by Toombs, Jane
Mingled with the cloying perfume of the tiny white flowers that bloomed only by moonlight, she smelled the foul odor of the canals that, here in Java, were not clean and fresh like those in Amsterdam.
The thud of her feet seemed louder and louder in the stillness—she could hear the sound over her gasping breath. Why did her soft-soled slippers make so much noise? An odd noise, too, now that she noticed it, almost as though she dragged one foot.
She couldn’t be making such a sound!
With a moan of fright, Romell glanced over her shoulder. Her cry caught in her throat. She stumbled, caught herself, but in that moment the dark figure behind her clutched her shoulder.
Before she could scream, an arm came about her neck, cutting off her breath, she struggled weakly, spent by her running, the arm tightened so her air was cut off. She choked and gagged, "Did you think to get away from me?" A man’s voice said.
Her heart seemed to burst with terror.
The voice was Pieter’s.
Chapter 19
When Romell came back to full awareness, she didn't know where she was. Her throat hurt and her head felt muzzy. She had a faint recollection of someone opening her mouth and forcing her to swallow a sweet syrup, then nothing. Why was a cloth gagging her?
She lay on a hard surface, jouncing this way and that, and for a moment she recalled the London vegetable cart with the onions. But London was in the past. She was—she was in Batavia. Yes, Batavia.
Hendrik. She'd been at Hendrik's party.
And then . . .
Romell tried to raise her hand to touch her throat and found she was bound with ropes. Why? Hendrik. The rock. Had she killed him? Was she a prisoner, on her way to the Castle to be hanged?
No, something else had happened. She’s been running, running in the dark, a man had caught her, had—
Pieter! Romell whimpered, her thoughts disrupted by panic. The Southland natives, the torture—how could Pieter be alive? She stared fearfully about. In the dim light she saw that she lay curled in a small cart. Inches from her face was a bamboo frame and baskets—she was covered by baskets stacked on the frame.
From the biting smell she knew they were pepper baskets, the kind the Javanese used to gather Matarem peppercorns. Romell tried to calm herself. Why was she hidden under these baskets? Her heart lurched. To get her past the guards at the gate of course. There'd be nothing unusual about a cart loaded with empty pepper baskets leaving the walled compound of Batavia.
Despite her fright and distress, Romell couldn't keep her eyes open. Though she fought to stay alert, her eyelids drooped closed. He made me drink poppy juice, she thought vaguely, as she drifted off to sleep.
When she next woke she was stiff and sore and very thirsty. The jolting of the cart had ceased. She heard the chatter of parakeets and the shrill sounds of insects, then the clicking of baskets hitting together as someone lifted them out of the cart. Soon she would see his hands and the sky, blue and cloudless.
A ghastly face bent over her, twisted by puckered scars. The only familiar feature was the one grey eye that stared down at her. Romell moaned in horror.
"I didn't mean to hurt you," Pieter said. It seemed beyond belief to hear his unchanged voice coming from that scarred face.
He lifted the bamboo frame from the cart and reached in to pluck her trussed body out. When she lay on the ground, he knelt beside her. Using a curved sword with a strange wavy blade, he cut the ropes that bound her and untied the scarf he'd used as a gag.
Romell tried to move and cried out in pain.
Slowly, patiently, Pieter helped her flex her arms and legs until she could stand without his support.
"I’m thirsty," she said, the words coming out in a whisper. Her mind seemed frozen into an uncomprehending submissiveness.
The water Pieter offered her eased her throat and she tried to push away from him, but she swayed and had to grasp his arm. Under her fingers his skin was hard and rough.
"They said you intended to marry him so I had to take you away in a hurry, you are mine—no other man’s."
Romell gathered her wits somewhat and looked about, they were alone on a narrow path. Behind them she saw long-legged white birds standing in what looked like a marsh. Pieter followed her gaze.
"Rice paddies," he said.
In the distance, the square tower of the Castle of the VOC rose behind the walls of Batavia.
Ahead of them the trail led into thick tangled growth where tall, exotic trees rose above the lush riot of green. To Romell’s left the cone of a mountain thrust into the sky, while to the right a small river flowed a sluggish brown. Her heart sank.
"Change your clothes," Pieter ordered.
Romell clung to the cart and tried to think what to do. It seemed wisest not to risk angering Pieter. When he handed her a length of batik, she took it and began to edge around to the other side of the cart.
"No, I want to see you," He said huskily. When she hesitated, he added, "Either take off the gown or I’ll do it for you."
Romell raised her chin and, not looking at him, began to undo the buttons of the white and silver gown, now sadly crumpled and torn as well as stained by dirt and Hendrik’s blood. She lifted the dress over her head and heard Pieter's sudden intake of breath. Grimly, she undid her petticoats and stepped out of them. She drew off her stockings.
"The shift too," Pieter said.
She flashed a quick, scornful look at him, then pulled her chemise over her head and stood naked before him, bracing herself for the unwelcome embrace she expected.
"As lovely as ever," Pieter said softly. "My beautiful Romellje."
He made no move to approach her. Surprised, she let several moments pass before reaching for the kain—the batik material—to fashion a sarong. The cloth was dyed in muted greens, with a pattern of trees and birds, and as she wound and draped the material she couldn't help admiring it.
When she was done, Pieter moved toward her and briefly stroked her bare shoulder. She saw, with dismay, that he had but three fingers on that hand.
"Now we shall live as natives together," he said.
She forced herself to look full at him, saw that though he wore a sailor's shirt, he too had on a batik sarong, fastened at his waist with a belt to which he'd attached the sheathed sword.
Touching the sword hilt he said, "This is a Javanese kris. Some are swords, some daggers. Either is supposed to be either good or evil, according to the spirit that lives within them. We shall see how mine behaves."
"Pieter, why have you brought me here?" Romell asked.
"Would you have come with me otherwise?"
She shook her head.
"So, you see, I acted as I had to." He lifted her into the cart and stacked the pepper baskets around her. "We must find shelter before nightfall," he said.
Instead of heading into the jungle, Pieter drove the bullock to the right, skirting a large expanse of muddy ground, and traveled parallel to the tropical forest.
"That rice paddy should mean a village nearby," Pieter said.
Romell saw the tops of the rice plants above the mud and water. A large blue lizard scrambled from under the bullock's hooves and slid over the raised bank of the paddy to disappear into the water. A violent screeching from the jungle made Romell start.
"Monkeys," Pieter said reassuringly.
She crouched in the cart, staring at the mass of tangled green to her left, remembering how—only days before—she'd begged Hendrik to take her beyond the city walls.
"Nothing but tigers," he'd said. 'Tigers and snakes." She swallowed apprehensively.
The cart rounded a turn, and Romell saw a group of thatched huts built under tall waringin trees. Romell counted six huts, all made of bamboo, with open doors. Beside the huts ran the red-brown stream. Naked children playing in the water spotted the cart and ran, shouting, toward the huts.
If I can make them understand I'm Pieter's captive, perhaps these village people will help me, Romell thought,
her spirits lifting. She reviewed her small stock of Javanese words, finding none to describe her situation, but still hoping that, with the aid of gestures, the Javanese would be able to comprehend.
Soon the village men clustered about them, trying to be polite since courteousness was adat, or of ancient custom, among the Javanese. At the same time, the men were curious about this scar-faced Orang-Blanda—man-blonde—this Dutchman and his baboo, his woman.
Romell edged closer to a group of women and spoke softly to them in Javanese. They giggled shyly, but she saw no sign that they understood her.
One of the women touched Romell’s hair, "Api," she said shyly. The word meant fire.
The women stared at her and giggled. At last, sighing, Romell gave up and, since she was hungry, accepted the rice they offered her and a pear-shaped pink fruit she'd never seen before, which the women called jalas.
When it grew dark, they were shown to a hut and left alone. As she lay on a mat next to Pieter, Romell waited apprehensively for him to touch her. But he kept shaking his head, muttering incoherent words. Then he thrashed on the mat, almost as if unconscious. Suddenly, he was still. She soon heard his deep breathing and knew he slept.
She lay awake for some time, wondering how she could escape. Useless to creep from the hut now, she was among people who couldn't help her, and where could she go alone in the night?
Pieter must have planned her capture very carefully. The bamboo frame had been made ahead of time to fit over her in the cart. He'd had the pepper baskets, the cart, and the bullock ready, as well as the poppy juice he'd drugged her with. How long had he watched and followed her before his chance came? His determination chilled her.
The next day, Pieter led her from the village into the jungle. He'd traded the cart and the bullock to the Javanese villagers, receiving fiber sandals and food in return. One of the women had given Romell a green silk scarf, which she wrapped about her hair.
The vegetation closed around them as soon as they stepped into the jungle, enfolding them in a damp, cathedral-like gloom. The towering trunks of huge trees rose like stately columns through the growth above their heads, growth that was a living canopy of vines and strange outsized plants. One tree grew in the heart of a different species, the parasitic tree sending down thick, trunklike roots to enclose its host, as though imprisoning it.
Though gloomy, the jungle was far from silent. Romell heard the fearful screeching of the previous day, and suddenly a group of brown and tan monkeys swung into view, traveling hand over hand above her head along the climbing lianas. They followed Romell and Pieter, chattering loudly. Other shrieks and shrill whistles were the calls of birds, Pieter told her.
"Where are you taking me?" she asked.
"To the mountains. The air is better there and we'll be far from the soldiers at Batavia."
"But how will we live?"
"Food is everywhere in this land, and a hut is easy to build." He took her hand in his three-fingered one and she repressed a shudder. "We will be very happy, once we're alone together."
Later in the morning, he slashed the stem of a bunch of bananas from a bushlike palm tree, and they sat and feasted on the rich, creamy flesh of the tiny yellow fruit. Pieter gave her a drink from his water bag and, after a short rest, they traveled on. Romell noticed that Pieter seemed to tire as quickly as she did, although he tried to conceal this.
"How much farther?" she asked.
"Several days at least. I don't plan to have us found."
The unvarying dimness under the jungle canopy and the damp scent of rotting vegetation depressed Romell almost as much as Pieter's words. She'd never dare to slip away from him in this confusing mass of growth; she'd be lost forever. She wondered how Pieter found his way.
"Please take me back to Batavia," she begged. "This is madness."
"I'm not mad!" he shouted, startling her as well as a flock of yellow and green parakeets that rose, squawking, from a tree where they'd been feasting on bright orange fruit.
Their flight loosened a vine that undulated past Romell’s face. She flinched when she realized that it wasn't a vine but a thin green snake. She screamed and clutched at Pieter, who put his arm around her.
"I'll keep you safe," he told her. "Nothing will harm you."
"I don't like the jungle!" she cried. "It's like being trapped inside some huge beast."
"The faster we travel on, the sooner you'll be out," Pieter said.
By the time they stopped again, Romell was staggering with weariness. Pieter inspected the giant hollowed hole of a tree, poking inside with the point of his long curved kris until satisfied that nothing lurked within.
"A good place to spend the night," he said.
Nothing made any difference except sleep. Romell ate a little of the rice he handed her, untied the scarf from her head and wrapped it around her shoulders, then curled herself into the hollow, scarcely noticing the hush that had fallen on the jungle. She closed her eyes and had started to drift off into sleep when a burst of sound jerked her awake, a buzzing screech that swelled until she pressed her hands over her ears. As the sound gradually faded, Romell recognized it as a chorus of cicadas. How many there must be!
Pieter sat in the tree hollow with his back pressed against what remained of the trunk. However she felt about him, Romell was happy not to be alone. She closed her eyes again, slept, and awoke to darkness and a thin, high-pitched screaming and chattering high above her. From afar, an animal moaned three times, the middle note rising. Soon the moaning call was repeated, closer. The rhythmic piping of the tree frogs broke off, to resume only when the call ceased.
"A tiger," Pieter whispered into her ear and she jumped. "Be still. He's not hunting us."
Tiger! She'd seen a tiger skin at Hendrik's, tawny gold-orange with brown-black stripes, but had never seen the live beast. Tuan Matjan, the Javanese called him: Lord Tiger. She edged closer to Pieter and listened, but the tiger was silent, and finally Romell fell asleep again and didn't wake until dawn.
By midday they were out of the jungle, and Romell breathed a sigh of relief. Pieter pointed toward a mountain peak ahead and to the left. Like all of Java's mountains, it was the cone-shaped peak of a volcano.
"That's where we're headed," Pieter said. "When I came to Batavia on the ship, I picked out our mountain, and there it is."
Romell turned to face him, the sight of his scars no longer appalling to her. "How did you manage to get away from Southland?" she asked. "I didn't think you—well, I believed you were dying."
"I think I was dead for awhile, but God gave me another chance."
"To repent your sins?"
His one eye gleamed. "There is no sin! He allowed me the time to find you again, for we belong together."
Romell looked ahead to the mountain. Trees cloaked the lower half, but the cone rose sleek and stark. Smoke drifted from the top.
"When I was still alive at the end of the tribal corroboree," Pieter went on, "they brought me back to the coast as a slave. I found the raft and escaped. A Portuguese trader picked me up and brought me to Batavia."
"And now you think we can live on that mountain? See how it smokes! Surely living near it can't be safe."
"It's the one I choose," he said stubbornly. "We'll go there."
"Why won't you take me back?" she asked. "I don't want to be here with you—you've brought me by force. How can you say God intends such a thing?"
He grabbed her shoulders and shook her. "Be still! You're but a woman and know nothing of God and His designs."
The forest on the slopes of Pieter's mountain wasn't jungle-like, for the big trees grew farther apart and sun angled to the ground. But the sun encouraged smaller plants to grow, and the going was slow through the underbrush. Just before dusk, Pieter built a temporary shelter of brush between two boulders. Romell, exhausted, crawled inside, fell asleep and didn't rouse until the sky was pink with dawn.
Pieter, sitting outside the shelter, was intent on what he was
doing and only grunted in greeting when she appeared. To her surprise, she saw he had a stone spearhead, one he must have brought with him from Southland. He had affixed the head to a shaft of wood with long plant fibers. As Romell watched, he rose and tested the heft of the spear.
"They taught me to hunt with one," he said.
When they went on up the mountainside, he carried the spear.
In the afternoon they came across the remains of a village in an overgrown clearing. Pieter salvaged enough of the bamboo supports to fashion a new dwelling, then cut the long fronds of low-growing palms to make a roof.
"You can start a fire," he told her, handing over the flint. "I'll find meat to cook."
Romell watched Pieter disappear into the trees, then crouched near the hut and struck the flint so that any spark would fall onto the small heap of dry leaves she'd gathered. She tried not to think of how alone she was, how far from any other human being except Pieter. What if he didn't return? She bit her lip and concentrated on making the fire.
The three-foot lizard Pieter hauled back to her was blue and ugly, but its meat was tasty, something like chicken and better than the tiny lizards the natives of Southland caught.
The fiery sun plunged out of sight, and they sat in darkness with their little fire the only light. Pieter pulled her to her feet and into the hut.
"The first night in our new home," he said. "Take off your sarong, Romellje."
The dying fire at the hut's entrance, gave little light, but she saw he was already naked, the hideousness of his scars shadowed by darkness. Reluctantly, she undid the sarong, folded the material and set it aside. He pulled her down on the mat he'd made of leaves. His hands caressed her, stroking her gently, but she lay rigid, fearing his wild mutterings as much as his brute force.
Time passed. Pieter's wild injunctions to his god were replaced by a soft babble, broken now and again by a whimper. His body tightened, curled almost to protect itself from invisible forces pulling him apart. Forces of destiny, of retribution? Romell thought bitterly, but relaxed because Pieter had not made a move toward her.