Gates of Stone

by Angus Macallan

  Ketut thought about all the conversations they had shared—very few, no more than a handful of exchanges, and yet they had seemed to contain all the necessary information for this precious intimacy. Tenga had told her how she had been wounded and captured in a great battle in her homeland of Ziran Atar against the neighboring tribe, and sold as a slave to Han merchants and shipped to the mines, how she had escaped and been recaptured and tortured and brought back to the Hole again. She had told her of her brothers and sisters, at home in Ziran, and how she did not know if they were alive or dead. She had told Ketut about her dream, one day, of becoming a weapon-smith, learning the art, becoming a maker of blades—of working with iron, forging the metal in a sacred fire, bending it to her will . . .

  And Ketut had told her a little of her own life in Taman, how she had been chosen by the Goddess Dargan as her Vessel, and before that, of the hunger and the cold lonely nights, and the shame and self-disgust at her own polluted Dewa blood, and of the pretty boy from the sea-village, one of the New People, who she had once thought she truly loved. She remembered her own words to Tenga about the jagged pain of that affair, unusually fluent for her: “. . . he was so handsome, so perfect—looking just a little like our rich boy here—and he told me that he loved me, and would always love me, and I gave myself to him. But once he had enjoyed me, he made a whore of me and shared me with his friends, as if I were no more than a common bowl of fish stew that they could all stick their spoons into . . .”

  They did not speak, Tenga and Ketut, all that long day in the shrouds while they waited for the shift to end, but the touch of their flanks, the feeling of their mutual heat, the pulse of life that passed between them like a current, was better than a hundred voices singing together in beautiful harmonies. And so the day passed. From time to time, Ketut heard the creaking of the wheels and the crack of whips as work parties came past with loads of ore. She heard the clanging of the lift doors and the squeal of unoiled steel. She wondered how her own group was faring: with Kromo dead, the dwarf dead, the Yawa girl dead and the three of them here shamming death, it was a much-depleted work gang. She wondered if the Manchu would allow them to half fill the ore wagon, given their lack of numbers. But most of the time, hour after hour, she wallowed in the proximity of her love, and the power that radiated between them.

  Then, at last, there was noise, and the presence of people and Ketut felt her feet and shoulders being lifted and her body thrown, suddenly weightless, and her shoulders thumping hard against the wooden floor of the death-wagon. She felt Jun move beside her, then her beloved, heavy but springy with life, tumbling down on top of her. And then to her disgust three other limp bodies were piled on top. Something wet was dripping on her legs.

  Then they were in the elevator, the steel groaning, but the air was becoming cooler; they were being pushed somewhere, the wagon wheels juddering and protesting. And, after a length of time, a long, long wait, the bodies were being lifted off her, the weight was gone, and she was sitting up. There was bright light, and a very hot roaring fire somewhere near, and Semar’s kindly face, peering down at her, asking her how she did.

  * * *

  • • •

  The escape from the mine head was almost laughably easy, after all Jun had endured at the ore-face. With the door of the morgue locked by Semar from the inside, he helped Tenga feed the other, real corpses into the furnace and then all three of the living ones and Semar slid down a chute designed to take the used, soiled shroud-sacks. They landed in a softly malodorous pile of linen in a large, empty room. Semar led the way out of a pair of double doors and they were suddenly in the soft and ordered settlement of the Manchu guards and the Han engineers. Jun could smell the scent of roses in bloom. It was full dark now and there was a need for stealth, but after a few tense moments of creeping through the shadows, Jun soon found himself in a well-lit cottage with a red-tiled roof, where there were clean clothes for him to put on and food and tea set out on the kitchen table as if for a party.

  “Whose house is this?” asked Ketut. And Semar told her that it belonged to the Han doctor in charge of the morgue, who had been “persuaded” by Semar that his elderly parents in Singarasam were sick and needed him. Semar, claiming to be a fully trained Han doctor, had volunteered to take over his duties in the mine, and his house, too, till he could return. Nobody asked Semar how he had managed this feat. Jun was just grateful to be out of the Hole. When Jun had washed, dressed and eaten a large but hurried meal, Semar handed him his old traveling pack—the big canvas-and-leather satchel that he had last seen in The Drunken Sow boardinghouse in the alley off the harbor in Sukatan. It seemed about ten years since he had seen his chess set, his sleeping sarong, his spare sandals and all his other belongings.

  “When I get back to the city, I will demand that my cousin punishes all those responsible for this evil place,” said Jun. “I will have my revenge. How long do you think it will take, Semar, for us to get back to Sukatan? Two, three days?”

  “My prince, we are not going to your cousin’s palace. That road back there is the first place they will look when they find that I’m gone without an explanation—and they will soon discover that you have escaped, too. Those two Manchu guards will confess that they helped us—even if they will never be able to explain exactly why.”

  “How long have we got before they start after us?” said Tenga.

  “So you will join us, miss?” said Semar. “Good, we’ll need your strength.”

  Tenga looked taken aback to be called “miss” but merely said, “How long?”

  “I imagine they will sound the alarm a little after dawn—we should expect them on our heels anytime after that.”

  “Then we’d better go now,” said Tenga.

  “Why are we not going to Sukatan? Where are we going?” Jun felt confused.

  “We don’t have time for too many questions,” said Semar. “But it grieves me to tell you, my prince, that Raja Widojo is dead. You are the last of the Wukarta. Your cousin complained that an evil spirit had entered his brain and infected it with some kind of madness and then, just a few hours later, when he could stand it no longer, he blew the back of his own skull off with a pistol.”

  Jun did not know what to say to that.

  “I garnered that knowledge while I was collecting your things from The Sow. I also learned that our enemy has left Sukatan, with the Dragon’s Eye in his possession, and his ship is even now sailing for the Pengut Delta, according to gossip in the taverns. Sailors, even pirates, talk freely when they drink and smoke. So we know he’s heading for Sumbu and most likely for Mount Barat—and I think we can guess why.”

  Semar and Ketut shared a significant glance. But Jun had absolutely no idea why the sorcerer should wish to visit this place called Mount Barat.

  “So where are we going?” he said.

  “We’re going west. The direction they would least expect us to go,” said Tenga.

  “Very good, miss,” said Semar. “Quite correct. They will expect us to go north to Sukatan. Or, given Jun’s background, southeast to get a boat across the strait to his home in Taman. But we’ll confound them by going west and then northwest. We will head for the coast. There are some fishing villages up there, even a few small ports where we might catch a ship for Sumbu. With luck we can be there in less than a week. But no more questions now. Haste is required, my friends, haste and stealth!”

  In truth, there had been little necessity for stealth once they had left the scatter of mine officials’ villas and begun to climb the slopes of the Gray Mountain, which was just as well, as the path was steep and rocky and Jun and his three companions constantly dislodged small pebbles that rattled down the mountainside behind them. But, as far as Jun could tell, no alarm was raised by their clumsiness. Certainly there was no flaring of lights or shouting in Manchu or sudden trumpets, bells or whistles. And when they reached the summit and looked back down at
the square bulks of the mine heads, with their little pins of yellow light from the small square windows, and the high towers with their slowly rotating wheels, Jun felt a soaring sense of liberation very close to actual joy. The cold mountain wind exhilarated him—it was the breath of freedom. They would come after him, sure: those hideous bear-dogs and their blank-faced handlers, the Mbaru. But he was free now, and he was confident that if they went fast and far, he would remain so. It was much, much better than sweating out his life in the Hole, anyway.

  This pleasant sensation was entirely dissipated by the time he had spent an hour in the jungle. The massive heat came on with the creeping light of dawn and, even though he had slept long in his shroud the day before, the hard climb over the Gray Mountain had taken its toll. They took turns leading the way through the forest with Semar indicating the direction of travel with his long wooden staff. But they were sparing with the use of the two parangs that Jun and Ketut had found in their packs. On Tenga’s advice they slipped through between the fronds of the plants whenever they could, or went around thick patches of vegetation, or better still followed existing game trails. It was exhausting work, even when they were not obliged to cut a way through, and the heat sapped their strength even further. But Tenga urged them onward, haranguing them to hurry, to hurry if they wanted to live!

  She knew better than any of them what was behind them.

  When they paused midmorning for a drink from their water bottles, with Tenga anxiously watching their backtrail, Semar handed out a few dried leaves, gathered he said from the young obat bush, which he carried in a little leather pouch. He showed them how to make a wad and hold the leaves between their teeth and the flesh of their cheek. Very soon Jun’s cheek began to tingle, then grow numb, but he felt a new surge of energy running through his body. It was a little like the usual obat effect but subtly different and oddly, wonderfully refreshing; his head was clear as crystal and he felt strong and clever, even witty. They plunged on into the jungle with renewed vigor.

  It was midafternoon before they first heard the baying of the slave-hounds.

  * * *

  • • •

  The noise was not unlike the howling of a wolf. They stopped, wiping the sweat from their brows and looked at each other. Jun was shocked to see that Tenga was terrified: her big scarred face was an odd gray color, and drawn much more lean over its bones. Her eyes were huge. “The Queen of Fire protect us,” she said. “I thought we’d get farther than this. They’re only a mile behind us and they have found our scent.”

  They ran.

  They blundered through the trees at full speed with Semar leading, staff in his right hand, his gray sarong hitched up and his skinny white legs flashing underneath. Then came Ketut, then Jun, with Tenga bringing up the rear. Semar seemed to know where he was going—at least he did not hesitate for a second when faced with a choice of two game paths, picking one and haring down it as fast as he could go. After a night on the mountain and most of a day slogging through the thick jungle, Jun knew that his strength was near its end. But he saw no sign of tiredness in any of his companions, and he could still hear the wolflike baying of the slave-hounds, more distant now but still quite audible. He had little choice but to grit his teeth and carry on running. After three or four miles, Semar abruptly came to a halt. He stood there, hands on his knees, panting under a vast baobab tree, and Jun and Ketut collapsed onto the ground, also heaving for breath. Tenga stood staring at the trail behind her, the long, steel parang she still held twitching in her massive fist.

  When their breathing had returned almost to normal, Semar said, “I know where we must go.” He breathed a little more. “It is a place I used to know a long, long time ago and we can hide ourselves there or, if need be, defend ourselves more easily. But to get there we must run all night.”

  “We have no choice,” said Tenga. “We must run. If we stay here, they’ll find us and you will be taken back.”

  “Won’t you be taken back, too?” said Jun.

  “I will not allow that to happen to me,” Tenga said. “Never—so, I say we run.”

  “I really don’t know if I can . . .” said Jun.

  “It’s run or die, richboy,” said Ketut. “I’m not staying to be eaten by bear-dogs.”

  Jun said nothing. In the far, far distance a slave-hound howled.

  “Good,” said Semar. “Eat and drink all you can; we cannot afford to carry any extra weight.” And from his pack, he began to pass out sweet, glutinous rice cakes, which were studded with dried fruits. And thin strips of chewy, dried meat.

  Jun forced down his rice cake, and swallowed his strips of beef jerky—although his stomach nearly rebelled—and then he downed as much of his water as he could and discarded the rest. He went through his pack, throwing everything out that he could bear to part with—including the beautiful chess set—but keeping a spare light sarong. And his recurved bow and full quiver of arrows. He wasn’t sure if he was ready to die, like Tenga, before being recaptured. But if they were caught, he meant to take as many Mbaru down with him as possible.

  Finally Semar handed out more of the young obat leaves, which they stuffed in their cheeks, and, at a slower pace than before, but still a respectably fast jog, they began to run.

  After a mile or two with the light dimming and the dark forest closing in all around him, and with the rhythm of the run pounding in his ears, Jun fell swiftly into a trancelike state. His focus narrowed to Ketut’s thin back, which was bobbing steadily in front of his eyes. He listened to the heave of his lungs and the pounding of his feet. And he seemed, on occasion, to be outside his body watching a running youth, the third in a line of four running folk. After about ten miles, and heading due west, as far as Jun could tell, the jungle seemed to become thinner, a good deal thinner, as if sometime in the recent past it had been cultivated land, now reclaimed by the wild.

  It had been full dark for some time, and Jun had not heard the slave-hounds now for an hour or more. Gradually, a half-moon rose in the southwest that gave them enough light to see the path, and make looming shadows of the foliage on either side. But Jun did not pay much attention to the moon or the path or the shadows; he merely ran, his whole being focused on putting one tired foot ahead of the other. His breath was a slow, chugging pant, but perhaps it was the dried obat leaves, or perhaps it was the knowledge of what would happen if they stopped, but he found the strength somewhere inside him to carry on.

  Mile after mile, hour after hour, they ran. At one point Ketut stumbled and he had to pause and help her to her feet—and he found himself foully cursing her clumsiness, wanting only to carry on with his run unimpeded.

  Semar never hesitated in his direction—neither did the old man tire. But Jun had no energy to ponder why this should be so. He ran. He ran with all his heart and lungs and stomach. He ran as if running was living, as if being alive meant only running, and running meant staying alive—which, of course, it did.

  He was thirsty, that he knew. His knees were weak and wobbly. His lungs burned as if he were breathing in fire. Yet his torso and limbs were ice-cold. He ran. He began to see visions, monsters and ghosts. War-Master Hardan ran alongside him for a while, criticizing his style. “Keep those arms tucked in, boy,” he said. “Longer strides now. Longer, I say.”

  Jun lengthened his stride, and ran on.

  His father stood by the side of the path, and said sadly, “They took the Khodam, Arjun, they took it from me—from us. So sorry, my son, but I could not resist them.”

  Jun ran on. Now his head was clear of visions. But he could not feel his legs below the knees. The air was subtly changing, the darkness lightening. The jungle was getting even more sparse; now that he could see, there was barely a tree in sight, just scrubby bushes, clumps of thick grasses, some of which had grown to head height.

  Jun looked over his shoulder and saw the drawn gray sweating face of Tenga behind him
and beyond her, the red rim of the sun coming up on the eastern horizon.

  He blundered into Ketut, stopped and saw that Semar was also still, head down, lungs working madly. Then the old man stopped and, still lightly panting, lifted his gray head. Now he was looking about him eagerly. Jun looked, too—he saw huge blocks of shattered masonry strewn about the scrubby landscape; some of it seeming to be marked with black scorches. There were tumbled-down walls, snapped columns and even whole collapsed houses, blackened, broken and with plant life growing through the windows. Here and there was a splintered statue—some of fantastical animals, some of elegant young men and women. And the rubble and destruction seemed to go on as far as the eye could see. Jun realized that he was standing in the ruins of a large town, even a city.

  “What is this place?” he asked Semar.

  “This place used to be my home. This was once a place of devout worship and earnest study, of goodness and piety. This was once the home of an ordered and holy community of men and women, priests who venerated the great God and worked to spread His message of love to the four corners of the Laut Besar.” Semar seemed infinitely sad as he said these words, as if he were speaking the oration at a funeral of a dear friend.

  “This was the Mother Temple of Vharkash,” said Jun.

  “Does your temple have any water?” said Tenga. “Tut needs to drink.”

  “Yes, and yes,” said Semar. “And I know just the place where we can camp.”

  * * *

  • • •

  Jun slept. Curled in a thick bed of dried grasses, in the shade of a high wall made of gray volcanic rocks, he slept like a dead man for most of the day, waking only in the late afternoon, as the sun was yellowing and falling in the west. He sat up and saw that Ketut was still fast asleep, a dozen yards from him, under the largest piece still standing of a smashed stone table. He got up and walked to the rear of the compound, where a spring bubbled out of a rock face at head height and collected in a pool below.