Frantic, Don looked around him, hoping to see someone, anyone, who could help him. His eyes strained with the effort, the muscles slowly fading under the press of whatever Tsukoi had injected into him. Struggling did him little good, his body refused to move and he could hear the Asian move about, connecting something and sliding items around.
“I know you’re scared,” Tsukoi came back into eyesight and Don was relieved, despite his fear. This was the man who spent a year carving out a story onto his skin. There had to be a reason for this, Don thought. Something happened and Tsukoi would soon sort it out.
Or so he thought until he spotted the fleshy scrolls hanging around them, the stiff husks of people’s hides hanging from wooden Ts set behind glass.
There seemed to be…at least a hundred of them, each as brilliant as his own tattoos. Those closest were vivid, the skins’ limbs sporting creatures and people, the wide swath of chests or backs ripened with court scenes or even mountains bristling with pines and layered with the soft white of snow.
“I know. You see them,” Tsukoi glanced back behind him, a smile curling his full mouth. “Those are the others, the stories that have come before you. We keep them so we don’t tell the same one again. The dragon beneath us is fickle. It’s not right for him to hear something twice.”
“This is hard for me, you know. You’ve rushed things forward. You’ve not had much time,” He continued, unrolling a length of plastic tube. Its end dully gleamed with a spigot tip that reminded Don of an oil punch. “But you’re the only one who could make that decision.”
“The tatsu hears the legends every time we let the blood drain into the grate. My father says he suckles at the walls, looking for each word that is whispered over the tattoo,” Tsukoi prattled on, above the pain covering Don’s body. An acrid smell rose from under him and then a gush of fluids poured from his body. Tsukoi stepped back, keeping his bare feet out of the stream. “Don’t worry about that. Everyone pisses themselves. He doesn’t mind.”
“He’ll eat your blood and meat…I’ll cut out small pieces as I go. They have to fit down the grate but I’ll keep your story safe with the others. That’s why I’m lifting up your skin.” Tsukoi worked the metal end under Don’s skin, lifting up the flesh on the inside of his elbow. Despite the numbness of his limbs, Don winced at the thick sharp bulb sliding into him. He choked again, trying to pull more air in with hisses through the plastic ball. “I’m sorry but it’s better if the blood is spiced with pain. We know what the tatsu likes. We’ve been feeding him for years.”
Another tube then another slid under his skin, tunnelling under the inked story until Don’s body sprouted clear tentacles, each leading to the pump. With a delicate ease, Tsukoi took a scalpel and sliced vents into Don’s back and thighs. He stepped out of Don’s eyesight and then the chitter of a pump began, churning out long streams of something richly plum scented into Don’s raised skin.
“Thank you for paying me so soon. I appreciate your dedication to my duty,” Tsukoi rested his chin on his fists, his mouth brushing on Don’s cheek with a gentle kiss as the umeshu surged into Don’s body, lifting the skin up in long patches and draining wine-soaked blood through the slivered cuts along his torso. “I shall keep you here with the others…and remember you always. You have my word. I promise.”
****
wayang kulit
L. J. Hayward
It was a relief to get out of the hot, humid air of Jakarta in summer. Scott’s raw silk shirt clung to his back, his damp hair curled around his ears and neck. He ran his hand back across his scalp, trying to rearrange the sweat slicked mess into something less horrific. Not that it seemed it would matter here.
The theatre was dark and dingy, smelling of damp rot and something else, something sickly sweet. Smoke coiled around the ceiling, shifting on sluggish eddies of air. Locals scurried through the rows of seats in search of the best position, as tourists mingled in the aisles, exclaiming loudly about the ‘quaintness’ and ‘atmosphere’ and demanding enough seats in one row for their entire party.
In comparison, Ramelan lead Scott and Kerri straight to the front of the theatre and through sublime luck found three seats together. Squeezing in between Kerri and an old Indonesian woman wearing a sarong and an AC/DC t-shirt, Scott sank into the chair. Only when his arse touched the worn, thin vinyl and lumpy stuffing did he wonder just what he might be sitting in. And these were his new Cavalli jeans.
“Isn’t this exciting?” Kerri’s blue eyes glimmered in the hazy dark of the theatre.
“Yeah, exciting.”
“Oh, come on, Scott. Just try to enjoy something for once. Don’t be such an arsehole.”
Shifting so the spring jutting out of the chair wasn’t jabbing anything vital, Scott grimaced. “All I’m saying is that we could have seen this puppet show in more comfort. I’m sure I saw something about it on the entertainment list at the hotel.” A drip of sweat clung tenaciously to the end of his nose. He swiped it away. “At the very least we could have caught a taxi to this place. My shirt’s going to be ruined. Not to mention the any number of questionable things embedded in the grooves of this chair.”
Kerri, comfortable looking in her white t-shirt and newly purchased batik sarong, pursed her lips. “If you had your way, the only part of Indonesia we’d ever see was the inside of that ridiculously expensive hotel! You need to learn to live a little, Scott. Get out there and see the world, experience some culture for once.” She leaned closer, lowered her voice. “It means so much to Ramelan that he can show us his home and culture. Be nice. Or you can just go home and leave us alone to have fun.”
On Kerri’s other side, Ramelan stared fixedly at the stage, showing no signs of having heard any of their conversation. With his thick black hair and easy smile, Ramelan had gathered many admiring looks from locals and tourists alike, yet he’d shown little interest. Instead, he’d been more concerned with pointing out landmarks and sharing jokes with Kerri.
It means so much to Ramelan that he can show you his home and culture.
Leave his girl with this pretty boy? Hell no!
Scott settled deeper into his seat, already writing off the Cavalli’s as an expense in the war to keep Kerri from her best friend’s clutches.
“So you’re staying.” Kerri didn’t look at him, but her lips twitched into an almost smile.
“You’ll be pleased you stayed,” Ramelan said. “The very best of the dalangs don’t just tell the story. They become the medium through which the spirits talk to mortals. The dalang performing today is one of the best. His skill is extraordinary. Some people say watching him perform is a spiritual experience. They say it’s as if he gives the shadows a life of their own.”
“I can’t wait.” Kerri’s voice held that breathy quality that meant she really was excited. “What did you call it again?”
“Wayang Kulit,” Ramelan answered, his tone just as eager. “It’s a shadow puppet play. The puppeteer, the dalang, sits behind the screen and performs all the roles in the story. He sings and narrates and keeps the beat for the musicians. It’s a highly skilled art.”
Kerri and Ramelan turned to each other as Ramelan continued to prattle about the mechanics of the play. Kerri ‘oohed’ and ‘aahed’ far too earnestly for Scott’s comfort. Friends? Right…
There were far better places to go for a holiday: Rome, Hong Kong, New York, Dubai. Places where Kerri could have shopped for a better pedigree of fashion than ludicrously coloured sarongs from a vendor in a flea market. He didn’t see why he had to be dragged into the near-third world just so Kerri could appease her friend’s need to reconnect to his heritage. Who cared where a snotty-nosed kid played when he was little or about the old woman who used to weave baskets and tell stories? Ramelan had moved to Australia to make a better life for himself. Why come back? Scott had managed to escape his childhood horrors and he would be damned before he ever went back.
Scott ignored their happy prattle and tried not to think a
bout things he could be doing if he wasn’t stuffed into this cramped, hot little stink-pot of a theatre. At the very least, he could be back in his hotel room, making sure his software company wasn’t going bankrupt without his constant supervision.
The seats Ramelan had found them were right at the front. Scott’s knees threatened to knock against the boards of the stage. He glared at the screen set across the front edge, incompletely hiding the men behind it as they set up for the show. Just how spiritual could fucking puppets get?
Three resonant taps sounded from behind the screen and a quiet settled on the audience, leaving the air saturated with expectation.
Ramelan sat up. “It’s about to begin. The dalang taps three times on the box which contains his puppets to wake them up.” His voice was quiet, reverent.
“It’s a puppet show,” Scott muttered. “How great can it be?”
“Scott,” Kerri hissed, jabbing him in the side.
“I think you might be surprised,” Ramelan said calmly.
I’ll be surprised if I’m not dead from boredom by the end of it, Scott thought but said, “We’ll see.”
Kerri looked between them, repressed a sigh and let her chin drop into her hand, staring at the stage morosely. Guts twinging with guilt, Scott slipped an arm around her shoulders.
“Sorry,” he whispered in her ear. “I’ll be good.”
It earned him a bright smile that, as usual, pulled a genuine smile out of Scott. A small, quiet voice buried somewhere deep inside tried to tell him that she was too good for him, but he quashed it.
Light blossomed behind the screen on the stage. It was orange and flickered in hypnotic, magical patterns. It cast a circle of light onto the centre of the screen, an intense flame at its heart, fading to shadows at the edges. From behind the screen, a steady beat started: to this a deep, throaty chanting was added. It rose and dropped in rhythmic measure, mesmerizing in its simplicity. To the left of the screen, the shadows moved and, slow and stately, a figure grew from the darkness. It stretched up, cutting its shape out of the light.
The figure was a stylised human with an elongated neck, forward jutting head and exaggerated nose. It hobbled from the shadows, movements jerky. Music began, using the steady beat as a base and adding to it with resonant gongs and chiming xylophones. The chanting died away and as the shadow raised a long arm to beckon to something, a voice called out in Indonesian.
Ramelan leaned close to Kerri. “It is a mother calling to her son. She tells him he must go fishing or they will starve.”
A second puppet joins the first, scampering from the shadows. He stands before his mother, smaller but more vibrant, dancing for the pleasure of the audience. The good child puppet sets off in his boat crafted of shadow and light.
“This is the story of Malin Kundang,” Ramelan said softly. “It is an old folklore.”
“What happens?” Kerri asked, her attention on the shifting patterns of light and dark.
Ramelan chuckled. “Watch and find out. I’ll translate for you.” He flicked a look at Scott. “Both of you.”
“Gee, thanks.” Scott couldn’t hide the sarcasm in his voice. Thankfully, Kerri seemed too entranced to notice.
On the stage, the good child Malin Kundang fishes for his mother. Malin Kundang fades from sight and is replaced by a larger ship. On its deck, two shadow puppets fight. Their battle is fast and furious, blurred and indistinct. The music rises in tempo to match the action.
Scott couldn’t look away. The shadows jerked and jumped across the screen, as fascinating as an over the top action movie. Perhaps this wouldn’t be so corny after all.
The fight ends with one figure triumphing over the other. Arms rising into the air, the victor calls out .
“He is a pirate, and he’s just defeated a merchant.”
The small shape of Malin Kundang appears on the deck. Another fight ensues and this time it is the good child who wins, tossing the pirate from the ship. The defeated merchant stands once more.
“The merchant is thanking Malin Kundang for saving his ship. He asks the boy to join his crew and sail with him.”
Kerri’s lips pursed. “But his mother…”
“He’s got a chance to make something of his life if he goes with the merchant,” Scott said.
“Without her son, the mother will starve.”
“A son can’t stay shackled to his mother his whole life. Why should he stay poor when he has a chance to become something better?”
Her expression softened as she touched Scott’s arm. “I know you’re thinking about her and—”
“Shh.” Ramelan pointed to the stage. “The show is still going on.”
Scott moved his arm from under Kerri’s hand and looked resolutely at the screen. He’d be damned if he was going to talk about this shit here and now. There was a better time for conversations like the one Kerri wanted to have — never.
On the screen, Malin Kundang agrees to sail with the merchant and Scott celebrated quietly to himself. When Malin Kundang’s choice led him to a life as a rich merchant and marriage to a princess, it was all Scott could do to keep from snickering. Kerri, however, seemed to be aware of his glee and dared him with sidelong glances to gloat out loud. He settled for a superior smile.
Rich and famous, Malin Kundang eventually finds himself back on his home island. There the folk recognise him and from the crowd, comes his mother. She is old and slow, staggering toward her good son, arms wide in greeting.
“She is so pleased to see her son again,” Ramelan murmured. “She is calling to him, reminding him of their bond.”
Malin Kundang holds up his arms against his mother. He backs away.
“Three times she begs him to recognise her, three times she calls to him. Finally, he cries, ‘Enough, old woman. I have never had a mother like you, a dirty and ugly peasant.’ Then he orders his crew to set sail.”
“Oh, that’s cruel,” Kerri said.
Scott stared at the shadows and beyond them, to the flickering, intense flame that gave them life. There was something like that flame inside his chest, burning hot.
Rejected by her good son, the mother raises her arms and shouts after the retreating ship.
“She shouts, ‘Apologise, my son. Admit the truth, or you shall be turned to stone.’”
On the ship, Malin Kundang laughs and sails on. From the calm sky comes a sudden thunderstorm. The music rises in a threatening crescendo. Dark clouds roil at the top of the screen, waves toss the ship this way and that, dashing it upon the rocks of an island. Malin Kundang is thrown from the ship. He stands, arms flailing for balance. The music thrashes to a chaotic and sudden halt, silence ringing in the stuffy air, and Malin Kundang freezes in place — turned to stone.
Sudden cold whipped through Scott, dousing the flame that had moments before burned inside him. He felt as stiff as the shadow of Malin Kundang. Kerri clapped loudly with the rest of the audience.
“I’m so glad he got his comeuppance,” Kerri said to Ramelan. “He was just nasty.” She turned to Scott. “Not so happy now, are you?”
There was teasing in her tone, but Scott ignored it. He chewed his lips and stared at the screen, still lit by the flame, but lifeless now that the shadows had gone.
“What kind of mother turns her only son into stone?”
“It’s just a story,” Kerri said, no teasing now.
Scott scowled. “Fucking stupid story.”
“Here comes the dalang,” Ramelan said.
A slender man emerged from behind the screen and bowed to the appreciative crowd. He looked around the audience and for a moment his gaze settled on Scott. A shiver rattled Scott’s shoulders. The dalang nodded to him and then retreated behind the screen again.
“What happens now?” Kerri asked Ramelan.
“The performance will continue. The dalang will tell many more tales tonight. Wayang Kulit may sometimes last until dawn.”
Scott’s stomach churned. “I don’t feel so good.”
“What’s wrong?” Kerri put her hand on his arm.
“I think I ate something that didn’t agree with me.” Scott pressed a hand to his gut, swallowing against the urge to retch as his innards squirmed.
“We’ve all eaten the same things today,” Ramelan said. “I feel fine. Kerri?”
“Yeah, I’m okay. Scott, are you sure?”
Scott staggered to his feet, swayed and caught himself on the back of the seat. “I just need to lie down.” He ploughed his way past the old woman’s knees, heading for the aisle and escape.
“Where are you going?” Kerri asked, half out of her chair to follow.
“Back to the hotel.”
Kerri gathered up her backpack. “I’ll come with you. Ramelan, I’m so sorry. You stay, keep watching. Maybe we can catch another performance tomorrow.”
Scott reached the relatively clear space of the aisle. He bent over, grabbed his knees and concentrated on breathing.
“No, I’ll come with you.” Ramelan too began to push past the old woman, who muttered darkly under her breath.
“I’m so sorry,” Kerri repeated. “We don’t want to ruin your holiday.”
Ruin his holiday? Scott straightened, even though it felt like his stomach would erupt from his mouth.
“You know what,” he managed to get out. “Don’t come with me, Kerri. Stay here with your friend. I would hate to ruin his holiday by being violently sick all over him. I’ll catch a taxi. I’ll be fine on my own. Stay, watch your little shadow play.”
Kerri’s jaw dropped. “Don’t be ridiculous. You need help. I’m coming with you.”
“We’re both coming.” Ramelan reached for Scott’s arm.
Scott pulled away so fast he lost balance and crashed into the next row of seats. A British voice rose in protest. Kerri and Ramelan rushed forward to help him up. He shoved them away and hauled himself to his feet.
“Get off me. I’m going home alone. I don’t need either of you.”
Dead Souls Page 20