cousins sat down to meals of meat and milk and eggs? Did the Reijts actually exist?
And Adrien. Where was Adrien, her beloved Adrien? For a moment his face flickered in her mind—his smile, his dancing blue eyes—and then the image faded and refused to return, no matter how hard she tried to bring him back.
She was hungry and thirsty and tired, and she hurt where the ants and the thorns had wounded her. Her shoulders drooped. A parrot squawked nearby. Another answered. Bells tinkled. Bells?
Romell raised her head, then sighed, remembering she had been fooled once by a bird with a bell-like call.
Yet this sounded like many small bells, all tinkling together, and the bird had had a single clear note. Romell turned her head, listening, and pictured a caparisoned horse ornamented with bells. Yes, a trotting horse would ring the bells just as these rang, but what would a horse be doing in this wilderness? More than likely it was only more of the strange insects or birds that lived in this equally strange land.
But when the sound grew fainter, she could bear it no longer and pushed wildly through the undergrowth, running toward the fading sound.
"Wait!" she called; "Help!" until she was too winded to force the words out. Still she staggered on, hardly noticing when the trees closed her in again.
Romell didn't hear the bells now. All around her the forest stirred into nocturnal life, its evening cacophony drowning out any such fragile sound. She came to a halt, gasping for breath, her feet bleeding, the other sandal lost. Slowly she slumped to the ground, unable to go on.
I must get up, she told herself. It's growing dark and I'm not safe here. But her body sagged in exhaustion. Despite her struggle to stay awake, to get to her feet, her eyes drooped closed.
Bong, bong, went the church bells in London. Clang, answered the bell from the small white church in Virginia. I'm dreaming, Romell thought, and opened her eyes to near darkness. Clang, clang, called the Virginia bell.
A bird? The birds should be roosting. Yet she knew she couldn't be hearing church bells.
Bong. Clink, clink, clang.
Suddenly, Romell remembered the music the villagers had made when she and Pieter had stayed overnight, using sticks to strike the bronze gongs and strips of bamboo set in wooden frames. She sat up and got to her feet, her heart pounding in excitement. She was near a village!
Once on her feet, she saw a flickering light—firelight! Laughing and crying, she hurried forward. Minutes later, bruised and bleeding, she emerged from the trees. A dark figure called out, coming toward her, but she was too bemused to answer as she stood with mouth agape.
There was no village. Before her, in a clearing, Javanese natives sat grouped in a semicircle before a large square of white cloth illuminated from behind by lantern light. Across this cloth shadows danced and fought while gongs sounded, drums beat, and flutes wailed.
Chapter 23
A man's hand grasped Romell's arm. She could scarcely see her captor in the darkness.
"Nonee," she said. "Orang Inggris."
He pulled her toward the people seated before the lighted screen where shadows still danced.
As they came close, Romell saw one man sitting higher than the others, as though on an elevated platform. His clothes caught golden glints of light. Like the other Javanese men, he wore a turban.
While others in the group turned to stare at her, he kept his eyes fixed on the screen. A prince? she wondered.
The man holding her arm didn't address this elevated personage, but directed his words to the man sitting on the ground next to him. Romell heard her own words repeated and others she didn't understand. When he finished, the man on the ground rose and turned toward the personage on the platform, bowing his head. He spoke at length.
Not until he was done did the exalted one finally deign to turn his head and look at Romell. She started to speak, but her captor quickly put his hand over her mouth, holding her firmly. She had no strength to struggle.
"Raden," he hissed into her ear.
Raden. Romell forced her tired mind to concentrate. Sultan? Prince? Something of the sort. She'd guessed as much from his attitude. Evidently she wasn't to be allowed to speak directly to him, anymore than his guard could. But wouldn't a prince help her?
The Raden spoke a few words to the interpreter, and a figure rose from the ground and glided toward Romell. She saw, with relief, that it was a woman. Her captor released her, and the woman took Romell’s arm and led her away from the lighted screen where shadows still leaped and postured.
In a haze of fatigue, Romell let the woman help her into a cart that was covered by a cloth canopy. She undressed Romell, uttering soft exclamations at the many cuts and bruises. The Javanese woman insisted on washing her with sweet-smelling water and, after drying her with a soft cloth, wrapped her in a sarong scented with sandalwood. Romell eased herself onto a mat and stretched out gratefully.
A stray wisp of caution warned her that the Raden might pay her a visit when his servant was finished with her, but she was too exhausted to worry and sank into immediate sleep.
She woke to full daylight and a flurry of shouts. As she sat up, a
tiger roared. Romell clenched her hands together fearfully. The tiger roared again. Men shouted and Romell rose hurriedly, wincing at the pain in her feet.
She pushed the silk covering aside and looked out. As she did, a pretty Javanese woman in a yellow and brown sarong, a yellow silk scarf wrapped about her breasts and shoulders, approached. Romell recognized her as the woman who had bathed her the night before. She stepped onto the ground.
"Tuan Matjan?" Romell asked, remembering what the Javanese called the tiger.
The woman looked at her in surprise, then spoke at length. Romell had to shrug and gesture to indicate her lack of understanding.
Finally, the woman pointed, and Romell saw men milling about beside a nearby stream. The cart she'd slept in was one of a cluster of silk canopied carts drawn together in a clearing. Servants were carrying trays of food toward the largest, most elaborately decorated cart.
The Javanese woman called to a man standing by Romell's cart. He bowed his head as he came toward them.
"Nonee?" he asked Romell.
She nodded. "Orang Inggris," she added.
He blinked, then spoke to her in very bad Dutch. "What you do here?" he asked.
"I’m lost," she answered, in the same language. "I need help to return to Batavia."
"How did you come here?" he asked.
"A tiger killed the man I was with," Romell said, thinking she'd better keep her story simple.
"Ah. Perhaps the Raden now kills Tuan Matjan, the tiger who does this evil."
Romell shook her head. "That tiger is dead. The Raden hunts another Tuan Matjan."
"Look, now the Raden comes with the tiger, very dead."
Romell saw two men carrying a pole on their shoulders from which the tiger hung suspended by its legs. She saw no sign of the Raden. "Now we return to the kraton—the palace."
"But I must get back to Batavia," Romell protested. "I tell the Raden," the man replied, bowing. "It is his concern."
Romell became conscious of her bruises and unkempt hair. Running her fingers through her curls, she said, "I wish to speak to the Raden."
"That cannot be. You tell me what you wish to say. I will tell the man who speaks to the Raden."
"Can only one man speak to the Raden?"
He bowed. "It is adat."
Adat. The way. The custom.
The Javanese woman touched Romell’s arm and pointed to the cart. Romell let herself be led back inside. Perhaps it would offend the prince to look at her. She must comply with their customs as much as she could.
She eyed the woman. "Romell," she said, pointing to herself. She pointed at the woman and raised her eyebrows inquiringly.
"Sora," the Javanese said, bowing slightly.
Sora insisted on washing Romell with the scented water again, then bound her injured feet with a poultice of leaves. She brought fruit and small flat rice cakes for Romell to eat.
Sora was the only woman Romell had seen among the Javanese here. Although it was obvious many of the men were servants, Sora served no one except Romell, as far as she could tell. The woman pointed to the sleeping mat with unmistakable emphasis.
I'll rest a few minutes, Romell thought. But she fell into a deep sleep and didn't wake until late in the day. Sora had left her a pair of sandals. Romell plucked off the leaf poultice and was happy to find her feet looking better. She slipped into the sandals and ventured outside.
The camp was being dismantled. No one she recognized was in sight as men moved busily about the clearing, tying up gear. I'll find the man who speaks Dutch, Romell decided. I must make sure he's told the Raden what I want. She wandered about the clearing without seeing him, then approached a group of men by the stream.
Her man was there, ordering others about in his own language.
"May I talk to you?" she inquired.
He turned to her. "We are hurrying now," he said. "Better to wait."
"What are you doing?" she asked, seeing that they were dismantling what looked like a trapdoor made of logs. She edged neared and saw that the door had evidently covered a pit, in the bottom of which were the mangled remains of what looked like a dog. She grimaced and stepped back.
"Tuan Matjan jumps into the pit," the man said. "Down comes the door and he is trapped. We come, raise the door and kill him."
"The dog?" she asked, afraid she already knew.
"The dog is for Tuan Matjan. He barks, so the tiger knows food awaits him in the pit and hurries to jump in."
So this was how a Raden went tiger hunting. Romell opened her mouth, then closed it without making any comment. She dared not do or say anything to annoy the prince.
"May I ask your name?" she said.
The man bowed. "I am Torat."
"Torat, will the Raden take me to Batavia?"
"I do not know. Perhaps after we reach the kraton."
Romell's heart sank. "You did ask him?"
"I told the man who speaks to the Raden what you said to me. Now you must prepare to leave. The women's cart is ready." To Romell's surprise, although the carts were drawn by bullocks, the prince rode in a sedan chair carried by four broad-shouldered retainers. From her seat in the women's cart, she watched him pass by, magnificently dressed in a white and gold sarong, a brown jerkin trimmed in gold, and a white turban. With his head proudly erect, he looked every inch a ruler, and nothing like the diffident, submissive Javanese she'd met in Batavia. Even his features were finer.
The trip to the Raden's palace took two and a half days; at no time during the journey did Romell manage to approach the prince. Since she hadn't as yet recovered her vitality, she slept for much of the time, and by the time they reached the stone walls of the palace, she was feeling much like her old self. Her feet had almost healed and her bruises were fading.
What do they think in Batavia? she wondered. Is Hendrik recovered, or was he fatally injured? Are they searching for me as his murderess? Is it really wise to return? But if I don't go back to Batavia, where will I go? Besides, I must face the consequences of what I did. If Hendrik is dead, I'll tell the truth and hope they understand. If he's alive, then he has no more to blame me for than I do him. If he'd not tried to force me, I wouldn't have struck him.
She thought of poor, tragic Pieter whose body had been left for the beasts of the jungle, and she closed her eyes, silently praying his sins had been forgiven and his soul was at rest.
When she opened her eyes, the travel party had entered the kraton gates. Entranced by the exotic elegance of the Javanese palace, Romell forgot her concerns and simply stared.
The palace looked nothing like the castles of England—it had no height, no soaring splendor. The many low buildings were large and lovely, some open-sided to catch the breeze. Romell pointed to one of these, raising questioning eyebrows at Sora.
"Pendopo" Sora replied.
The pendopo Romell indicated was huge, with marble floors and a four-sided roof supported by columns of carved wood. It resembled a Dutch or English building as little as the Javanese prince resembled King Charles.
She and Sora descended from the cart, and bowing servants led them through spacious rooms where intricately designed rugs in deep rich wines and greens lay on the marble floors. Silk draperies hung over doorways and gaily colored pillows were piled on the floor next to small low stands. Gold decorated everything.
In the women's quarters, Romell was immediately surrounded by dark-eyed girls and women who, though obviously bursting with curiosity, didn't touch her. Who were these women? Servants? Sora was here, seemed quite at home, and several of the women had addressed her as an equal. Yet, Sora had waited on Romell, washing and dressing her. Perhaps it was like the English court, Romell thought. Perhaps the Raden's wife had many ladies-in-waiting.
"Api-api," she heard one of the women say, and knew they were talking about her hair, calling it fire. Sora came to her and, taking her hand, led her into an adjoining room where she saw a tile pool set into the floor. No, not a pool, a sunken bath, for So
ra unwound the sarong she was wearing and motioned to Romell to do the same.
Romell hesitated only a moment. She'd never bathed in a common bath with other women, but the luxury of immersing herself in clean water promised to be too refreshing to pass up. Unwinding her own sarong, she followed Sora into the scented water.
When she'd thoroughly washed herself, she climbed out, hair dripping. Immediately soft cloths began to dry her body, and she pushed her wet hair from her face to see two of the women helping to dry her while all the others frankly stared at her. Feeling as if she were on exhibition, Romell resigned herself to standing still. They've never seen a naked white woman, she told herself. Maybe they've never seen a white woman at all.
She was offered a fresh kain, the material for a sarong, the batik brown and cream with a pattern of leaves and animals. She twisted the material expertly and donned it. New sandals appeared and a scarf of such delicate pink silk it looked like gossamer.
Hands pressed her down onto a pillow, and she sat while one of the women began to comb and fluff her hair.
Sora stepped from the bath and the women helped to dry her as they had Romell. When Sora had dressed and had her black hair redone into a knot at the nape of her neck, she approached Romell and gestured for her to rise.
Once Romell was on her feet, Sora slowly circled her, giving a twitch here and there to the sarong, then standing back to view the result. She touched a fading bruise on Romell's shoulder with gentle fingers, shook her head, then indicated that Romell was to follow her.
Sora led the way from the women's quarters, past a courtyard where a large mango tree shaded cages of doves hanging from its branches. Their soft coos drifted in through the open wall. Purple and violet flowers grew in profusion, along with yellow-flowering vines and bright red-pink mangos.
Romell followed Sora though chambers where servants bowed as they passed and through open grounds where waringin trees grew.
