Tiger Stone

by Deryn Mansell

  “I’d come looking for you,” Kancil said.

  “Thanks,” said Kitchen Boy.

  Was there a remnant of the necklace under the pondok that gave me the idea while I slept? Kancil wondered. Or was it Mother’s practical market sense – making do with what is at hand? Either way, if this plan is to succeed, I’ll have to live up to my name – Kancil, the mouse deer, the clever little creature who uses words to outwit the bigger, stronger creatures. And be careful to use the right language! Kancil smiled as she imagined what Small Aunt would have to say about her plan.

  Mother didn’t seem wholly convinced by Kancil’s explanation for having stayed out all night but she didn’t question her. Kancil was on the verge of confiding in her but she stopped herself. What had seemed like a good idea out in the pondok with Kitchen Boy by her side and the sun rising on a fresh new day was feeling as shaky as their little sleeping shack now she was in her uncle’s home. She couldn’t take the risk of Mother talking her out of it. She didn’t have the time, anyway. She could hear Bibi stomping down the passageway.

  Time moved slowly that day. Kancil managed to sneak in a couple of much-needed naps in the morning, suffering only one stinging ear from Bibi as a consequence. She rehearsed her plan over and over in her head and by the afternoon she was so distracted that she burned a dish of kangkung greens. This earned her a proper beating from Bibi and she resolved to put the plan out of her mind until nightfall.

  The elders met that evening as usual in Big Uncle’s pendopo. The juru kunci had returned from the mountain. “The spirits are uneasy,” he said.

  Kancil pricked up her ears. Perhaps the juru kunci was wise to the bandits’ plot. Maybe he would save her from having to follow through on her plan.

  Big Uncle frowned. “Once the marriage has taken place, our village will have royal protection and in time that will drive the bandit curse from the forest. Surely that will please the spirits.”

  The juru kunci looked down at his hands and said nothing. Holy men, Kancil decided, had their limitations.

  “What’s more,” Big Uncle continued, “the prince has sent two of his bearers for reinforcements. Within a week of us leaving for the capital, he has promised there will be a garrison of soldiers here to protect those left behind from any bandit threat. There will be nothing more to do here than keep the birds away from the rice fields and we’ll be back in time for harvest.”

  Kancil’s heart sank. The prince was too clever for her. He would make sure that Big Uncle didn’t have any doubts until it was too late.

  “There is one matter we need to discuss,” Big Uncle said, a little unwillingly.“The prince’s men heard a tiger near the joglo last night. I offered to send some young men to see it off but the prince wishes to hunt it himself tomorrow.”

  “You will accompany him?” asked the priest.

  “I guess I must,” said Big Uncle.

  “You will take the kitchen boy, won’t you?” asked the juru kunci.

  “Hmpf,” Big Uncle grumbled, “if we can find him, that little pest. He has a talent for disappearing at the very moment he’s needed.”

  “It would be wise to take him.”

  “As bait?” asked Big Uncle.

  “As protection,” the juru kunci replied.

  When her evening chores were complete, Kancil returned to the shack where Mother was waiting. The worst of Mother’s illness had passed but she was still quite weak. She couldn’t walk more than a few steps without resting.

  At least I know they won’t take her to Trowulan, Kancil thought, they’ll leave her here to keep the birds off the rice field. An image came to her mind of her mother and all the others left behind, waiting. Waiting until they starved, or until bandits took the village, or until word came of what their kin were believed to have done in Trowulan. They would die of shame if that happened.

  My plan has to work, she told herself. And I have to make sure that Mother doesn’t try to stop me from doing what I have to do tonight.

  “Mother,” she whispered when she was sure they were alone, “do you remember when we left Sunda and we had to go in the boat, and I was scared and you said I shouldn’t ask questions and everything would all be all right?”

  “Mmm,” said Mother.

  “I did what you said, didn’t I?”

  “Yes,” Mother agreed. She was looking at Kancil closely in the moonlight.

  “Did you know that everything would be all right?”

  “No.”

  “But did me not asking questions make it seem more likely that everything would be all right?”

  Mother laughed softly at this. “Yes,” she said, “I admit that believing you trusted me made me trust myself a little more.”

  “And you remember how Kitchen Boy and I made you well with Small Aunt’s jamu?”

  “Yes,” said Mother. She was frowning now, trying to work out where Kancil’s questions were going.

  “Well, we have to do something a bit like that tonight. It has to be very secret for a reason I can’t explain. So please don’t ask any questions and everything will be all right.”

  Mother was silent for a while then she said, “You’re not going to run away, are you?”

  Kancil chose her words carefully. “I’m not going to run away tonight,” she said, “but one day I will have to leave this place.

  20

  WHISPERING SPIRITS

  Kancil crept along the passageway at the side of the main house, holding her breath in fear of waking one of the sleepers within. When she reached the front of the house she checked to see if anyone was on the verandah. She was relieved to find it empty. In the moonlight, she could see Big Uncle’s feet sticking out of the pavilion, just like last time, but she couldn’t hear a sound – perhaps he was still awake, fretting about the tiger hunt.

  She crouched down and sprinted across the open courtyard to the darkness behind the pavilion. Kitchen Boy was already there. He had a palm leaf fan in his hand, and the jamu was at his feet, but there was no brazier. Kancil looked at him in alarm. He nodded towards the fence. When Kancil peered into the darkness she could see a faint glow of burning charcoal – Kitchen Boy had lit the brazier far enough away that Big Uncle wouldn’t notice the heat or the smell of burning before he went to sleep.

  Kitchen Boy cocked his head towards the pavilion then shook his head – it wasn’t safe to assume Big Uncle was asleep. They waited, both of them nodding off at times, while Big Uncle tossed and turned above them. Finally, he was snoring and Kitchen Boy went to fetch the brazier. He had brought cloth pads to protect his hands from the hot earthenware and he carried the brazier with his good hand supporting the weight from underneath and his other hand holding it steady.

  He peered through the bamboo slats of the pavilion to check Big Uncle’s position, then he slipped under the floor to set up the brazier. Kancil followed him into the crawl space and watched while he got the jamu smoking. He used the palm leaf fan to direct the aroma up through the floor slats to Big Uncle’s nose.

  Kancil raised her head to speak through the floor, into Big Uncle’s ear. “There was once a peaceful village in the heart of the Mataram lands,” she began. She spoke in her best Jawa language and made her voice as deep as possible. She reasoned that Big Uncle would be more likely to believe his “vision” if it didn’t have the voice of a young girl.

  “The good Bapak Thani of the village had a loyal wife and a beautiful daughter,” she continued, avoiding Kitchen Boy’s eye for fear she would start giggling. “He was a good and just Bapak Thani and when word came that a new prince would soon arrive to reclaim the region for the Majapahit Kingdom, he saw a chance to rid his village of the bandits that roamed the forest and goaded the volcano, Mbah Merapi, into vengeful acts of rage. Yet unbeknown to the good Bapak Thani, the prince was not what he seemed …”

  Kancil kept talking, reciting the script she had been preparing in her head all afternoon. Her story laid bare the truth about the prince and the scoundre
l and their plots to retrieve the gold and send the villagers to their deaths. “… Then a spirit spoke to the Bapak Thani in the night and in the morning he knew he must stop the wedding.”

  Kancil wasn’t confident that Big Uncle would think of a way to stop the wedding and expose the bandits on his own. Yet, none of the village elders had struck her as particularly good at directing him either. Then she thought of the dalang. Could the puppet master direct Big Uncle as skilfully as he directed a shadow play? She remembered the way Dalang Mulyo had nodded to her that night before the wayang performance and decided she had to trust him.

  “To find a way to expose the bandits he sought the advice of the wise dalang,” she finished, her voice hoarse.

  Now she sat back on her heels and massaged her temples. Kitchen Boy kept fanning the smoke up through the bamboo slats until the last of the jamu was reduced to dust. He smothered the coals with a handful of dirt then eased over and put his lips to Kancil’s ear. “He’s not snoring,” he whispered.

  It was true. Kancil hadn’t noticed; she was concentrating so hard on getting her story right. Was he awake? They sat silently for what seemed like forever, hardly daring to breathe, waiting. Finally, the floor creaked as Big Uncle rolled over. He started to snore. Kancil and Kitchen Boy both sighed with relief and didn’t waste any time getting out from under the pavilion.

  Kitchen Boy scooped up the brazier and darted down the dark path to dispose of the evidence down the kitchen drain. Kancil hobbled across the courtyard – the unnatural position she had held to talk through the floor was causing spasms to charge up and down her back. When she reached the shadows near the verandah she straightened up to ease the pain and there, stretched out on the verandah daybed, was Citra.

  Their eyes met. Kancil’s first instinct was to duck her head and scurry away but she stopped herself. Instead she held her cousin’s gaze. “I told him the truth,” she murmured. “It’s up to him now.” For a moment, Citra looked taken aback. Then she raised her chin to look down on her cousin with her usual haughty scowl before turning her back and lying down with her face to the wall.

  Sleep would not come to Kancil that night. She lay staring into the blackness and when the blackness gave way to faint, pre-dawn outlines she gave up on sleep, rolled off the sleeping mat and went to the kitchen.

  “Citra saw us,” she murmured to Kitchen Boy when he came in with the rice.

  “I know,” he nodded. “Don’t worry. You did everything you could do.” He left the rice and walked towards the front of the house to join the men for the tiger hunt. Kancil felt let down. She wanted Kitchen Boy’s reassurance but he seemed just as despondent as her.

  Kancil had hulled the rice, lit the fire and swept the kitchen when she heard the sound of men chanting loudly and beating drums at the front of the house, making themselves brave with a big show of noise. She listened as they moved down the path to the north pendopo and beyond the north gate, leaving the village feeling eerily quiet.

  Bibi arrived and for once, Kancil found her grumbling and stick-thumping comforting. If Citra had betrayed them, then Bibi would have been crowing.

  “They expect a feast, of course,” Bibi huffed, “to celebrate if they catch a tiger and to take their minds off their failure if they don’t. So get to it, you lazy bint – those coconuts won’t grate themselves. Now where’s that girl of mine?”

  She turned towards the kitchen door to yell for Ida but stopped in her tracks when, instead of Ida, she saw Citra.

  “Bibi, I have a headache. Make me some ginger tea. I’ll be in the pavilion,” said Citra.

  “Of course, Miss Citra,” Bibi replied.

  “Thank you,” Citra said softly. She was looking at Kancil.

  When Kancil took the ginger tea to her cousin in the pavilion, she found Mother there combing Big Aunt’s hair and tweaking out the grey strands. Mother looked surprised to see her. Big Aunt looked like she could smell a bad smell.

  “Massage my feet,” said Citra as Kancil slipped the teapot and cup onto the pavilion floor.

  Kancil kneeled on the step and took her cousin’s feet in her lap. Mother was smiling down at her. Clearly she thought this was a great improvement in her daughter’s status.

  “Mother, when I’m married, will I be a princess?” Citra asked.

  “You will be a highly respected lady,” Big Aunt replied.

  “But will I be a princess?”

  “That will be up to the royal family to decide. The important thing is that you will be married to a prince.”

  “And is that prince married to anyone else?” Citra asked.

  Big Aunt made an irritated noise in her throat. “You know the answer to that question. The princess died in childbirth.”

  “I know that. At least, I know what I’ve been told about that. That wasn’t my question. I want to know about other living wives.”

  “Bah! Such a selfish girl, always thinking of yourself!” said Big Aunt. “That is not for you to wonder about. Your father has made a decision for the good of your family and your village. It is not your place to ask questions.”

  “We only have his word though, don’t we?” Citra continued. “That he is who he says he is.”

  Big Aunt gasped at this. “He carries the Majapahit seal!” she exclaimed. “How dare you question a prince?”

  Citra looked down at Kancil with an expression that said “I tried”.

  Kancil bowed her head so her cousin wouldn’t see the expression on her own face. It said “If that’s the best you can do, then we’re all doomed”.

  You should be grateful, she reminded herself. Citra believes you, and Big Uncle didn’t throw you out of the village at dawn so either he believes you too or he slept through your performance. In any case, Kitchen Boy was right, you did what you could and now it’s up to Citra and Big Uncle to stop the prince.

  She was glad that her plan hadn’t yet proved a failure. However, she couldn’t help feeling disappointed that she hadn’t thought of a way to get hold of the tiger stone, if indeed it even existed.

  Her only chance of finding Agus now was to go to Pekalongan with the dalang’s troupe. Her plan had been to make herself indispensable to the pesinden singer so she would insist Dalang Mulyo took her with them, but she hadn’t seen the performers since the night of the wayang performance. She doubted the pesinden singer even remembered what she looked like.

  21

  THE TIGER HUNTERS

  The hunters returned in the late afternoon. Kancil was walking from the bathing pool when she heard the clang of Bibi’s cane on the iron pot, calling her back to the kitchen. She quickly wrung the water from her hair and coiled it into a knot at the nape of her neck, ready for work.

  “They want ginger tea,” Bibi said when Kancil entered. “Use the good palm sugar.” Two of the prince’s men came to the kitchen. Between them they carried a pole with the carcass of a young banteng steer strung to it. Several dead birds were tied by their feet to one end of the pole and the glossy pelts of two weasels hung at the other end. Kancil was relieved to see no mouse deer on the pole – that, she was sure, would have been a very bad omen.

  Bibi sniffed when she saw the meat. “No tiger then?” she asked.

  “Sadly no, dear Bibi,” Bapak Pohon chortled, as he followed the prince’s men up the path with his butchering knife. “That banteng will make a tasty satay, though, and the prince was quite taken by the weasels’ fur. Did you know that traders in Trowulan will pay a sack of rice for one pelt?”

  “Hmpf,” said Bibi, poking at the weasels with her stick. “Can’t eat fur and they’re scrawny little things.” She took hold of one of the birds, a fat pigeon, and inspected it carefully. “The birds are all right,” she admitted. “I guess there’ll be enough without sending the boy out to collect some bats. Where is he, anyway?”

  “Oh, he’s about,” Bapak Pohon said. He motioned to the men to hang the banteng steer on the butchering hook by the door.

  So Kitchen Boy was
all right. Though Kancil would have liked to be sure that “about” didn’t mean tied up somewhere being punished for his part in last night’s events. Despite Citra’s reaction, Kancil wasn’t confident that they had won Big Uncle over. There was no sign that the prince had fallen out of favour.

  When Kancil reached Big Uncle’s pendopo with the ginger tea, she found the prince seated on the heavy teak stool where Big Uncle usually sat. The parasol bearer sat behind him on the floor while Big Uncle and the other village elders were seated in a semicircle at the prince’s feet. Kancil grew more despondent as she listened to the men’s conversation. Any stiffness between the prince and her uncle had vanished. They joked together about the unsuccessful tiger hunt.

  “I suppose it was a foolish idea,” said the prince, “but I thank you all for humouring me. It is so rare that I have the opportunity to step down from my jempana and mix with ordinary people.”

  Kancil thought that Big Uncle would bristle at being called “ordinary”. Instead, he inclined his head as though acknowledging a compliment. Kancil now hoped that Big Uncle hadn’t heard her speaking the night before because if he had, he clearly hadn’t believed her and was probably just waiting for the prince to leave so he could wring her neck without causing a scene.

  “If you are troubled by tigers at the joglo, Your Highness,” said Bapak Iya, “we can always lay a trap at night. It is the, er, more usual way of dealing with them here.”

  “Thank you, my friend. That really won’t be necessary. It was the thrill of the chase that I craved. I have been so entranced by these inland forests and I thought a tiger would be a wonderful memento to take back to the capital. Never mind, I will be happy to settle for taking my beautiful bride with me.”

  An image of Citra trussed up on the hunters’ pole flashed into Kancil’s mind. She felt a stab of pity for her cousin.