She opened her eyes to find herself stretched out on the ground with Mamat leaning over her. “Don’t worry, sayang,” he told her, “Aliza’s getting a taxi right away.” He ran his hand over Maryam’s forehead; it felt cold to Maryam, like cool water over hot sand.
“What is it?” she murmured to Mamat, “Poison? Black magic?”
“Never mind,” Mamat told her. “Here’s the taxi. Rubiah’s here, too.” He tried to maneuver her upright, but Maryam seemed slippery, without strength. “Come on, Yam,” he urged, “try to get up.”
She was dizzy, unable to focus: her legs felt weak and rubbery. They half-dragged Maryam to the car, while Aliza stood at the taxi door sobbing. “Don’t worry,” Mamat told her as they got in. “Get Yi to school and you, too. It will be fine.” They were gone it a moment.
It seemed hours before they pulled up in front of the English Doctor’s dispensary; Maryam now slurred her words and her eyes drooped. Rubiah restrained her own dread, and Mamat concentrated only on getting Maryam in front of a doctor. Rubiah ran forward to the receptionist, “Please! We need help immediately! Hurry!”
The girl had never seen a Mak Cik in such a state. She whisked Maryam into an examination room, where a middle-aged English doctor and a Chinese nurse bent over her solicitously.
“What happened?” asked the doctor, shining a light into Maryam’s eyes.
“This.” Rubiah offered him the bundle. “She pierced her finger on this spine. Ikan Keli, do you suppose? Is it poisonous?”
The doctor examined the spine very carefully. “It looks like it. We see some fishermen in here occasionally with these. Painful. Very rough.”
He listened to Maryam’s quick breathing. “Mak Cik!” he called out. “Mak Cik, can you hear me?”
Maryam opened her eyes lazily, looking at him without focus. “Yes, I hear you,” she said softly.
“Excellent,” he pronounced. He turned to Mamat. “She’s very lucky the spine’s dried out a bit. Less harmful. Still, painful. Who did this?”
The doctor’s rapid-fire delivery distracted Mamat. “I don’t know. She found it under the steps to our house.” He thought for a moment. “Thank God neither of the kids picked it up,” he breathed fervently.
The doctor nodded and prepared an injection. “This will keep her going. Energy. Very important in cases like this. I think she’ll be all right, but we’ll keep her here for a while. Let her sleep. Keep an eye on her. Has enemies, does she?”
Mamat looked doubtful at first, and then increasingly uncomfortable. “I don’t know. Maybe. I mean, enemies who would do this?” It seemed clear she did; he frowned and considered the question.
Rubiah commandeered a pair of scissors and cut off a long lock of her hair, twisting it into a bracelet of sorts. She tied it tightly around Maryam’s injured finger. The doctor raised his eyebrows.
“It will get rid of the poison,” she stated firmly. “I learned it at home.”
“Interesting,” the doctor murmured. “Does it often work?”
Rubiah shrugged, her eyes on Maryam. “I don’t know,” she answered vaguely, “I never had to try it before.” She paused. “It’s supposed to.” She fervently prayed it would: she couldn’t imagine her life without Maryam.
Mamat stayed with Maryam in the back room of the dispensary until past noon, never letting go of her hand. She held it with all the strength she had left, afraid she’d be lost if that anchor slipped away. Mamat’s presence alone calmed her, made her believe she would live.
Later at home, sipping tea in bed with a relieved Aliza curled up next to her, Maryam tried to get past her fear. “Do you think Ali left it here?” she asked Mamat. “He seems really interested in jampi and things like that: he even got into a fight with Ghani about it. Maybe he knows too much about it,” she considered.
Mamat sat at the foot of the bed, with Yi leaning back against him. “You just talked to him yesterday, didn’t you? It seems too quick for him to get to work on this.”
“How much work does it take?” Maryam asked him. “One visit to the bomoh, that’s all.”
“Someone’s thought about this a lot,” Mamat mused. “Yam, I’m worried.”
Maryam looked over at Aliza’s wide eyes. She smiled at her and at Yi, clutching his father’s arm. “I’m fine now, don’t worry.” She patted her daughter’s shoulder. “See? Nothing to be frightened of.” She gave Mamat a meaningful look, which he understood immediately. It was their job to calm and comfort their children.
“Right!” he said heartily. “It isn’t easy to hurt your mother!” He moved Yi away from him and waved at Aliza. “Hey, it isn’t a holiday, you know! School tomorrow!” He overruled their murmured protests. “We all need a rest here, and the main thing is, everyone is alright. Why, Mak is going back to work tomorrow…”
Maryam nodded enthusiastically. “Of course! I’m fine now! Go, as your father says.” She hugged them both close and smiled broadly as they left the room, looking nervously behind them. “I’m fine!” she repeated.
When they’d left the room, she fell back on the pillow and her smile faded. “Yam,” Mamat asked in an urgent whisper, “what if it had been Aliza or Yi who picked it up? Then what? Whoever left it doesn’t care who it hurts as long as it stops you from investigating.”
Maryam nodded. “I know.” She took a long sip of tea. “That’s why we’ve got to find out who it is. It’s personal now, Mamat, and I won’t feel safe until it’s over.”
Chapter XVII
The next morning, Mamat left early for the poultry market and returned with two large white geese. Geese were superlative watchdogs, loud as baying hounds and nasty as Rottweilers. No one would sneak quietly into their yard with geese on patrol. The two birds instantly tried to bite him as soon as he freed them from their wicker cages, even though he’d just offered them food. They were perfect.
Several minutes later, they began an ear-splitting racket, honking and hissing, flapping their wings and generally sounding the alarm. When Maryam looked out the kitchen door, she saw Dollah and Arifin trying to maneuver around them and approach the house. She smiled grimly: there would be no more ambushes.
She invited them up into the living room and performed the coffee ritual without thinking. Rubiah joined them, and Dollah leaned back in his chair after cigarettes were lit all around.
“How sad,” he began. “I never thought a day like this would ever come. An evil jampi! I can’t believe it!” He shook his head, and looked well and truly unhappy. “I’ve never imagined this kind of thing in Kelantan. In our own kampong.
“What’s the world coming to?” he asked rhetorically. “Grown men throwing women down the steps,” Maryam began to blush, “people leaving evil spells under the stairs. What next?” He looked mournful. “I’m ashamed, I really am.” He took a sip of coffee and appeared to consider what to do next.
“So I’ve brought some of these boys here to talk to you, to help your investigation. “Arifin, Din, Awang” he continued, turning his head to look directly at them as he introduced the women. “I know you’ve already met them,” Dollah explained ruefully “but we all want to help, don’t we?” They nodded dutifully. Dollah leaned back with the expression of a man who has gone beyond the call of duty for a good cause.
Dollah had brought the men who were of an age with Ghani, the most likely to be closest to him. Also perhaps the most likely to be jealous of Ghani’s looks, if Aisha’s theory had any basis, but Maryam could not credit any of Aisha’s perceptions at this point.
Arifin turned towards Maryam and Rubiah with a completely open expression. “Yes, Mak Cik. What would you like to know?”
“I understand, Che Arifin, you’ve fought with Ghani.”
“Yes, in the past,” he answered calmly. “We were accustomed to arguing, you know how it is, and so we kept it up. If I’d ever suspected, for even one minute, he would meet such a terrible and undeserved end, well, I never would have said one angry word to him. Never.”
>
“When did it start?” she asked Awang. He looked surprised to be called upon, but manfully volunteered.
“You mean, Arifin? It was after Arifin was married.” Arifin examined his fingers intently, and Awang studiously looked away from him. “He thought Ghani was flirting with his wife, and he didn’t like it.”
“Was he?”
Arifin squirmed. “I guess not.” He took a deep breath and looked soulfully into Maryam’s eyes. “No, let me be perfectly honest. There was nothing going on. But I let my jealousy get the better of me. I’m definitely trying to stop thinking that way. And of course,” he added piously, “this tragedy has made me determined never to be that way again.”
It was hard to credit this level of earnestness. Maryam tried again. “Awang, are you also from Tawang?”
He nodded, as did Din. “Did Ghani know your wives also?”
They looked nervous. “Well,” Awang began, “of course, we all knew each other.”
“Were you jealous of Ghani, too?” she asked gently.
The boys took deep breaths, as though this would be a long explanation. Dollah leaped into the breach. “Kak, you know how young men are! Hot blooded, like fighting cocks, right?” He smiled at her and Rubiah, three wise older people, amused at the foibles of the young. Maryam nodded.
“So, were you?” she insisted.
Awang shifted his seat, and then began. “Yes, I admit it. It was hard not to be.” He was now on solid ground, and looked like a choirboy. “You know, I’m so sorry about that. I wish it wasn’t true. But, you never know when death is staring you in the face, do you, Mak Cik? I wish I hadn’t. I can never make it up to Ghani.” He sighed repentantly.
“Was there a fight in the panggung that night? Teasing that got out of hand?” She looked at them sympathetically, as their own mother might, looking for an innocent explanation.
Din clearly felt it was his turn to take the floor. “That night there was some argument, well, not an argument so much as…yes, teasing as you said, Mak Cik, out of habit, really, nothing meant by it.” He swallowed and widened his eyes. “Ghani had his golok next to him while he played, you know. Ali, do you know of Ali, Mak Cik?” Maryam nodded. “He was there before, and they had a real fight, yelling and pushing. He was afraid Ali would come back again: Ali might have threatened him! I can well believe that.” He nodded forcefully, offering Maryam the fruit of his extended meditation on this topic.
“I’m ashamed to say I didn’t reach out to help him. Could I, we, have saved him?” Din continued, his expression angelic. “I don’t know, Mak Cik. I regret it, I really do. I should have fought with Ali and protected Ghani; we should never have let our friend be treated in that way. And maybe…” He appeared to choke up here, and Awang quickly interjected: “Maybe even killed!” Awang lowered his voice on the last word.
“But nasi dah jadi bubur: the rice has already become porridge, what is there to be done? If I could undo it, I would.” All three murmured in agreement, and Dollah nodded approvingly.
“Being jealous, you mean?”
Arifin slumped his shoulders to signify loss and dejection. “All of it, Mak Cik,” he said gravely. “My jealousy, arguing with my wife about it, arguing with Ghani. I can only make it up going forward,” he said with almost religious exaltation. “And that’s what I intend to do.” Din and Awang reiterated his intentions in very similar words, stressing the fundamentally brotherly nature of their relationship to Ghani, as well how worthless was jealousy as a motivating emotion.
Dollah was smiling beneficently, clearly enjoying the performance, perhaps having even directed it. These boys had been coached, and coached well, but Maryam doubted one word was true. She looked over at Rubiah, and read from her expression she was thinking the same thing. They were silent for a long moment.
“I had no idea you were such wonderful actors, children. Really wonderful. Is that the end of your performance, or is there more?”
They all affected amazement: “What do you mean, Mak Cik? I’m no actor,” Awang insisted, blushing slightly.
“Don’t underestimate yourself,” Rubiah told him approvingly. “You were excellent. Thank you for coming: it’s a treat to start the day off with a show like that.”
“What are you saying?” Dollah asked, his face a mask of virtue.
“Abang Dollah, this is not helping me. Perhaps it’s my fault,” Maryam said graciously. “I’m sure it is. But perhaps, boys, we can see you some other time? Would that be alright?” Her smile dripped sincerity: she too could play at this.
“Well, I guess.” “Sure.” “Of course, Mak Cik,” They each stammered their assent, unprepared for her request. “Yes, it would.” “I mean, it would be fine.” “Yes.”
“Good!” Maryam stood up with her best hostess smile. “I know you have so much to do. More coffee? Have some more cakes! I insist.”
Dollah looked confused, and a bit put out. There was, however, nothing overt to complain about, so they ate their cakes and drank their coffee while Maryam and Rubiah made bright, brittle small talk.
“Mamat,” Maryam asked him after the children were asleep, “do you think there’s something strange about Dollah?”
“Strange how?” He listened with half an ear only, reading the paper as he spoke.
“I don’t know exactly. I mean, I hate to think he’d be, I don’t know, threatening.”
“What?” Mamat was still perusing the sports page; Kelantan’s soccer team had recently trounced Perak, and he could not read enough about it.
“Do you think he killed Ghani?”
Now she had his attention. “What?”
“Well, it’s like this. He’s been volunteering all this information, even coming here to give it to me. But it isn’t the whole story: he leaves things out, he doesn’t tell me things I need to know. And he’s actually used me to get to Hassan.”
“Isn’t that a little severe?”
“Is it, Mamat? Think about it, all right? He sets me up to see Hassan, and I get thrown out on my face.” She still shuddered to think about it. “Then we get the jampi under the stairs. Now I know Hassan would be able to do that himself, without using a bomoh … but so would Dollah. And he’s made so much of how Hassan could have mistaken Ghani for him in the dark: well, doesn’t that mean he could have mistaken Ghani for Hassan the same way? What if he wanted to kill Hassan? And it went terribly wrong? I think Dollah’s trying to guide me to his own conclusion, and he’s working pretty hard to do it.”
Mamat stared at her. “Are you serious?”
“Never more than I am now. I’m playing for my life.”
Mamat nodded, and tried to take it all in. “I always liked Dollah. I have a hard time thinking of him putting down that jampi, not caring who might pick it up. But I don’t know. You may be right.” His brow uncharacteristically furrowed, he thought further. “It’s just that I…” His voice trailed off. He began again.
“It’s just that I’m frightened by this, Yam. If we were to trust the wrong person, and were led down the wrong road, then we could be in real danger.”
“That’s what I’m saying, Mamat. A wrong move could kill us. Really.” She put her head in her hands. “I hate this. I wish I’d never heard of any of these people. I’ve got to clear this up as soon as I can, before something else horrible happens.” She rose from her chair as if to do something, but instead looked around, almost confused. She opened her mouth as if to speak, but decided against it. Mamat stood next to her and wordlessly stroked her hair, putting his forehead against hers.
Without speaking any further, they went to bed.
Chapter XVIII
Maryam arrived home the next afternoon to find Mamat and their village bomoh working around the house posts. Mamat stood up and smiled when he saw her. “You’re home. I’m glad.” Their bomoh, a wizened old man, smiled up at her as he dug a small hole in the ground.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“Protecting us,” annou
nced Mamat proudly.
“How are you doing that?”
“Just like someone left an evil jampi under the stairs, we’re putting protective ones all around the house.” He put up his hand as she started to speak. “Yam, don’t argue with me. Someone’s tried to kill my family. I think whoever it was might try again. I’m not taking any chances: as you said, it’s personal now.
“I even have something for you to wear.” He held up a small yellow cotton cloth, covered in Thai letters written in black ink, interspersed with spidery designs and the outline of a woman.
“Keep it on you all the time,” the bomoh advised her, burying a similar cloth and covering it carefully. “It will help you resist black magic used against you.”
Maryam nodded and smiled. Like most of her neighbours, she believed in the supernatural, but not so devoutly as to wear protective spells. Still, she’d had a narrow escape and was lucky to be alive, and this was not the best time to do without protection. She tucked it into the folds in her sarong and went in to prepare dinner.
“We found Faouda’s husband,” Osman told Maryam, sitting in her living room later that evening. Dinner was over and Aliza and Yi were sprawled on the floor watching Rawhide on television, while Osman’s plate was heaped with a hearty dinner.
His announcement re-energized her. “Who is he? Where is he?”
Osman dug into his meal. Maryam reckoned he must be hungry: God only knew what he ate when he was on his own. Cold curry wrapped in banana leaf, most likely. She waited until he had swallowed, drumming her fingers on the table nervously.
“I got the information from the registrar’s office,” he said proudly, “and then from the Kuala Krai police.”
“Excellent work,” she assured him. “It’s very impressive.”
“Well,” he was obviously pleased with himself and with her praise, “his name is Johan bin Awang - why is everyone here named Awang? - and he lives in Kuala Krai. Been married,” he read from a paper he’d taken out of his pocket, “divorced, no kids.” Faouda had told her the truth about that at least. “Truck driver,” Osman continued, “Works for a lumber company and does long distance hauls, mostly to the West Coast through Thailand. No police record, no trouble. Malay,” he finished reading the identity card information.
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