The Wandering

by Intan Paramaditha

  One day a tornado uproots Dorothy’s home and launches it spiralling to Oz, where it lands on an evil witch. We need not imagine how horribly the witch was squashed; we know that she is really most sincerely dead. Nonetheless, her feet remain unsquashed, protruding in a pair of beautiful sparkly shoes. Dear girl that she is, Dorothy certainly had no intention of killing anyone, but she accepts being hailed in this foreign realm as a hero who has toppled a dictator. Though initially hesitant, at the urging of the grateful munchkin masses who surround her, Dorothy dons the slippers that were so recently attached to the witch’s corpse.

  Dorothy’s reasons for insisting on return to Kansas, shot in sepia tones, without a hint of technicolour, don’t make a lot of sense. Going home demands disavowal. Nevertheless, Dorothy keeps repeating the mantra, ‘There’s no place like home,’ in order to convince herself of her wish. Her subsequent adventures have nothing domestic about them. Though underage, she wanders in the forest with three men (oh, Uncle Henry and Auntie Em would have a heart attack over that). By the end of the story she has murdered two powerful women, the Wicked Witch of the East, whom she has dispatched through the agency of a random house, and her no less cruel sister, the Wicked Witch of the West. Even if accidentally, she hits upon a method of murder most foul, melting the Wicked Witch of the West until not a trace of her remains. The event is so swift, so apt, so unexpected. As her life ebbs away, the Wicked Witch manages to pose an existential question to Dorothy: ‘Who would have thought a good little girl like you could destroy my beautiful wickedness?’

  Witches everywhere face a grim fate. But so be it. Oh, what a world, what a world.

  Again, Dorothy has no idea how she can get home, or anywhere. In a court of justice, beyond the realm of Oz, she might win her freedom on the grounds of temporary insanity.

  Dorothy wants to go home, since going home is a shortcut for bringing turmoil to an end. But let us never forget! The shoes shimmering on her feet are inherited from a dead woman. The wizened faces of elder and younger sister witch haunt every step of the sweet girl who believes she can return home but whose legs have been cursed to walk forever. There is no end for witches, as we know: good girls go to heaven, bad girls go wandering.

  Return to the page that took you to this story.

  Malin Kundang, Faithless Child

  Your ancestors were sailors.

  Travel is the most ancient human desire, and, being a traveller, Malin Kundang had fidelity issues.

  Can there be a fate worse than being turned into stone and set in the soil, forever remembered by schoolkids as a faithless child? Little Malin Kundang did not foresee his future, back then, back when he lived alone with his mother and enjoyed small pleasures like fishing and breathing deep the salty sea air.

  When Malin Kundang grew older, a wealthy merchant invited the lad to sail off with him on his ship. Years later, Malin Kundang returned to his village with a magnificent vessel of his own, filled with valuable cargo, a crew and a beautiful wife. And though he had indeed returned, home was no longer the same. Nor was Malin Kundang the same. He claimed not to recognise his impoverished mother. Desperately hurt, she uttered a curse to turn him to stone.

  At least that’s the usual version of the story.

  But Malin Kundang was more than faithless: he was treacherous. Loutish. Before his first voyage he’d had a lover he wished to marry. But in the middle of his journey – and it’s a given that travel always changes someone – he met another woman. Malin Kundang thought she was more beautiful than any woman he had ever seen. Absurd as it may sound, he considered her very cosmopolitan. Later he discovered that this woman was a pirate. She stormed the seas and stole that which you cherished most.

  Malin Kundang had a habit of abandoning others for something, or someone, new. Every encounter served as a bridge leading elsewhere, and Malin Kundang was addicted to making his way across to the other side. In the end, he left the kind, rich merchant for a more thrilling life with the Pirate Queen, even though all the villagers had believed he would return and bring them prosperity. But Malin Kundang never wanted to be home for long. If he hadn’t turned to stone, he would have realised his dream to travel around the world.

  When his ship dropped anchor, Malin Kundang knew one thing: his old village was no longer large enough to accommodate his longings. He felt pain. Although he hoped to bring along the whole village on his voyages, he wasn’t Noah.

  Every adventure demands betrayal.

  Malin Kundang is now frozen and mute. He has returned, and, letting the days go by, he no longer goes a-wandering like an innocent, sweet child. Every night he thirsts for the waves, to go into the blue again. He even longs for seasickness.

  You see? How difficult it is to speak of roots, of soil, and of oaths when your ancestors were sailors.

  Haul up the anchor! Choose your own betrayal!

  Return to the page that took you to this story.

  You’re determined to find the nearest police station and report your missing shoe. Who knows what you’ll do in Berlin, but you can hardly go abroad if you’ve lost one of your magic slippers. After all, enchanted footwear is a lot harder to come by than a plane ticket. You search for hints of what to do and at last spot a sign that reads ‘AirTrain’. Fine. You’ll take your suitcase onto the AirTrain and find a police station.

  The doors of the train open, and you board along with others who are shouldering backpacks and carrying large bags. Beside you sits a middle-aged woman. She looks friendly enough, so you address her.

  ‘Where’s the nearest police station?’ she says, repeating your question back to you.

  ‘Yes, I lost a shoe,’ you say.

  She glances at your foot, stocking-clad but unshod. Her face conveys sympathy.

  ‘Mercy,’ she murmurs. ‘I’d just buy a new one if I were you. Was your shoe that special?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ You nod quickly. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Actually, there’s a lost and found office in every terminal.’

  Suddenly you feel stupid. Lost and found. Of course. Why did you go looking for a police station and leave the terminal where the taxi driver had deposited you? You’re in too much panic to be able to laugh at yourself.

  ‘Just get out at the next terminal.’

  You express your thanks and, as soon as the door opens, you leap off the train.

  Turn to the next page.

  You’re lost. You walk back and forth until you arrive at a building which, with its arched white roof, resembles a beetle. Others pass by, but your surroundings are entirely too lonely. Is this really a terminal? Or a hotel? You won’t know until you enter.

  In front of you stretches a large hall with a domed ceiling and an alabaster spiral staircase. The design is minimalist, clean and sterile. Sunlight streaming in from rows of glass behind you makes everything sparkle. Not far from the entrance you spy an information desk. An oval noticeboard hanging above it is supposed to list departing flights, but no one appears to be going anywhere. There aren’t any attendants at the desk.

  Still wheeling your suitcase, you proceed to a room where a row of red velvet sofas and plush crimson carpet offers a stark contrast to the rest of the building. A waiting lounge?

  ‘Welcome to the future.’

  A man is sitting alone on one of the sofas. He looks at you and grins. When he gets up, you notice more clearly how tall and slim he is. Could he be a pilot? He wears sunglasses and his hair is neatly combed. This guy needs to go easy on the pomade, you think. He looks sharp in his grey suit, a bit over the top. He reminds you of a movie star from the sixties. Welcome to the future? Well, that’s ludicrous, you think. Is this the future or the past?

  ‘How did you get here?’

  The man stares at you for a long time without removing his glasses, making you feel slightly flustered. You tell him that you’re looking for a manned information counter. It’s unlikely that he can help you, as there doesn’t appear to be one in this terminal, or whatever it is
.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he says, to your surprise. ‘Come with me.’

  You follow with your suitcase, trying to match his quick pace. You arrive at a long hallway with another red carpet. Like a conch shell, a curved white wall obscures what lies ahead. Light is coming from the other end.

  ‘This is like a –’

  ‘Spaceship?’

  It’s almost as though he reads your mind. Or maybe everyone who comes here says the same thing. Walking the length of the red carpet, you imagine yourself as a glamorous astronaut.

  ‘But this is a terminal, right?’

  ‘Yes. Built in 1962, inspired by visions of outer space. But, of course, you can see that for yourself.’

  Then something curious dawns on you. The noticeboard has no departure schedule. There’s no trace of backpacks, jackets, or snack crumbs on the velvet sofas. No one is coming or going.

  ‘OK, this was a terminal,’ you say. ‘But nobody uses it now, right?’

  ‘Oh, some do. Some indeed do use this terminal.’

  His words and manner make you uneasy.

  ‘Maybe I should go,’ you say.

  His face grows tense.

  ‘You can’t go alone.’ His voice is a half-whisper.

  You now find yourselves in front of a door. He glances around. Then, still in a low voice, he adds, ‘It’s not safe here.’

  You don’t understand.

  He opens the door.

  ‘The room behind this door leads to my ship.’

  ‘Your ship?’

  Before you understand what is happening, he pushes you in.

  Turn to page 31.

  ‘Hello, Cinderella. Lose this?’

  The voice, though gentle, startles you; you’re distraught as you search for your shoe. You turn to see a woman standing behind you. She’s wearing dark glasses and a red jacket, cut just above her thighs. She is beautiful, at least with sunglasses on. Her right hand clutches a chihuahua; her left holds a sparkly shoe.

  ‘Very nice.’ She surveys the shoe, with something akin to awe before handing it over.

  You nervously thank her.

  ‘How did –’

  ‘It fell from a taxi,’ she says, as if reading your mind. ‘Be careful not to miss your plane, gorgeous.’

  She pats your shoulder, smiles, then walks past you.

  You hurry to put the slipper back on. All sorts of questions leap up in your mind. How did your shoe come loose? How did the woman find it?

  It sets in slowly just how stunning she is. Where did she get that red coat? You want one just like it.

  You’d like to keep studying her, but you have no time. Wheeling your suitcase as fast as you can, you enter the terminal and scan for airlines that fly to Berlin. You’re in such a panic that you run smack into a man.

  ‘I’m so sorry!’ you cry as you tumble. The contents of your handbag spill on the floor.

  The man you collided with helps you up.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  You nod. The man smiles and kneels to help you collect your things. His hair is completely white. Always respect the elderly. Such was the injunction of your father, your mother and your teachers at school. You feel guilty seeing him stoop.

  ‘Thanks. I’m so sorry,’ you repeat over and over.

  After an anxious and lengthy wait in the queue, you arrive at the check-in desk and hand over your ticket and passport. The employee examines both, and her eyebrows furrow.

  ‘This isn’t your passport.’

  ‘What?’

  The employee shows you the photo. A man. Dismayed, you explain that you have no idea how you wound up with someone else’s passport. The employee shakes her head impatiently.

  All of a sudden, a voice: ‘Sorry, that’s mine!’

  The white-haired man waves your green passport. You approach him.

  ‘Mixed them up.’ He smiles.

  You return the smile, hoping you’ve had your last shock for this first day of your red shoes adventure.

  Turn to page 42.

  The Third World Cannot Imagine Outer Space

  You are not American. Where are you from?

  Are you a traveller as well? I learned a great deal about you all before I journeyed here. Your wanderlust is rather extraordinary. This terminal was built from a desire for travel. To the moon. Yes, it is only a matter of time before you finally go to the moon. You will puff yourselves up with an absurd pride, perhaps even commemorate the occasion with the planting of a flag. So laughably primitive.

  Ah, just a moment. Your mother tongue is not stored in my memory. I am tracking your geographic boundaries. Your territory is extensive, but your language appears invalid, I do not have a conversion program for it. My apologies. We will have to communicate in English.

  As you can see, I am not of this earth. Think of me as a neighbour. Where I come from, we do not voyage with ancient ideas; we neither colonise nor proselytise. Here, however, everyone is eager to go elsewhere. Paradoxically, you are also fanatical about constructing fences and walls. You have different worlds here – first, second, third – because you believe that each new problem can be solved by applying a name to it. You all wish to travel beyond the outer limits, but you continue to draw those limits. Not everyone can leave, not everyone may enter.

  We only journey from home when we encounter a disturbance. I hope we can get along as neighbours, but your behaviour concerns us. Our mission is clear: we come with a warning. Headquarters sent me here because you have truly diabolical notions about technology. We do not use nuclear weapons. Your information and communication technology is backward, but it is sufficiently developed to spread rumours and cause the occasional hanging of a witch in villages. Are you a communist?

  Since you are so primitive, you will destroy one another before long. Yes. Arm apes with bones and the ultimate result is mutual slaughter.

  I told you this before, and I do not lie: it is not safe here. There is no hope for the planet. However, we have chosen several specimens to rescue. You are among them. We have to hurry, as my ship will depart soon. Y3A has prepared everything. You will get to know Y3A later. He is eight feet tall and seldom speaks. His eyes shoot lasers that have the power to disintegrate anything in their path. Fear not, however, for he is only in charge of security. You might consider him a policeman.

  Ah, those eyes of yours. They convey signs of disbelief. You think I am boasting? Of course, you do not believe me. You come from the Third World. The Third World cannot imagine outer space.

  Do you know why science fiction flowered in the First World? Those in the First World dominated technology. They imagined travelling to other galaxies because they could. When this terminal was built, based upon conceptions of ​​outer space, the Third World was distracted by its own problems. There’s a term you use to describe your situation. If I am not mistaken, that term is decolonisation.

  I will save you, but you cannot travel with your body, for it will be useless on my planet. There is no point in putting you into suspended animation. You would not survive. Therefore, you need to be relieved of your primitive container.

  ‘This will not hurt much.’

  No. This guy is sick.

  You’re trying to remember what happened after he pushed you through the door. He must have knocked you unconscious. When you come to, you find your hands and feet bound. Your mouth is covered with duct tape so you can’t interrupt his long diatribe. He is a space alien – at least that is how he understands himself – stuck in the 1960s when this futuristic terminal was in use, before humans landed on the moon, before the Berlin Wall fell and the Soviet Union collapsed. He still speaks of the Cold War even though 2001 has already come and gone.

  You have to get out, but walls surround you. White, sterile. There are no cracks, no exit. He adjusts his gloves. Your bound palms break out in a sweat.

  ‘This is merely part of the teleportation process.’

  He approaches you and deftly laces his gloved fi
ngers around your neck. You struggle to kick him, but he is too strong.

  He wishes to extract you from your corporeal shell so that you can take off, like a rocket.

  Ten. Nine. Eight. Seven.

  You jerk your body as forcefully as you can. You’re enraged. Your adventure must not finish here, so prematurely. You refuse such a stupid ending; you never even wanted a science-fiction adventure. Is he really an alien? Or just a lunatic, a serial killer who believes he saves his victims by transporting their souls to another dimension?

  Six. Five. Four.

  His lips are so close to your ears. What he says sounds familiar, like a line from a film or something: in space, no one can hear you scream.

  Three. Two. One.

  You think you catch the sound of a machine, a new beginning, another journey that takes you through the stars. No. That’s your own voice, squeaking like a hamster that’s been stepped on. You’re stunned. There is no air. There is no sound. Are you floating? What colour is the sky? There are no answers to your questions.

  Tell the world

  That I have arrived at its edge

  Subagio Sastrowardoyo,

  ‘The First Man in Space’

  FINIS

  A Single Firefly, A Thousand Rats

  The cold-blooded killer puts down the book she is reading. A Thousand Fireflies in Manhattan? It’s all very well to write about home from far away, but she doesn’t share the nostalgia of her compatriot Umar Kayam. After all, she is a cold-blooded killer. So, she crafts her own plot featuring a woman who dies without ever seeing a single firefly.

  From her own far-off location in space and time, the killer spies Epon and her strange habits. Yes. At the stroke of midnight, while her husband slumbers, Epon will leave her house and head to the cemetery to see the firefly, for Epon believes that this firefly – a shimmering female who transforms herself to attract a male, only to prey upon him later – appears nowhere else. Of course, Toha, her husband, will grow agitated. In the peaceful, tight-knit village of Cibeurit, women do not roam about in the dark and especially do not visit the cemetery. His wife could be thought a devotee of black magic.