The Sea Is Ours

by Jaymee Goh

  We spoke of what we loved about our homeland, and I was glad of her company. She was nothing like the cold girl from early that day, the one who had walked so stiffly.

  Boonluea was fond of me, promising me gifts of knowledge, glad that she had found someone whose mind was as curious as hers, even if I was a simple farm girl. At that last remark I decided to laugh at her, rather than with her. Still, I liked her soft voice, even if she did tease. My heart still ached for Khajee.

  The Lao commanders complimented us on the food we served for the evening meal. The stewed finger root, dried chilli, sliced vegetables and pork was so hot that it chased the rice into our mouths. We shared the same taste for boldly-flavored dishes which made the tongue burn and eyes water. People hardly noticed the insects which buzzed over through the air in the flickering shadow of firelight, releasing droplets of medicine into each Lao soldier’s portion of rice.

  Afterwards I sang with Boonluea under the starlight, our voices smooth and sweet like the rice wine we served to the Lao soldiers. It was past midnight, then, and the Lao men were delighted to find we knew some of the same songs.

  A woman’s words can never be trusted, a soldier sang. My heart thudded but my lips smiled. A blooming flower found far from its tree can hardly be named.

  This is what men think of us: that we change when out of their sight.

  As long as the jik tree has branches and the sugar palm has fronds, my promise shall never be broken, we sang in return. Lady Mo tilted her head and laughed.

  We implored the Lao soldiers to celebrate their victory, to dip their cups into the pot of wine again and again in triumph, leading them all in a dance farther and farther away from the camp.

  I kept my voice lifted in song and my feet light on the soft ground as we wove through the trees before fleeing, letting the dark claim me, hoping that Boonluea would join me. We left the soldiers to stumble about in the forest, knocking themselves over the cannons and carts they’d left there.

  Our men and women were waiting for them, monks and merchants, commoners and nobles alike.

  They sprung on soldiers with axes, hoes, cleavers, sharpened sticks, taking up arms which had slipped from the Lao soldiers’ grasps. Some of the Lao fled deep into the forest, others stayed and fought fiercely, dying in the shadows of the trees.

  Since that day I have seen worse violence, become inured to its existence. It is a means to an end. But that was the first day I had seen the slaughter of humans and it marked me for ever. Of course, I had seen animals killed, sometimes helping to butcher them myself and taking on the sin as part of my survival, but it was hard to cleave to those beliefs now. Here, there was only bloodlust. The battleground has its own rules.

  An explosion of white light and harsh noise blasted through the thick of the night. We turned as one to witness it, thudding hearts and rumbling echoes sounding in our ears.

  ~*~

  The evening breeze was a cool relief. Walking through the village, Kaew liked to snatch what news she could from the messengers and traders as they travelled across Siam. Paths through the country were easier nowadays, with better roads and small steamboats puttering through the many rivers. The village, though half-hidden, still saw visitors arrive at least monthly, drawn by the fine quality of the cotton cloth and rattan mats, the well-crafted knives.

  The farang seemed interested in more than trade, often being very chatty, though the white people’s attempts at her language and their general manners were so atrocious that she preferred to ignore them. Whether Portuget or Angrit, they had faces like soured pork, tongues which robbed speech of its natural music, and insisted on wearing shoes all the time.

  Instead of the tales of machines that Kaew wanted, the farang were very eager to tell the villagers so-called good news about Phra Yesu, lingering around and making offers to set up schools and teach their letters and their religion.

  “Betterment for the village, it would be for,” said a farang with eyes as dull as pickled fish. He had made extravagant hand gestures, of pushing forward, upward. Then he peered down at Kaew in a way which made her deeply uncomfortable. The farang seemed as tall as a sugar palm. Perhaps he was a hungry ghost.

  Kaew sighed. Like the rest of the village, Kaew paid her respects to Phra Phutta Chao and the many powers which inhabited the land. What else would a person ever need in this world? The succor of the luangpor and the bounty of Mae Posop and all the spirits of heaven and earth were more than enough. She found the farang’s presumptions insulting and their proffered gifts useless, and rankled at being told what was good for her.

  “If the farang at least offered information about their wondrous machines, then it wouldn’t be so tiresome,” Kaew had said to her mother before Amphon left for her latest trip. “They have airships. It wouldn’t matter if I had to learn their graceless scripts so long as knowledge about gears and bellows and steam filled my head.”

  Amphon silently noted Kaew’s interest in the possibilities of machinery, and said only, “There’s often poison in the gift, my child. Knowledge in particular often has a high cost. I hope you’ll know that we have much to be proud of, too.”

  Kaew stood before the new water tank. It was as tall as four elephants balanced on each other’s backs. She’d expected it to look more interesting, perhaps let off great puffs of steam and have excitingly complex, whirring parts.

  When Lek and Mali arrived, the girls spread a rattan mat on the ground and sat down to an evening meal of salt-crusted fish with rice, chatting idly about the day’s events: the sighting of a new steamboat, a neighbor’s cat giving birth, how the cotton crop was doing.

  Two engineers on secondment from the capital stumbled into the clearing, mildly drunk, boasting loudly about their project and bringing progress to the countryside. The girls ate their pearl-fleshed longan, unimpressed. Even when sober these engineers were exceptionally pleased—and more than a little smug, Kaew thought—with how well the tank caught and held so much of the rainfall in its dull metal belly. She’d glimpsed them striding about and jabbing at paper plans as they talked to the village headmen and headwomen. The tank performed much the same function as the old stone cistern but was considerably larger and made of a new metal compound which had been acquired through trade with the Angrit, which was exciting to the Krungthep people; they thought it generous to share it with us, so that we in return could put more rice in their bellies.

  Poison in the gift, Kaew thought. She spat out a longan seed, smooth against her lips.

  ~*~

  My heart may be stone now, but it beats a little faster when I remember the fourth day of the fourth month. It was the day when I knew Boonluea for what she is, the first of the many secrets she showed me about herself.

  The smoke from the explosion cleared. All was dark and quiet again, the air stilled with death. The Lao which had not died by our hand or caught in the explosion had fled into the forest.

  There was no glorious victory. It was simply that the violence had stopped, and there was nothing left to do but collect our dead and set out on the journey home, where things would never quite be the same.

  I saw, then, two tall handmaidens walking out of the forest, bearing a girl in their arms, a girl with soot-dulled skin and red open flesh. I saw her mother, Lady Mo, roaring in grief, refusing to let anyone else near her daughter, not even the healers or the monks, commanding people to stand back as they carried Boonluea back to her tent.

  I opened and closed my fists, breathed through my nose and out of my mouth. Later, I would learn that Boonluea had vexed the Lao soldiers as they tried to make use of their canons in the battle. She shouted a warning to our men and swung her flaming torch high, offering herself to the gunpowder.

  The dawn was pale gold. My entire self was in deep discomfort, ears ringing and head humming, skin sticky from a long day and night without washing. I had to go home. As I turned, thinking that I perhaps could find the other Khorat girls, I met one of Lady Mo’s handmaidens. Silent
ly she led me to her mistress.

  “Amphon, child, you did very well,” said Lady Mo, standing outside her tent. “Are you on your way home?” The tears had dried on her face. She seemed smugly knowing, somehow.

  “Yes, my lady.” I knew I should thank her, but the words wouldn’t come. She’d blasted open the gates of my world, shown me first-hand how violence and betrayal happened where before I’d only heard them as ideas gently spoken by my Aunt.

  Lady Mo tapped her belt. All the malaeng-yon were there, gleaming and perfect and still, merely a rich woman’s ornaments. “You will remember what we said, won’t you?” She spoke delicately as if she’d requested me to latch closed a shutter. I wondered who’d ever believe me if I told them of her tiny, whirring secrets.

  I nodded and said, “I am sorry for Boonluea.”

  Lady Mo looked at me. Behind us, people called to each other, weary and shaken, gathering up their belongings and thinking of the journey ahead, if it was safe to go back, if there was any shelter for them under the endless sky.

  Would Boonluea, would any of these people, have given me so much as a glance without the hand of war reaching for us?

  Within the tent there was a screen, and behind the screen there was a body that was once Boonluea.

  She lay as if asleep, arms straight at her sides, still wearing her chongkraben. Her lips were pale, she was bound together with bandages, chin to collarbone to waist, her chest was quiet. My knees gave and I slumped down beside her. I’d come to say good bye but only a whining sob came forth from my throat.

  “Why do you cry, clever farm girl?” said a soft, strange, creaking voice.

  I turned my eyes from my lap to Boonluea and stared, too shocked to speak.

  “Well, Amphon? Your voice is sweeter in song than accompanied by tears. It breaks my heart, which is no good, as it must be stout and strong for battle,” she said, soft and teasing.

  She bid me near and whispered to me her secret, then, of her part-clockwork self. Guiding my ear close to her chest she let me listen to the soft clicks and whirrs, the turning of the engine that was herself, a body which had been saved one from illness and again from war by Lady Mo.

  Boonluea had her own malaeng-yon. They scuttled about beneath her bandages, busily healing her copper heart and mulberry paper lungs. I fancied I could hear their whirring chatter.

  “It will be a while before I’m well again,” she said. “Mother was furious, at first, but I know she’s very proud of me. You will visit, won’t you?”

  I still could not speak.

  Lady Mo had her handmaidens accompany me. “Go home to your sisters,” she said. “Your village is safe. But you will not hide there, farm girl—I have so much to show you, Amphon. Rest for a week. Then you’ll return with my handmaidens to the city.”

  She was a woman whose heart’s fire could consume all, and she would have us know that this mastery of that flame—and of our lives where they overlapped with hers—was for the good of the world beneath her.

  ~*~

  Amphon came back to Nong Ngu Saeng Athit from the Krungthep capital with many secrets. One such secret had palm leaf pages containing the principles of making vast machine beasts and a blueprint for an Angrit airship. Of course, the capital would have the power and resources for a project of this scale. For this Amphon had played the role of lady-in-waiting to the wife of a chief engineer, a man so easy to fool due to his sheer arrogance. It had never occurred to them that betrayal was a possibility that might cost them. It was simply child’s play to secret away the documents and keep it warm in her pha sbai.

  It was time, she decided, to introduce Kaew to Lady Boonluea. Whether her daughter was interested in secrets or machines, she would surely be well-suited to the household. Amphon tucked the palm leaf treatise well away from the prying eyes of Jampa, who’d grown softer yet increasingly fretful and nosy as time passed.

  “Mother,” said Kaew one morning, sitting one step below Amphon, “I want to become a chang sin. I want to draw.” There. She’d said it.

  She looked away for a moment, frowning, then turned back to watch her mother carefully.

  Amphon unstoppered a tiny bottle and smoothed thanee oil through her hair. “Oh? What do you like to draw, Amphon? Women, elephants, tewada?” Her voice was affectionate, carefully interested.

  Kaew began to draw in the dirt while Amphon watched. Her breath in her chest was shaky but her lines were precise, describing the great proud-crested nak she’d dreamed of, marking out the cockpit as seen through its great windowed eyes.

  When she looked up again, Kaew saw something in her mother’s eyes which terrified and delighted her, a shrewd calculating look and genuine happiness.

  “My child, my dearest Kaew, light of my eyes, come here. I have an idea for you.” She took out the treatise from its hiding place and showed it to her daughter.

  “You have so much to learn,” Amphon said as Kaew lightly ran her fingers over the surface of each page, fluttering over the letters, reverently opening and closing the book.

  She turned to her mother, the woman with the eyes that saw so many things, hands which were so deft at the loom, a heart packed tight with so many secrets.

  Amphon breathed deeply and began to sing.

  About the Authors

  Marilag Angway prefers her steampunk taking place in the skies as often as possible, though is not opposed to a good romp on terrestrial territory. She’s a writer of science fiction and fantasy and occasionally dabbles in horror and humor (though success at the latter remains to be seen). Her stories can be found in various anthologies, including those published by Bards and Sages Publishing, Hadley Rille Books, Deepwood Publishing, and Ticonderoga Publications. When she’s not writing, she’s devising lesson plans and activities for a diverse group of rambunctious three-year-olds who she hopes will someday become avid readers of fantasy and science fiction. For her random book and overall nerdish musings, check out her blog at http://storyandsomnomancy.wordpress.com. Don’t forget to grab a cookie and a cup of tea on your way out!

  Paolo Chikiamco is a Manila-based, Filipino writer whose interests include prose, comics, and interactive fiction. He’s the Managing Editor of Studio Salimbal (SalimbalComics.com), a Filipino comics studio, and runs the Rocket Kapre blog (RocketKapre.com) to host news and resources about Philippine speculative fiction. He has edited Alternative Alamat, an anthology of stories that re-imagine Philippine mythology, and Kwentillion, a young-adult focused comics magazine. His fiction has been published in venues such as Scheherazade’s Façade, Philippine Genre Stories, Steampunk III: Steampunk Revolution, Lauriat, and the Philippine Speculative Fiction series. He has also written comics such as High Society, Mythspace (a series which uses Philippine folklore as the basis for a space opera tale), as well as an interactive wrestling novel for Choice of Games called Slammed! (choiceofgames.com/slammed/) You can find him on Twitter as @anitero.

  Timothy James M. Dimacali is a Filipino science fiction author and the Science and Technology Editor of a major Philippine media network. His short fiction “Skygypsies” appears as required reading in select Philippine high school and college English classes, and has since been adapted into a comic book (available for free at Flipreads.com). TJ is also the president of the IT Journalists Association of the Philippines. You can follow him on Twitter: @tjdimacali.

  L.L. Hill’s fiction has appeared in Third Flatiron ‘Fire’ Anthology (Pushcart nomination,) Domain SF, Hello Horror, and others. Her poetry has been published in Scifaikuest, the Fib Review, Haiga Online, Haibun Today, and others. L.L. Hill’s writing explores relationships in worlds old and new primarily in the genres of horror and fantasy. Her first Steampunk piece, the inspiration for “Ordained” came from Phu Phra Bat National Historic Park and the adjacent Mekong River area of Nong Khai, which she visited in October 2012. www.lauraleehill.com

  Alessa Hinlo writes fiction that spans the thriller, fantasy, and horror genres. Born in the Philippines and raised i
n Northern VA, she’s most interested in stories that reflect the push and pull of conflicting cultures and feature people who fall into the spaces between. Her other interests include vegetable gardening, crafting, and yoga. She tweets regularly at @alessahinlo.

  Olivia Ho is a writer born and based in Singapore. She studied English Literature at University College London and has just graduated from the University of Edinburgh with a Masters in Literature and Modernity. She owes the inspiration for her work to her parents—her mother, who taught her how to love the history of her island, and her father, whose idea of steampunk is “KILLER ROBOT SAMSUI WOMEN.” Besides writing, her other random talents include Arabic belly-dance, stage management, and knitting, and perhaps one day all three at the same time.

  Robert Liow, also known as Robert Bivouac, is a Chinese-Malaysian writer currently living in Singapore. An advocate for racial justice and diversity in media, he writes fiction, poetry, and critique from the perspective of a non-Western man of color in a heavily Westernized nation. He has appeared in the inaugural Singapore Poetry Writing Month (“SingPoWriMo”) anthology and several publications by Singapore’s Creative Arts Programme. He will be reading Law at King’s College, London, from 2015 to 2018.

  Pear Nuallak was born in South London to two Bangkokian artists. They studied History of Art jointly with SOAS and UCL, University of London, focusing on Thai Buddhist art, hybridity, globalization, and postcoloniality. Since then, they’ve been an office dogsbody, a community volunteer, a babysitter, home-maker, and now a writer. They are interested in food, fiction, disruptive domesticity, and textiles. They may be found on a sofa in North London, having opinions while knitting.

  Ivanna S. Mendels writes fantasy, science fiction, and steampunk, even children’s picture books. Her Opera Dinosaur book was published in France and another of her Asian steampunk short will soon be published in Indonesia. Having lived and backpacked around the world, her adventures often inspired her writings. She is also secretly obsessed with Alfred Russel Wallace, and hopes to follow his trail one of these days. Her steampunk stories are partly influenced by Wallace’s descriptions of South East Asia in his books. Ivanna is currently working on another joined project with some of her Indonesian Nanowrimo friends. You can follow her twitter at @wulfettenoire