by Tash Aw
The countryside melted and shimmered in the sun. Encased in our motorised black coffin, we wound our way steadily to the coast. The sound of the car’s engine filled our world. I wished someone would speak. Mamoru and Honey remained absolutely still in the front, looking for all the world like two mechanised beings. Occasionally Mamoru would smooth the folds of the map; he would look down to check our progress and then wordlessly return his gaze to the road in front of him. On one occasion the light played tricks on my eyes: in the windscreen I saw his face smiling at me. I do not know how his image came to be reflected so strangely, and I looked away. I wanted him to speak to me, but he did not. No one was speaking—Johnny remained entrenched in his sulk, his body twisted away from me.
“Look,” I whispered to Peter. “There it is.”
“What?” he said, rousing himself from his stupor. He kept his voice down, as if I had included him in some conspiracy.
“Kellie’s Castle.” It was barely discernible, a few patches of red-coloured stone amidst the dark green of the jungle.
“My goodness,” he breathed, leaning in close to me to catch a better view.
“Is it what you expected?”
“I had visions of something grander. Something bigger. It’s difficult to see it clearly from here. Did hundreds of coolies really die building it?” He sounded thrilled at the possibility.
“So the story goes. There was an outbreak of malaria. The Scottish planter who built it lost his wife and child, and then he went mad.”
“How wonderful. Can you imagine being one of these madmen fifty years ago, arriving in the tropics with nothing but an untrammelled imagination and all of the jungle before them? They built the most bizarre monument and no one questioned their taste. It was as if everyone lost their sense of aesthetics. Look at that, isn’t it beautifully revolting? I must say, though, that it doesn’t seem very scary for a cursed castle. But at least it’s there. It exists.”
I laughed. “Did you think it was a myth?”
“Yes. Rather like those beautiful women who haunt these roads preying on lone male travellers.” His face shone with a certain liveliness, rosy and childlike, as he squinted at the castle. He spoke in a quick, breathless voice, never breaking out of a whisper.
“Pontianak, you mean,” I said. “How do you know they are a myth?”
He covered his mouth to hush a giggle. “What are they, anyway?”
“The ghosts of young women—girls—who commit suicide after having babies out of wedlock. They exact their revenge on men because, after all, it was men who made them become what they are.”
“Not just men—women too. All of society.”
“Yes, I suppose. But mainly men.”
He turned to me with mischievous, sparkly eyes. “Do you think,” he said, “that there will be violent objections if I put in a request for a detour? I want to get a closer look at the castle.”
Before I could say anything, he asked Honey and Mamoru if we could drive towards the castle.
“Don’t be bloody stupid,” Honey said. “We can’t miss our boat again.”
“Isn’t this trip meant to be a holiday?” Peter said.
“I’m sorry,” said Mamoru. “I am myself interested to see Kellie’s Castle, but we need to get to Tanjong Acheh quickly. There is only one boat a day to the islands. It makes the crossing at a specific time in the day.”
“Can’t we just pay someone to take us there? We don’t need to travel with the masses, do we?”
“That is what we are doing,” Honey said.
“A boat specially for us?” I said.
Honey nodded.
“I assumed we’d be on a ferry. Don’t other people go to the Seven Maidens?” Peter asked. “I thought it might be like Eastbourne in the summer.”
“The Seven Maidens are not well known,” said Mamoru. “Their beauty is, however, legendary.” He turned around to face us, and, I thought, looked directly at me.
“Wonderful. Yet another myth,” said Peter. “We haven’t a clue what’s in store for us.” He sank back into his seat.
“It was worth asking,” I said, reverting to a whisper.
He did not seem remotely perturbed by the rejection of his request. “It’s always worth asking.” He laughed.
We turned back to look at the castle but it had disappeared. “Where is it?” Peter said. “I could have sworn it was just there, in the dip below that hill.”
“No it wasn’t, it was over there,” I said. I could not tell where anything was anymore. The castle had vanished from our sight, and we continued to drive on.
The jungle gave way to tawny, parched grassland and coconut trees. Streams of murky, brackish water cut across the road, and we went over wooden bridges that trembled under the weight of the car. We drew into Tanjong Acheh late in the afternoon. The collection of wooden huts and fishermen’s shacks that formed the town stretched a few hundred yards along the coast. We slowed to walking pace, the car’s engine rattling unhappily. On either side of the street, the shacks appeared empty. Their windows and doors were shut, giving the impression of a town long deserted. One house bore a painted sign on its façade. The words were faded, bleached by the sun and salt, but I could discern from the outline of a bottle and the remains of “Fraser & Neave” that it must once have been the coffee shop where the local population congregated for cold drinks in the afternoon and coffee in the evening. I listened for the sound of children’s laughter, dogs barking, or chickens squabbling, but I heard nothing.
“Do you think everyone’s asleep?” Peter said, checking his watch. “A bit late in the day for a siesta, isn’t it?”
“It’s a fishing village,” Honey said. “They’re probably out to sea.”
“Even the women?” I asked.
Johnny said, “In places like these—poor rural areas—women have to work too. There are many female fishermen.”
“Yes, I have seen them,” Mamoru said. “However, I thought that fishing boats went out to sea in the evening. They usually arrive home in the mornings, unload their catch, and then rest during the day. One can see them dotting the coastline at dawn. In a small bay such as this, their lights resemble fireflies in a jar.”
“You’ve been around a bit, haven’t you?” Peter said. “Very observant too, I must say.”
Mamoru laughed. “I’m simply a tourist,” he said, “with an academic’s eye.”
“Yes,” said Peter, “an academic’s eye.”
“That is why I find it somewhat puzzling that the boats are not here at this time of the day,” Mamoru said. “Perhaps fishermen’s routines and practises vary from place to place. The tide may behave differently here.”
“I don’t know why, but I got the impression you’ve been here before,” Peter said.
“No,” Mamoru said, turning around to look at him. “I have not.”
The road curved to a stop at a broken-down pier. A single boat bobbed gently by the jetty. It was a large boat, forty feet long perhaps, with a cabin built on its deck. Its hull, once bright green, was clad in cracked, peeling paint; a dried-out tangle of netting stretched along one side of the deck.
“There she is,” Honey said.
“What, that wreck?” Peter said, his voice rising an octave.
“Well, there isn’t another bloody boat around, is there?” Honey snapped.
We got out of the car and stood looking at the boat.
“Where’s our ferryman?” Peter demanded. “Please tell me we’re not going to attempt this stygian crossing ourselves.”
“For goodness’ sake, be quiet. The owner of this boat is meant to be here,” Honey said. “We’ve made arrangements for him to take us to the Seven Maidens. He’s obviously been delayed. He’ll be here sooner or later, I expect.”
“You made the arrangements, did you?” said Peter. “Congratulations on a job well done. If you think we’re willing to entrust our lives to a drunken maniac on a sinking tin like that, think again.”
&n
bsp; “Peter,” I said quietly and touched his elbow. The last thing we needed was another row. Mercifully, he seemed to take the hint.
We looked around us. Nothing stirred.
“I suggest we begin loading our things onto the boat,” Mamoru said. “That way we will be ready to leave when the boatman arrives.”
The boat was deceptively spacious. As I descended the steep, narrow steps that led below deck, I was, in truth, slightly concerned about sleeping arrangements. If we were to spend any length of time on this boat, the lack of space meant that I would be sleeping (and dressing and washing) in the company of three men other than my husband. I was not sure I could do it. My fears were partly allayed when I saw that the area below deck was roomy and sensibly arranged, with a small partition which afforded some measure of privacy. There were three small beds, arranged at right angles to one another, a tiny cabinet, and a table and chair. There were no portholes (as I imagined all boats had), or any mirrors, but there was still enough light from the stair hatch to make the dimness acceptable. It smelt of camphor and damp, but was otherwise clean.
I was relieved, too, when Mamoru told me that only Johnny and I would be down below deck; the others would be sleeping above board.
“This isn’t exactly le Normandie, is it?” said Peter, as he helped me carry my things to my bunk.
“It’ll do.” I laughed.
“Are you sure you’ll be alright, Snow?” he said.
“What you mean to say is that a spoilt, delicate woman like me is not accustomed to surroundings such as these,” I said.
“Not at all,” he said, stuttering a little. “Not at all. I just wanted to make sure you were comfortable.” He seemed somewhat hurt.
“I’m more durable than you think, Peter,” I said. I must confess that I allowed my annoyance to show in my voice.
I began unpacking my things. My first thought was for this diary—now that we are on a boat, I am worried that it may get wet or become infected by damp rot. Johnny came into the cabin and dropped his bags on his bed. He left without speaking to me. A while later Mamoru appeared. He came halfway down the stairs but did not descend properly into the cabin.
“You must be tired from the drive today. I must admit to being somewhat fatigued myself,” he said.
I smiled. “I’m fine, Mamoru. Glad for a rest, certainly, but I’m fine.”
“I’m sorry, this”—he waved a hand at the cabin—“this is not luxurious, but we shall not be on this boat for long. If the boatman arrives soon, we will not even pass a single night here.”
“You sound as if you are apologising. Please don’t—it’s not your fault. You’ve had nothing to do with this.”
“Promise you’ll tell me if you need anything?”
I nodded.
When he had gone I found a piece of wax cloth in Johnny’s things. I placed it on the tiny table next to the bed and set my diary on it. I have been writing ever since. When I finish I shall wrap the diary in the wax cloth, where it will be safe from the sea and all the things that lurk in its depths.
Later—by a kerosene lamp Mamoru brought for me
WHEN I EMERGED on deck it was still light. The men were squabbling and there was no sign of the boatman.
“Yes! We have no bananas,” Peter sang in a child’s taunting wail, “we have no bananas or boatman today.”
“It isn’t my fault,” Honey protested. He was standing at the side of the boat, squinting into the distance, searching for signs of life in the still-deserted town. “What do you expect of the natives?”
“I expect them to be well trained and utterly compliant,” said Peter. “Isn’t that what I’m expected to expect?”
“What?”
“Look, it doesn’t matter. The fact is, we have a boat but no boatman. How on earth are we to get to the Seven Maidens by nightfall?”
“I don’t know,” Honey said, seemingly defeated by Peter’s logic.
“Well, you made the arrangements.”
“I did not. Besides, the professor has a plan.”
Mamoru had been lifting up boards and shifting boxes to inspect various parts of the machinery. “The Seven Maidens,” he said calmly, his voice full of quiet authority, “are not far from the coast. The Straits of Malacca are some of the smoothest waters in the world. We will be able to navigate our way to the islands without the boatman. I am certain of it.”
“I didn’t know you were good with boats, Mamoru,” I said. “You seem very confident of getting us there.”
“Oh, I’m sure Professor Kunichika has plenty of little tricks up his sleeve,” said Peter. “His sense of direction is quite extraordinary, isn’t it? Especially for an academic.”
“Actually, I have brought with me some rudimentary nautical maps. I have nothing beyond these—and a foolhardy sense of confidence, of course.”
“No one knows where the Seven Maidens are. Only fishermen go there, only they know the way,” Honey said quietly. “Still, I’m sure the professor will get us there.” His voice faded even as he spoke, as if he had resigned himself to what lay ahead.
“There was an expedition two years ago,” said Mamoru. “Well, actually it was more a field trip made by amateurs not unlike us. That is how these maps exist—they are less detailed than one might expect, but I have no reason to believe they are not accurate.”
“He’s right. People bang on about the Seven Maidens all the time—I mean our people, Honey,” said Peter. “Surely you’ve heard them at the club. Botanists, entomologists, deranged lepidopterists, avian-minded planters from Norfolk, Oxford historians manqué—they all chatter endlessly about the Seven Maidens.”
“Yes, but I don’t think that anyone believes they are real,” said Honey. “Not truly. That’s why all you ever hear is how two of the Maidens disappear at high tide, how they were formed from the bodies of murdered princesses. It’s the stuff of local legends. Anyway, none of this matters. We’ve got to go now. We’ve no choice.”
“They exist, of that I am certain,” said Mamoru. “The maps indicate that the journey should take no longer than three hours. These fishing boats are not equipped for long journeys. Look at this thing. Fifty nautical miles would be the standard range for such a vessel. A hundred would be far beyond its capabilities. Local fishermen do not travel great distances. Their fishing patterns are seasonal and easily affected by weather conditions. They would not venture far from home. If the Seven Maidens are within their fishing territory, then we should easily be able to reach them in time to strike camp tonight.”
“Of course the islands exist,” I added. “Everyone who lives in the Valley knows of them. They’re famous.”
Peter shrugged. “The professor seems to have everything covered,” he said.
“Besides,” Mamoru continued, “Johnny’s knowledge of the coastline will stand us in good stead. We have already been witness to his excellent navigational skills.”
Johnny was sitting cross-legged against the little shack. “I do not know the sea,” he said. “I cannot swim.”
Nor can I, I thought to myself. I did not mention this, though, for fear of appearing timid and hesitant. I did not want Mamoru to think that I would shrink from adventure.
The boat undulated gently under our feet as we stood in silence. Mamoru looked at me to see if I was worried or upset by this proposed journey. I saw no trace of fear in his face, and I smiled my approval in return. The slow rocking movement of the waves induced a curious sensation in my head, and I felt as if I would swoon. I sat down on a wooden bench nearby and shut my eyes.
No one spoke, but all the sounds I heard indicated only one thing: no one opposed Mamoru. We were going to the Seven Maidens on our own.
17th October 1941
OUR SPIRITS LIFTED as soon as we set off. The light had started to fade, but we were not concerned. The steady rhythm of the boat as it cut through the water, rising and falling over the occasional wave, was thrilling to me. I could tell from the way Johnny and Peter sat
—side by side, gazing quietly into the distance like a pair of hypnotised children—that they were happy too. I stood next to Mamoru as he steered, looking out at the open waters beyond the stern. Only Honey seemed unsettled. He examined the maps, frowning deeply.
“Don’t worry, Frederick,” I called out over the noise of the wind and the motor, “we’ll be fine.” I was (and am) convinced that Mamoru would guide us safely to our destination.
“Look at the amber sky,” Mamoru said, turning to look at me.
“And the sea too,” I added. The deep colours of the fading sun spread in streaks across the waters on the horizon.
“Do you believe in God?” he asked.
I shook my head. “I don’t know. Do you?”
“No,” he said, “although at a time like this, in a place such as this, I am not so sure. All my beliefs are ill-founded, all my convictions weak. Yet I feel strangely alive. Funny, isn’t it?”
“Not at all,” I said. The wind continued to sweep through my hair. I made no attempt to smooth it away from my face as I had done earlier, but instead enjoyed the sensation of knowing that here, in the open seas, no one would comment on my appearance. I lifted my chin and allowed the breeze to cool my neck. I felt whispers of wind on my collarbone, and I breathed deeply. Johnny and Peter remained silent and transfixed, staring at the setting sun. I put my hand on Mamoru’s. His skin was taut and cool. He continued to look into the distance, charting our course with an unwavering gaze. The corners of his eyes creased into tiny lines and his lips began to draw into a smile.
It is astonishing how much light there is at sea, even when it is dark. Night does not seem like night. The moon illuminates everything; it creates a white midnight. We ate simply, sitting in a small circle around some hurricane lamps.
“This is a lavish little picnic, isn’t it?” Peter said, reaching for another slice of tinned tongue. We opened tins of sardines, luncheon meat, dace, and pineapple. A bottle of whisky had also appeared and was being passed around. We had also brought bags of rice, ikan bilis, and groundnuts, and there were still some eggs from the guest house. We could not cook any of these things, however, because we could not find a stove.