“My father,” said Dewi, “he’s a dukun, he can help to heal that for you.”
“Your father’s a dukun? Will he…” Suddenly he stopped, crouched down. “Miss, get down! Get down!”
Startled by the urgency in his voice, Dewi dropped to her haunches beside him. Instantly, she was down in the warm green world of the paddy, the grass closing in over her head. The bottom of her sarong was getting wet, but she paid no heed to it. Her heart beat fast, for his fear was infectious. After a while, she whispered, “What is it?”
He gestured at her to keep quiet. She listened, but could hear nothing except the usual sounds of morning. She shot a look at the boy. The strained expression on his face was changing, relaxing a bit. “Sorry,” he said at last. “I heard a motorbike…. I thought…I thought it was them.”
“Who? The people who tied you up? What happened? Who are you?”
“My name is Adi. I am from a village called Desagua, in the province of Jatimur. I am an apprentice to Empu Wesiagi, the great kris-smith. And you, miss, you are?”
“I am Dewi, youngest daughter of the great dukun Bapar Wiriyanto, of Bumi Macan.”
The boy nodded. “Miss Dewi, thank you for helping me. I will not need to trouble you or your family any longer. I must get to Kotabunga. But first I must go and see if…” He made as if to get up and go, but as he got to his feet, his still-numb legs folded under him and he fell to the ground. Dewi rushed to help him.
“You cannot go anywhere like that,” she scolded. “You are weak and hurt. You are exhausted. You are probably hungry. My father would be very angry with me if he thought I had let a stranger in need go on his way without helping him. At least come to our house for a rest.”
Adi smiled faintly. He was embarrassed by his own weakness. “I will be all right once I—”
“Once you have had a rest,” said Dewi firmly, “and a good bowl of chicken soup and rice.”
Adi swallowed. Indeed, he was very hungry, very tired. But he couldn’t go without knowing…
“My master,” he said quickly. “The kris maker, Empu Wesiagi. I need to know…” He clenched his hands. “If he…if he is dead, or if…” He looked at Dewi’s face and said, “My master was attacked. We were going to Kotabunga, to deliver a special new kris to Sunan Tengah, the Sultan of Jayangan.” Dewi nodded without surprise. In the island of Jayangan, most men carried the long dagger called a kris, except for the Pumujisal, a small, strict sect of the majority Mujisal religion, who frowned on all such things as superstition. Krises weren’t just weapons; they were also believed to carry a mystical power, each suited to the spirit of its owner. The Sultan was well known as a collector of beautiful, powerful krises.
Dewi said, “But this is not the direct road to Kotabunga.”
Adi fingered the heart around his neck. He looked at Dewi’s bright, sharp face. He didn’t really want to tell the girl everything. For a start, it was dangerous for her. “I’m not sure, but I think he was afraid something like this might happen. We were on the road, just back up there,” he said, pointing. “And then they came…and…” He gulped. “I just want to go and see if he is…if there is any sign of him or if they have—”
“You keep saying ‘they,’” said Dewi. “Who are they? Who attacked you and tied you up?”
“Please,” he said quickly. “I need to look at the road. To know if my master…”
“You can’t go,” said Dewi. “You can hardly walk. I’ll go.”
“No! You don’t understand.”
“I’m sure your robbers are long gone,” said Dewi stoutly. “It was straight through the field, where you were attacked? On the little road near the forest?”
Adi nodded. He rubbed at his legs, trying to will them to work properly. “I’ll come,” he began, but he was speaking to thin air. Dewi had already streaked off between the rice stalks.
She reached the edge of the field and stopped to listen. Nothing. Cautiously, she parted the rice stalks and looked out. She half expected to see a dead body lying in the middle of the road, but there was nothing. Carefully, she crept out of the field and onto the edge of the road. The mud was churned up. Something had certainly happened here, she thought. There were tire tracks, the marks of many feet, all crossing over one another, and there…She crouched down, her heart thumping a little. Blood. And there…what was that, half trodden into the mud? She stretched out a hand for it.
“That’s the picture my master always carried,” said Adi behind her, making her jump. He took the little colored square from Dewi’s hand and tried to wipe the mud off it. “See, it’s a picture of Rajadi, the greatest kris ever made, the kris of the Sultan’s family.” Dewi stared at it. “He must have dropped it when they took him.” Adi looked up and down the road several times, as if looking would make his master reappear.
“What can robbers want with him? Maybe they want to ransom him? Was he carrying anything of great value?”
“Only the kris,” whispered Adi, swaying a little on his feet. Shame, fear, and rage boiled inside him. He should have been fighting at his master’s side. He should have been allowed to. It was not right of Empu Wesiagi to make that decision for him. “The kris he had made for the Sultan. I must go to Kotabunga and tell him.”
“I think we should go first to my father,” said Dewi. “He will know what to do. And perhaps we can take you to Kotabunga, after you have rested. You look terrible, Adi. You cannot go anywhere on your own just now.”
Adi looked at her. A grateful tiredness washed over him. Suddenly, all he wanted to do was sleep, eat, sink gently into forgetfulness. “Thank you. You are very kind.”
“Not at all,” said Dewi. Not for the world would she have admitted to the frightened, weary boy before her that her pulse was beating with a weird kind of excitement.
THREE
“YOU WILL BE late for school. What were you—” Ayu began as Dewi walked in, but her words dried up when she saw Adi behind her. Ayu’s glance flew to Dewi’s face. She frowned a little.
“Adi needs to speak to Father, elder sister,” said Dewi respectfully. “He needs his help and protection.”
Ayu’s face cleared. She was used to people wanting to consult Bapar Wiriyanto. It was not normal—indeed not fitting—for Dewi to bring in such clients. But she would give her sister a talking-to later. She inclined her head gracefully toward Adi. “I will take you to our father,” she said. “I think he has finished his meditation and is ready to receive people.”
“I would like to come with…” Dewi began, then flushed as her sister raised her eyebrows. “You will be late for school, little sister,” said Ayu courteously. “Eat your breakfast.”
Adi glanced quickly at Dewi. His eyes were wide with shyness now, rather than fear. But Dewi did not insist. She knew it was not her place to go and petition her father on this matter; besides, though Adi might be shy, he would surely not like to be spoken for. So she nodded and turned to her breakfast bowl, while Ayu led Adi out of the kitchen.
Her stomach churned as she mechanically spooned Ayu’s good rice into her mouth, not noticing its succulent fragrance as she normally did. She was filled with unease. Bumi Macan was only a small place, a village in the remote Kejawen countryside, and it had always been a good place to live. It was not hard to farm the rich and fertile soil; children were cared for well; and though of course there was conflict between villagers at various times, it was hard to remember when an attack such as the one on Adi and his master had last happened. In fact, Dewi could think of none. People said the spirits smiled on the villagers of Bumi Macan, that Bapar Wiriyanto’s good relations with the Harimauroh protected them from all harm.
Ayu came back into the kitchen. Her usually serene face was puzzled. “Father wants to speak to you, Dewi,” she said. “He is in the consulting room.” Dewi could read the questions in her face: What have you done? Who is this stranger? Why is Father perturbed enough to send for you, the youngest child, and thus the most ignorant? Dewi got up
and inclined her head to Ayu. “Thank you, elder sister, for a good breakfast,” she said softly, and she slipped past without saying anything more. She knew Ayu would be looking after her, wondering, a little uneasy now too, and her heart thumped. Had she done wrong, bringing Adi here?
The dukun’s consulting room was in the center of the house. It was small, dark, and hot, without windows and with only one door. It smelled of incense and lamp oil, and was bare except for a small shrine at one end of the room: a table covered with a red cloth, on which reposed several objects and small holy pictures. Like most people in the village, the dukun was a Mujisal, but he also used images from other faiths, combining them all. That was the way in most of the region of Kejawen, and had been the way for hundreds of years in the village of Bumi Macan. No one found anything strange in it; for there were no fanatical Pumujisal in Bumi Macan, with their hatred of other faiths and what they called devils.
Dewi peered into the dim room. She could see her father sitting cross-legged in front of the shrine, with Adi beside him. All was quiet. Expectant. A shiver of awe rippled over her. She had very rarely been allowed anywhere near the consulting room when her father was working. In fact, he usually kept the door tightly shut. Not today, though.
Dewi hesitated. She did not quite dare to alert her father to her presence, but he turned his head and saw her. He beckoned her into the room, still without speaking, and motioned for her to kneel a little distance from them.
“Daughter,” he said, in his deep, warm voice, “Adi has told me you insisted he come here.” His face was set, unreadable.
Dewi stammered, “Father…I hope you…you are not angry…but I thought it best to—”
“You did well, child,” said Wiriyanto gently, and his face broke into one of his rare smiles. “You did very well.”
Dewi felt heat rushing up to her face. Her father so seldom complimented anyone. She bent her head. “Thank you, Father.”
He sighed. “Adi told me he did not tell you who attacked his master.” He paused. “But I think you should know. It was the hantumu.”
Dewi’s hand flew involuntarily to her throat. “The hantumu, Father?” She, too, had heard the mysterious stories of the assassins’ crimes and depredations. Who in Jayangan had not? But the hantumu had never been sighted close to Bumi Macan before. Did that mean the spirits’ protection no longer held good?
Dewi’s father was watching her reaction. “Today, Dewi, I want you to stay home. You are not to go to school, is that understood? Jafar will make your excuses to the teacher. He will tell her that you are unwell.”
She raised her head, surprised. “Why, of course, Father.”
After a moment the dukun said, “I want you to stay home because you are part of this. Fate decreed it was you who should find Adi. Dewi, look after our guest. He will be hungry and tired.”
“Thank you, Bapar,” whispered Adi. “I cannot express how—”
“Then do not,” said the dukun calmly. “Eat, drink, rest, my friend, and do not think of thanking me. I have heard a great deal of your master, Empu Wesiagi. I have heard that he is the greatest kris-smith since the days of the old kingdoms. That he should be in danger is a calamity for all Jayangan. Now I must seek advice from the Harimauroh.” He nodded, dismissing them, and they left the room quietly.
Once outside, Dewi said, “Why did the hantumu just tie you up and leave you in the paddy? That isn’t usually their way.” Her voice was a little tight. She wished Adi had told her earlier about the hantumu.
A rather shamefaced expression crept over Adi’s features. “I’m sorry, Dewi. I should have told you. But you see…” And he plunged into the bewildering story of how his master had turned on him and tied him up. When he had finished, Dewi was silent a moment. Then she said, “But did you actually see them?”
“No,” said Adi hopelessly. “I heard their motorbikes, heard the voice of one of them, heard my master’s battle with them. But I did not see them.” Adi’s face crumpled. “You know what is most terrible to me? That I did nothing to save him, that I could not!” He grasped at the silver heart around his neck, holding it tightly as if to gain strength.
“He did not want you to,” Dewi said gently. “He wanted you to survive, to be free so you could do as he wanted you to.”
He looked gratefully at her. “You are right.” His face fell again. “But I do not know what it is I must do. I only know I must go to Kotabunga. That I must see the Sultan.”
“Father will be able to tell us more,” said Dewi, hoping she was right. Deep inside her, a fear was growing, a fear born of a new and terrible knowledge: Evil had come crashing into the once-peaceful little world of Bumi Macan.
FOUR
ADI ATE RAVENOUSLY and went off to bed in the boys’ room without protest. Jafar and Wisnu went to school, and Ayu worked around the house. She had only raised an eyebrow when Dewi told her that Father had said she would not go to school today. Father’s decisions were not to be countermanded, but Dewi knew that Ayu must be curious.
An hour passed, then two. Adi slept on. Dewi changed into a dark skirt and white blouse and sandals, tidied her little cubbyhole of a room, and tried to study. But she could not concentrate. She tried to read, but the words kept dancing in front of her. She tried to pray, but even the familiar, comforting words of prayer seemed to slide past her restless spirit. Finally, she wandered out through the courtyard and into the small garden beyond it.
This was Jafar’s domain: He had inherited their mother’s love of flowers and her gift for growing them. He had made of this place a fragrant, quiet little world of beauty and contemplation, full of orchids of all kinds, palms, bamboo, bougainvillea and frangipani, and clouds of shimmering, papery butterflies. There were cool, deep-green shadows she could sit in, quietly, and watch the hidden life of ants and beetles that went on so busily under leaf and bloom and stalk, and try to put her mind at peace. Father sometimes said that in a way humans were like ants and beetles, so tiny in a big world, before God. We were given a beautiful, beautiful world, and love within it, and family, and the guidance of the spirit world. We were different from ants and from other animals, too, he said, for human beings have been given knowledge of the truth of the universe—that there is always struggle between dharma and adharma, good and evil, clear sight and blindness. It is an eternal struggle, eternally fought, in every age and every place and every human heart.
She started. A hand had come to rest on her shoulder. She turned. There was her father, looking down at her. His expression was unreadable, his face very pale. There was a strangeness about him that made her scalp crawl.
“Father,” she whispered.
“Come, child! Quick! Quick! Come to me!” His voice was thin, wavering, rising to a scream. As his words died away, so his form seemed to fade too. With a beat of terror and awe, Dewi realized what had just happened. He was not standing there in the flesh, in front of her. He was “away,” in the world of the tiger-people. He was in danger, and he had called on her to help him!
She ran all the way back through the courtyard and into the house, passing the startled Ayu, who was hanging clothes on the line. As Dewi raced toward her father’s consulting room, Adi came out of the boys’ room, rubbing his eyes. “What’s up?” he said, but Dewi ignored him. She had just reached her father’s door when a roar fit to burst the eardrums filled the air. Shouting, terrified, determined, Dewi pushed hard at the door. It was stuck. She threw herself at it, crying, sobbing, yelling; and there was Adi, too, pushing at the door, shoving it hard. Suddenly, it gave way, and they both fell into the room.
It was very dark. All the lights, including the one Father always kept burning in the shrine, had gone out. They could hear labored breathing and smell something—a rank, wild-animal smell. Lying on the floor as if he had been flung there was a crumpled, still figure—Bapar Wiriyanto.
“He’s fainted, I think,” said Dewi after a terrified half moment, listening to her father’s chest. “Help
me, Adi. We need to help him sit up. There, put your hands under him…oh!”
She nearly screamed, for there, just beyond the shrine, in the darkness yet somehow clear as day, was a face she’d seen before. A stern old man’s face, with yellow eyes—the eyes of a tiger. Bupatihutan!
“Sir, what has happened…why is my father…?” she stammered.
The yellow eyes glared into her. Though his mouth didn’t move, in her mind Dewi suddenly heard a deep, resonant voice. “There is a great battle looming. Go to Kotabunga. You must find Snow, Fire, Sword.”
“Honored lord,” said Dewi, puzzled, “is Snow, Fire, and Sword in Kotabunga? Where do we find them? There is no snow in our country, but perhaps you mean artificial snow? Or are these names of magic talismans? How do we use them?” She waited, but the voice said nothing. She said, “Sir, my father is hurt.”
“There is a great battle looming,” the voice suddenly boomed in her head. “There is little time. You must find Snow, Fire, Sword.”
“Please, Bupatihutan, I cannot understand if you do not—”
“Snow, Fire, Sword,” said the voice, with a crackle of impatience; and suddenly, the yellow eyes winked out and the face disappeared.
There was silence for a moment; then Adi said, with a catch in his voice, “Who were you speaking to, Dewi?”
She turned her head back toward her father, whose eyes were still closed. She swallowed and murmured, “My father’s spirit guide. He is a tiger-man. From the forest.”
Adi involuntarily put a hand to his heart pendant. “Lord protect us.” He paused. “Did he…did they hurt your father? Are the spirits angry with us?”
Dewi looked at him and shook her head. “I don’t know.”
“What are you doing?” came Ayu’s anxious voice from the doorway. “What’s happened to Father?”
“He…he fainted,” said Dewi. “He’s all right, I think, though.”
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