Chapter 23
From my Room, Your Face Will not Take Flight
IN A BOOK, I saw him riding a horse, holding onto the animal's stomach like Kublai Khan. His eyes gleamed as if the god of spears had pierced his heart. My blood bubbled as he crept stealthily toward a male moose. I couldn't bear turning the final page when he said he would throw away the love of mixed Tutuni and Chimakuan women. All this was because he wanted to preserve the Pequot Native American blood flowing through his veins—and the most saddening part was that he was the last of his tribe.
And so he roamed the boundless prairies of Yellow stone all alone on an unsaddled horse. As he shrieked all day and danced to challenge the sun, his vision began to darken. He crawled around, praying for a woman from his tribe to appear among the coyotes just as the gods had produced the Squamish women. But time brought only the wind and heartlessly betrayed him. He grew old. And when death fulfilled its promise, he died a virgin. That morning, the sky welcomed pure Pequot blood with open arms.
It was a riveting story. I never grew tired of it, even after repeated readings. How was it written so I felt as though I were there, in the middle of the Yellowstone prairie, when I didn't even know where that was?
"It's the power of literature," said the postman. Literature, asked my heart, what's that?
During school holidays, we often helped the postman. Our poor village postman. He worked alone, starting after subuh prayer at dawn, taking care of the post office and thousands of letters. In the afternoon he received letters, packages and outgoing money orders. In the evening, he opened the post office and sorted the letters; then he delivered them by bi cycle throughout the village. Sometimes this task continued on into the night. A postman's work is very grueling.
I carried the weight of the postman's struggle in my heart. I made an effort to wake up in the middle of the night to pray earnestly. I squeezed my eyes shut:
Oh God, I don't yet know my goals for the future. But when I do grow up, please God, please make me anything besides a postal worker, and don't let it be a job that starts at subuh. I promise You, I will never hang the Koranic teacher's bike in the bantan tree again.
Ever since I offered up that prayer, Kucai, Mahar, and Samson were both surprised and irritated at my refusal to participate in the hanging of Taikong's—the Koranic teacher's—bicycle at alHikmah Mosque.
The postman gave us a little money for shouldering the postal sacks and let us read books with stories like the one about the Yellowstone Native Americans. The books actually belonged to PN School children who had already returned to Java or other areas. The undeliverable books were kept in the post office.
Working at the post office was our school holiday activity. At night we slept at the alHikmah Mosque. At the mosque, we told each other all kinds of stories. We never tired of telling the story of the day we searched for Flo at the mountain and of Tuk Bayan Tula's proven message. That had been the first time Mahar demonstrated what would become his signature gesture, the one he'd do whenever he felt he was in the right: he lifted his eyebrows and his shoulders in unison with a righteous, repeated nod, not unlike a postmate penguin. It was very obnoxious.
One day, when I was helping the postman put outgoing letters in his bag, I was surprised to see a letter with my address on it and my name as the recipient: Ikal.
I secluded myself behind the post office. I opened the letter beneath a rambutan tree. My heart raced. The letter contained a poem:
Longing
Love has truly been troubling me
The moment you glanced my way
At the snatching ritual on that fateful day,
It caused me to have a sleepless night,
For from my room, your face would not take flight
Who are you,
The one who has me constantly daydreaming?
You are nothing more than a bothersome boy
But, even so, it is for you I long Njoo Xian Ling (A Ling)
My eyes were transfixed staring at the paper. My hands shook. I read it again and a bitter hunch slipped into my heart. I was happy but also stricken with a dark feeling of sadness—like something terrible would soon happen to me. I turned around. I saw the post office's fence slowly turn into tightly packed human legs. In the gaps between legs, there was a man squatting on his heels across from a tailless crocodile carcass. He looked at me. Tears flowed down his pockmarked cheeks.
At that moment, I knew the pain that had struck the crocodile shaman, Bodenga, when I had witnessed him on the national school's basketball court all those years ago; a traumatic event ingrained in my young mind. It is a trauma that always comes back to me whenever I get a bad feeling. And that afternoon, after many years, for the first time, Bodenga visited me.
Chapter 24
I Will Bring you Flowers from a Mountaintop
SELUMAR MOUNTAIN isn't extremely tall, but its peak is the highest point in East Belitong. To enter our village from the north, one has to pass the left shoulder of the mountain.
From afar, Selumar Mountain resembles an upside down boat: strong and vaguely blue. Situated along the ascent and descent, on the edge of the left shoulder, were the homes of the Selinsing and Selumar residents. They fenced in their yards with bamboo rope, planted tightly and trimmed low. The twin villages were separated by a deep valley, flooded by the peaceful Lake Merantik.
One's stamina surely would be tested during a bi cycle ride on the short but steep ascent to Selinsing Village. Young Malay men trying to impress their sweethearts wouldn't stoop to ask their girls to hop off the back of the bike on the way up, determined to pedal up to the peak using all of their power, teetering along the road.
After conquering the Selinsing ascent, the bicycle would dive down into its descent. The young man would let out a satisfied smile and ask his sweetheart to hold his waist tightly, convincing her that if she chose him, he would later be a dependable husband.
Then the bike would go around two bends, following the course of Lake Merantik's valley, and be greeted by the ascent to Selumar Village. And any sweetheart would understand if she were asked to get down, because while the ascent to Selumar was not quite as steep as Selinsing's, its distance was much longer. It is this that makes the ascent to Selumar less realistic for proving one's love.
Only a quarter of the way through Selumar's ascent, pushing the bike would already feel like a burden. The bamboo fences would look like they formed hovering steps because the eyes would be seeing stars from exhaustion. The closer the peak, the heavier the steps, as if one's feet were loaded with rocks. Sweat would flow heavily down the eyes, earlobes and neck through one's shirt and drip down to soak one's pants.
Nevertheless, when the peak was reached—that is, the peak of Selumar Mountain's left shoulder that I was talking about earlier—all the exhaustion would pay off. Spread out wide in front of your eyes would be beautiful East Belitong, bordered by a long blue coast, sheltered by pure white and bright clouds, and neatly lined with pine trees.
From the peak of that shoulder, one would see houses scattered along the banks of Langkang River's estuaries, winding like snakes. Those groups of homes were not fenced in by bamboo, but by ownerless fields of wild grass. The farther away one got, the more distinct and wider the distance between the two settlements would become.
The settlement that turned to the southwest appeared to faintly follow the one and only main road toward the capital Tanjong Pandan. The settlement that continued straight south was cut off by the wide and bumpy waters of the legendary Linggang River heading out to the open sea. Across the river, houses were assembled neatly around our old, disorderly, and totally disarrayed market.
If you travel along this path, don't rush down from Selumar's peak toward the valley. Stop and take a rest. Lean for a while against an angsana tree where baby yellowtailed squirrels play. Listen to the orchestra of pine needles and the hysterical shrieks of small birds fighting with black bumble bees for rose-apple nectar under the sun. Enjo
y the sweet composition of the landscape: the mountain, the valley, the river and the sea. Loosen your shirt buttons and breathe in the fresh southern winds carrying the aroma of andraeanum petals from the heart flower, which swells up with fertility as its descendants grow in high places. It's named the heart flower on account of the shape of its petals. Many call it the Love Flower.
I myself am not sure whether the naturally fragrant aroma clearing the chest originated from the andraeanum or from its symbiotic partner, a kind of fungus called Clitocybe gibba— the stemless mushrooms working hard to cover the roots of the taro family. Those mushrooms sprout up in a more humid climate when the west winds blew in toward the very end of the year. They had a plump, low and sturdy form.
Laskar Pelangi often picnicked on Selumar Mountain and we were already a little bored with its attractions. usually we didn't trek all the way up to the top; we were satisfied going 75 percent of the way up. Besides, the granite composition of the slope up there made the climb to the top a slippery one. But this time, I was very enthusiastic and determined to push up to the peak. My friends welcomed my enthusiasm. Nothing extraordinary had happened yet and they were already busy talking about the breathtaking scenery that we would later witness from the peak: the bridge over the Linggang River and the barges of glassy sand leaning up against the pier.
But I didn't care about any of that because I was on a secret mission. The secret had to do with the amazing scenery that could only be found at the highest point of Selumar Mountain. The secret was also related to the gorgeous flowers that only grew at the highest elevations: the red needle flower and, if I was lucky, the sweet muralis flowers would still be in bloom this week.
I call the muralis the Flower of Mountain Grass—my own very technical term. Because this flower likes to scatter itself about, six or seven of its offspring had infiltrated the zebra grassland. Its calyx is as wide as the thumb, and it is a dull yellow propped up by a light green stem with no uniform size: spontaneous and cute. Its leaves could not be called beautiful because their shape and color resemble those of an ordinary trifolia. But if successful in picking at least 15 of them, taking off their leaves, and throwing in a few of those red needle flowers to make a bouquet—the heart of any woman receiving it would melt.
After three hours of climbing, we arrived at the top. All of Laskar Pelangi was gushing about the view spread out below us.
"Look at our school," yelled Sahara. It was a pathetic looking building, even from afar. No matter what distance or angle it was viewed from, our school still looked like a copra shed.
Kucai pointed to a building, "Look! It's our mosque!" Everyone shouted, "That's the Chinese temple, stupid!" Even though Bu Mus tried as hard as she could, Kucai, like most politicians in this country, had an IQ quite difficult to raise.
Then a pointless debate began, dividing everyone into two groups.
As usual, Mahar began telling fairytales. According to him, Selumar Mountain was a dragon that coiled itself up and had been sleeping for centuries.
"This dragon will wake up later on judgment day. This mountain peak is his head. That means his head is under our feet at this very moment! Its tail coils in the mouth of the Linggang River."
A Kiong was shocked.
"So don't be too noisy, or you'll be punished by the spirits," Mahar continued, not yet satisfied with making a fool of himself.
A Kiong continued to eat up Mahar's tale. To show his admiration for the useful story, he respectfully gave Mahar a boiled banana from his provisions. It was behavior like that of primitive people paying a tribute to a shaman for curing scabies. Mahar snatched his tribute as quick as lightning and shoved it into his digestive system, completely unaware of the power he currently held over A Kiong. Our laughter exploded at the sight of this. But A Kiong stayed serious—for him, this situation was no laughing matter.
I didn't laugh either. I soon felt lonely among the bustle. My eyes couldn't be peeled away from a foursided red box down below.
I investigated the wild grass fields on the mountain's peak, picking the buds of the wild red needle and muralis flowers and tying them together with shrubs.
It was truly a beautiful view from the mountain top, like a song. Its introduction was the gathering of white clouds hanging low as if I could reach them. The vocals, the long whistles of prigantil birds, sounded near and high pitched. The refrain: thousands of doves invading the lilies spread out below like a giant carpet. And then the song faded out in the forest of mangroves.
It was for this fantastic scenery and the flowers that I made every effort to climb Selumar Mountain. No matter how overcome I was by the beauty, the real reason I was at the highest point in East Belitong was that red box down below. That red box was the roof of A Ling's house.
Chapter 25
Billitonite
A BRIGHT Monday morning. A poem wrapped in purple paper covered with fireworks. A bouquet of flowers from the peak of Selumar Mountain, tied with a light blue rib bon. Their freshness was still intact because I had kept them in a ceramic vase overnight.
These magical things were props for my love saga, set to continue this morning. The scenario had existed in my head for weeks, and it went like this:
When A Ling pushed the chalk box out, I would put the flowers and poem into her hand. No words necessary. Let her take in the beauty of the flowers from the mountaintop. Let her read my poem and get a taste of something more delicious than Chinese New Year's cake.
After A Miauw gave his order, I hurriedly approached the chalk box opening. But when I was about two steps away, I was stopped dead in my tracks, startled by the rough hand emerging from the chalk box opening—it was not A Ling's hand!
This hand was very peculiar, like an evil copper blade: muscular, dirty, black and oily.
A black coral bracelet coiled three times around the copper arm. Heads of venomous pinang barik snakes ready to lunge were carved at each end of the bracelet. The area just below the elbow was encircled by a tight aluminum bracelet, like the one often worn by brutal giants in wayang stories. The heads of the coiled bracelet were in the shape of a jagged key, the kind usually used to break the law. There were no tattoos, taboo for religious Malays, but the fingers were choked by three threatening rings.
The ring on the index finger held the largest satam stone I had ever seen.
Satam is a unique meteoric material found in only one place on this earth: Belitong. Its place of origin is out of this world. It is pitch black because of its composition—car bonic acid and magnesium. It is denser than steel and impossible to be shaped.
Satam is hidden in holes of old tin mines and can't be found when sought—only good luck can bring it out from the bowels of the earth. In 1922, the Dutch named satam billitonite. That was how our island got its name: Belitong. In the local dialect, it was a sacred name, kuake. Later—I don't know why, maybe it was to not sound too backcountry, or perhaps because backcountry Malays rarely use the letter 'u'—the foul minions of the New Order government vulgarly changed that name to Belitung.
Without any aesthetic consideration whatsoever, the owner of that copper hand mounted the sacred object on plain cheap brass. But it was worn proudly, as if its wearer were the ruler of the world.
The ring finger displayed a ring bearing an akik stone, as impressive as the valuable amethyst of Kalimantan. But I couldn't be fooled. That stone was nothing more than the result of synthesizing plastic and crystal at a high temperature. Its bearer was a fraud and it was fooling no one but himself.
And lastly, on the middle finger, sat the leader of all the intimidating rings and the revealer of its owner's sneaky tendencies: a big human skull grinning eerily with hollow eyes. This ring was made of stainless steel nuts obtained by conspiring with PN machinery washers.
The process of changing the stainless steel nut into a ring would make anyone shudder. After roughly shaping it with a lathe, the unbreakable nut was manually filed for weeks. Coolielevel PN employees usually made
the rings. It was a secret culture of resistance against PN: That ring was symbolic of the people's oppression. Weeks of secret hard work yielded nothing more than a hideous, shiny ring. To this very day, it's a practice that makes no sense to me whatsoever.
And the fingernails, ugh! Good Lord, they were shaped as if they'd been cursed. The difference between A Ling's fingernails—with which I had been enchanted for years—and these was like the difference between heaven and earth. These nails were thick, dirty, long and unkempt. They were cracked at the tips. Basically, they looked like crocodile scales.
I hadn't recovered from my shock when I heard a loud tapping. I was being urged to take the chalk that had been pushed forward. Then I heard an unfriendly grunt. The tapping grew louder, it put me on edge. But most disturbing of all was that I didn't meet A Ling. Where could she have gone?
"What's going on?" Syahdan asked when he came to see what was taking me so long. "Whose hand is that?"
I couldn't answer, my throat tightened up.
That hand was not foreign to me. It was none other than Bang Arsyad's, A Miauw's coolie. I remember when he carved the pinang barik snake heads into the black coral given to him by a Sarong man some time ago. He told me it takes three weeks for the long coral from the ocean floor to be shaped into a threecoil bracelet. The coral, long and taut at first, was conquered by smothering it with brake oil and patiently smoking it over a hearth.
The tapping grew even louder. Bang Arsyad had no feelings. He knew I was panicked because I hadn't met A Ling, a routine that had been going on for years and years.
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