Spirits of the Sun : What would you do for love?

Over 4,000 years ago, Malay and Javanese seafarers discovered the large tropical island of Sulawesi.

'MAP HERE'

They settled along the coast, where their tribes fished the pristine coral seas and hunted in the vast rainforests.

'MAP HERE'

These Malay and Javanese tribes first encountered each other in northern Sulawesi...

CHAPTER ONE 'Disturbance'

Melati keeps her eyes closed as she listens to the howling and screeching. When the noises fade away, she hears again the ceaseless chirping of crickets and croaking of frogs.

Nearby, a gecko breaks into its loud rasping call. She turns over and tries to focus on the soft rumbling coming from the beach, trying to let herself drift back to sleep – until the men start shouting.

She opens her eyes. Yellow candlelight flickers onto the four bamboo walls. She glances at the bolted door. Next, she checks the shutter is locked tight against the wall, and she remembers her mother’s instructions:

...Never open the shutter at night

The noises of the night are smothering the men’s words, but she can tell they’re angry.

...What’s happening?

She stands on her bed. On tiptoes, she holds onto a rafter and pulls herself up to peep through the ventilation gap. A gentle breeze smelling of wood smoke blows into her face, but all she can see are the overhanging eaves of nipa leaves. She lets herself down and turns to look at Sukma, who is still fast asleep on the other bed.

...Sukma can sleep through thunderstorms. If I’m quiet, I can open the shutter – just a bit so I can see.

Two thick mangrove-wood bolts hold the heavy wooden shutter against the wall. The first bolt Melati pulls up easily. But the second bolt has been wedged down tighter. ...It’s stuck. Gripping the shaft with both hands, she tries again, twisting and pulling up. The bolt lurches free with a clunk, and the shutter cracks open.

She glances at Sukma, who hasn’t moved. With her heart pounding, she pushes the bottom of the shutter, props it ajar, and peers out through the gap at the side.

In the village clearing, silhouettes of bare-chested tribesmen are moving in front of a blazing fire. A powerfully built man shakes a spear as he paces and rants. Another man, slimmer yet muscular, is standing, shouting, and jabbing a finger in the air. Several other men are also muttering grimly as they hunch on logs around the fire.

‘Mel?’

Oh, Spirits. She turns and stares.

‘You opened the shutter,’ says Sukma, sitting up on her bed. ‘That’s bad.’

‘Sssh, keep quiet.’

‘Why?’

‘My brothers are fighting.’

Sukma rolls off her bed. ‘Let me see.’

Melati shifts out of the way, then peers through the narrower part of the gap above Sukma’s head.

Now two more men are also shouting and stabbing the air with their fingers – as if they’re trying to goad her older brothers into attacking each other.

‘What’s it about?’ asks Sukma from below.

‘I don’t know. I just want them to stop.’

Another man, older and sinewy in outline, gets to his feet and throws something into the fire, making it flare up and cough orange sparks into the darkness. Almost at once, the younger men go quiet and stop gesticulating.

‘At last,’ she breathes. ‘Father called the Spirits.’

Now the men are all hunkering down around their fire.

‘The boat’s too big,’ says Sukma. ‘That’s why they’re jabbering – because it’s taking too long to make.’

Melati looks down through the strands of black hair blowing between them. ‘The boat has to be big.’

Sukma looks up. ‘But it’s too big.’

‘Suk, the boat has to be big enough for all of us.’

Sukma frowns and throws herself on the bed.

‘So why are they always jabbering?’

Melati doesn’t answer. Instead, she peers out through the gap. The smoke has changed from a wooden muskiness to an acrid smell, more like burnt honey. And the sandy ground appears a silvery colour while the shadows from the coconut palms are totally black. Pushing her head through the gap, she looks up. High above, the bright round face of Father Moon gazes down at her.

...Can you see my head poking out?

A gentle breeze brings freshness to her nose, and she turns her head. Through the tall thin trunks of the palms, she can see the moonlit waves rippling towards the beach. Every wave tries to keep going, but one after another they’re all defeated, curling and tumbling into luminescent surf, which churns and wriggles up the sand until finally giving up.

‘Mel?’ she hears, but pretends she hasn’t. ‘Mel, what are you doing?’ And then her hair is tugged.

She pulls her head inside. ‘What is it?’

Sukma is kneeling primly on the bed, her night-sarong arranged around her, and with her long straight shiny black hair parted perfectly in the middle. She continues combing and flicking hair behind her shoulders as she talks: ‘They’re taking ages to make that boat. It’s us girls who have to make all the rope, and we’ll have to make more tomorrow. Do you know how many husks there are?’

She knows there’s a big pile of coconut husks. But their mothers are doing the hardest job of beating the husks into fibres. ‘We only need to twist twine,’ she tells Sukma.

‘And we have to plait the twine into rope.’

‘We need to help. Everyone’s helping.’

‘I want to go fishing tomorrow.’

...It’s my fault – I woke her up.

Then she catches sight of a silhouette walking towards the house. ‘Sssh, they’re coming back.’

She dislodges the latch and pulls the shutter against the wall so Sukma can push down on the two bolts. At the sound of the front door being opened, they both jump back on their beds. She hears her father’s footsteps pause outside their bedroom door. Then he shuffles into the next room. But when the voices from the next room fall silent, Sukma starts pulling up the shutter bolts again.

‘Sssh, stop Suk.’

‘You opened it, didn’t you?’ says Sukma, tutting her tongue in mock disapproval. ‘Now I want to.’

‘Only if you don’t tell.’

‘I promise.’

‘Alright, just for a bit.’

Two men remain beside the fire. The others, including her brothers, have left for their houses.

‘Suk, there’s nothing to see now.’

Sukma skips across to peer out of the other side of the open shutter. ‘I want to see the new house.’

Melati follows, whispering, ‘Just for a little bit.’

Two shadows are moving under the eaves of a nearby house. And she can hear voices in conversation, blurred into an incomprehensible murmur by the preeping of crickets.

...It’s Bandri and Ayu, walking in front of a candle.

‘Alright,’ she whispers. ‘Let’s close the shutter now.’

‘Mel, it’s my turn. I want to watch some more.’

As she waits for Sukma to get bored, Melati turns and looks back into their own room. She sees two bamboo beds and between them a small wooden table – on which there is a clamshell with a beeswax candle, burning bravely beneath a fluttering of moths. There are also two storage hammocks hanging from the rafters. In her personal hammock, she can see her best sarong woven from soft banana fibres, which is folded neatly on top of her other possessions. On one wall, a display of white jasmine flowers has been hung to brighten the room, but there’s not much else.

Melati stirs her toes in the loose sand on the pebbled floor, thinking, I’m glad Sukma is allowed to share with me.

‘Mel, what are they doing?’

She peers out through the gap again. This time she sees only a single shadow, and the murmuring has stopped.

...Bandri and Ayu – maybe they’re hugging and kissing.

‘I don’t know,’ she says. ‘My brother was working on the boat today. I expect he’s tired and wants to sleep. And we must close the shutter now.’

Just then, they hear chuckling noises.

‘That’s him laughing,’ declares Sukma.

‘Sssh, be quiet.’

Next, she hears a faint creaking coming from the other house, telling her a bamboo bed is being sat on, or laid upon. She also hears giggling, then trickling and slushing sounds.

‘They’re drinking,’ she tells Sukma.

Sukma glances up and pouts.

‘That’s not drinking. That’s splashing.’

‘Alright, they’re washing.’

In addition to creaking, chuckling, giggling, washing, and indistinct tones of talking, they also hear other sounds…

...That one sounded like a slap.

Sukma gasps. ‘What’s that?’

‘Sssh, I don’t know – listen.’

Now she hears a sound like a slow sobbing.

She wipes away a trickle of perspiration. ...It’s so hot.

‘Mel, it sounds like he’s hurting her?’

‘No, he’s not,’ she tells Sukma. ‘He loves her. He’s always wanted Ayu to marry him.’

‘What’s he doing then?’

She pulls at her sarong, letting the breeze slip down.

‘I don’t know – listen.’

Her brother is now groaning as if he’s in pain.

...Ayu can’t hurt him. Or maybe she could – but why?

‘It sounds like she’s hurting him.’

‘My sister likes to tickle,’ whispers Sukma, looking up with her face serious. ‘She’s always tickling me. So, if she’s tickling, he’ll try and stop her.’

Melati tries to stifle her laughter, but lets out a snort.

Sukma sniggers, ‘You sound like a –’

She puts a hand over Sukma’s mouth. ‘Sssh, quiet.’

Sukma pulls the hand away.

Now there’s a strange repetitive creaking noise…

‘What are they doing?’ asks Sukma.

A sense of unease and guilt creeps over Melati.

...Whatever it is, I don’t like the sound of it.

‘We must lock the shutter.’

Two loud taps on the door.

She freezes – then terror takes hold.

...It’s Mother!

In a panic, they fumble with the latch and close the shutter, but the bolts refuse to slide down behind the wall.

‘Sssh, quick,’ she whispers.

They jump on their beds, pretending to be asleep. But her body is fully awake as she tries to lay silent and still her breathing. Two more taps and then her mother’s voice, quiet but menacing, comes from the door.

‘Can you hear me?’

‘Sorry,’ she answers, feigning sleepiness. ‘Sorry, I’m opening the door.’ She slides back the bolt and retreats.

The door opens – the gust dimming the candle.

When the flame flickers back into life, it lights the figure of her mother standing in the doorway, with yellow glinting off her big bronze earrings, her hair dishevelled, and her face suspicious. She goes straight to the shutter.

Her mother pushes the shutter ajar to move the latch, and pulls it back hard. Muttering, she hammers the two bolts down with her fist. Then she turns with a glower on her face and purposefully breathes in as she steps closer.

Melati curls into a foetal position. There’s a swish of air on her legs when the hem of her sarong is lifted, and then a stinging slap lands on her naked skin.

‘You know the shutter must be locked at night,’ her mother scolds. ‘You’re the eldest!’

‘Sorry. I’m sorry.’

Her mother slaps Sukma too, but not so hard, before rounding on Melati again, still seething.

‘You don’t know what’s out there – they’ll get in, and then we’ll all be sorry!’ Her mother snuffs out the candle with her fingers. ‘Your father will see you in the morning.’

With that, her mother departs to her bedroom, leaving the door open. Through the doorway, lit by the candle in the front room, she sees Harta sitting on his bed, smirking. She sticks her tongue out at her twin brother, pulls the door shut, bolting it, and then falls onto her bed, trying not to cry.

...Father will be angry and stop us sharing the room.

The room has dropped into darkness. But Father Moon is gently peeping in through tiny holes in the nipa roofing, making thin beams of milky white. Slivers of yellow peer over a wall and under the door. She sniffs back a runny nose, smelling the dull tones of wood smoke, seaweed, and dried fish, mixed with the sweeter perfume of night flowers.

‘It’s my fault, Suk. I love you.’

‘I love you too, Mel.’

Melati reaches out in the dark and finds the coconut shell floating in the water bucket. She dips it and brings the shell to her lips, letting water dribble over her cheeks as she drinks, then drops the empty shell back in the bucket.

Curling up on her bed, she listens.

The noises of the night unravel into the rolling surf, the thrumming insects, the frogs, the laughing geckos, and the animal calls from the forest. She concentrates on the howling and screeching – noises that now seem louder and closer. And she remembers her mother’s warning:

...You don’t know what’s out there – they’ll get in, and then we’ll all be sorry…

CHAPTER TWO 'Sarapan'

She wakes to the high-pitched song of a sunbird. Lying on her bed, she listens to the dawn chorus and the raucous calls of animals coming from the forest, steadily growing louder, as if they’re closing in on the house.

Now Melati hears the front door being unbolted.

...I must make the sarapan. She changes into her day-sarong, wrapping the fabric loosely around her tender palm-sized breasts. The red moon has arrived. She glances at Sukma who is still asleep, and unfettered by such concerns.

She removes the sticks of cinnamon from her pair of moccasin-like ‘kasuts’. She taps the first kasut upside-down, and an uninvited spider falls out and runs away. She taps the second kasut, and out drops a big red centipede with scurrying legs and angry-looking pincers. She splatters the venomous creature with the kasut.

‘Quiet,’ Sukma groans. ‘I want to sleep.’

Melati pulls on her kasuts. She stands up straight and pushes her hair behind her neck, then uses twine to create a thick wavy tail down her back. I’m ready. She opens the door, walks quickly through the front room past the sleeping sprawl of her brother, and out of the main door onto the verandah. The first purple light of the morning shows a dull-white beach of coral-sand stretching beyond the coconut palms. And she notices there are sand-tracks to the sea.

...Mother turtles have been laying their eggs.

Beyond the beach, out across the wide expanse of a dark bay, she sees the long darker shapes of two islands. And between the islands, there is a channel through which she glimpses the faint line of an ocean horizon.

But she doesn’t linger on the view. Instead, she ponders over what her father will do about last night. Smoke curls out from under the nipa roofing of the open kitchen beside their house. Father’s waiting for me. She takes in a deep breath and walks into the kitchen.

Her father is sitting on a high bench with his bare feet resting on a pile of coconut husks. He’s facing towards the forest and she can see the tattoo covering his bare back. Around his waist and thighs, he wears the men’s ‘celana’ garment. And between his knees, he’s gripping an arrow shaft as he binds on a feathered flight.

He shifts his body and turns towards her. He has grey hair, a grey goatee beard, and plenty of wrinkles. He’s told her the wrinkles come from work and too much laughter – but this morning he isn’t laughing.

She touches her forehead to the back of his lifted hand.

His voice is strained as he greets her.

‘Welcome to the morning, my beauty.’

...He must be angry, and I don’t want him to shout.

‘I’m sorry. It’s my fault about the shutter, not Suk’s.’

‘Why are the shutters locked?’ he asks as if she must know the answer.

‘Snakes,’ she says, because that’s what she’s always been told. ‘We must stop snakes getting in.’

‘Snakes – yes, snakes,’ her father says in a tone of sufferance. ‘I wish that was all.’

‘And scorpions,’ she says.

Her father doesn’t reply.

‘Cickaks are always inside,’ she says, thinking now about the geckos. But she doesn’t mind the noisy cickaks because they eat the ants and spiders.

Her father picks up the long bronze knife from the bench and trims the flights. He checks the sharpness of the stone arrowhead with a finger then slips the arrow into a quiver, which he ties on his left side. She keeps her eyes on him as he pushes the knife into a sheath at his waist. Then he stands up, his body lean with a wiry strength, and looks down at her with his eyebrows raised.

‘You’re growing up now,’ he says. ‘There are other animals you have to watch out for.’

She knows they always have to watch out for saltwater crocodiles crawling up from the river and mangrove swamp. Sometimes these horrible monsters try to get into the village.

‘Buaya?’ she says with a shudder. ‘But the buaya can’t climb through a shutter. Can they?’

‘My beauty,’ he says, with his brown eyes now twinkling. ‘I mean animals with two legs.’

He reaches out and hugs her. Pressed up against her father’s tall body, she becomes awkward. She puts her hands on his waist to hold him away, but rests them there. The hug feels comforting. He’s muscular beneath his weathered skin and smells of smoked fish. She looks up to study his face. His expression changes, his eyes appearing to glaze over – and he releases the hug.

‘We want you to be safe,’ he says.

‘What animals, Father?’

He picks up a large sea bass and slits open the stomach with a sharp seashell. She wonders why he doesn’t use the knife, but says nothing. While he does it, she selects a big oval banana leaf and arranges seaweed in the middle. Her father gives her the gutted fish. She lays it on the bed of seaweed, wraps it in the leaf and then binds the package with strips of nipa.

‘There’s a new village at Bitoi,’ he says, standing beside her at the hearth. ‘They’re Java…’

...His animals are Java people!

‘They’re not Malay,’ says her father. ‘They’re Java. Do you understand?’

Not understanding, she stares up into his face.

‘Their customs are different to ours,’ he tells her. ‘We don’t know what they’re going to do.’

‘What do you mean, Father?’

‘We have to be careful because…’ he says but stops mid-sentence. Instead, he picks up the wrapped fish and puts it on top of the embers. The green package starts smoking and sizzling. Her father sighs and looks at her now with eyes that penetrate. ‘They can try to steal you through the shutter. They could take you and Suk away.’

‘Take me and Suk away?’

‘Yes. The Java might get in and take you away.’

She brings her fingers to her face, wanting somehow to hide behind them. ‘Take us where?’

‘To the Java tribe,’ he tells her. ‘Taken away by Java men – you must understand – they might try to do it.’

‘Taken away by Java men?’

‘Yes. Taken away by Java men. So, you and Suk must keep the shutter locked. Do you understand?’

She stares at him, with fingers on her lips as she tries not to cry – but it feels like sand has blown into her eyes.

‘The shutter stays locked at night,’ he says again. ‘Do you understand now?’

‘Yes, Father. I’m sorry. Locked, I promise.’

He tugs gently on the hair trailing down her back, as if he’s trying to reassure her. Then he picks up his bow.

‘I’ll speak to your mother.’

Without looking back, he goes inside the house.

‘Get up, Harta!’ she hears him command in an angry voice. ‘Go and look after your sister.’

She brushes away her tears before her twin brother swaggers into the kitchen, wearing his usual dirty celana. He’s brought his bow and quiver with him. She turns away, intending to scrape the soft flesh from the inside of a young coconut her father had already split open.

‘You got it for opening the shutter,’ gloats Harta.

She focuses instead on the smouldering package her father has put on top of the embers. She picks up a twisted stick. Next, she holds the folded banana leaf and turns the sharp end of the stick through the layers until it pops out of the other side. She pulls out the stick and picks up a discarded arrow shaft to push through the hole.

‘Why do you always do that?’ her brother asks.

‘It’s easier,’ she says, still without looking at him.

She hears him scoff, but at least he’s not teasing her about the shutter. She makes a second hole, pushes through another arrow shaft, lifts the smoking package off the embers and rests the two shafts on stones.

‘Now it won’t burn,’ she says, standing up straight and turning to face her grinning brother.

...He smells – why doesn’t he wash?

Harta shrugs, then puts one hand on top of her head and moves it across to his forehead.

‘I’m taller than you now.’

‘I don’t care. Move, I’m making the sarapan,’ she tells him, pushing his bare chest – and he steps out of her way.

‘It’s easy to see you’re twins,’ says Sukma, arriving in the kitchen. ‘But he’s got a bent nose.’

When Harta dived into that rock pool three years ago, his nose got a slight kink. Her twin brother has her hair, thick black and wavy, although his is shorter. And they’re always told they have the same brown eyes.

‘I don’t want to look like you,’ he says and jumps up with both hands to grab hold of the joist above his head. ‘Why would I want to look like a girl?’ He lifts himself over the bench and lands on the other side.

She catches sight of his dirty feet with his long toenails and thinks about insulting him, but decides against it. ...I don’t want to argue – not today. She says nothing, until he takes the lid off the sandalwood pot and sticks his unwashed fingers into the honey.

‘Use this!’ she snaps, throwing a spoon at him.

Her brother snatches the bamboo utensil from the air.

‘Thank you, twin,’ he says, turning his back on her to watch the forest…

...Taken away by Java men!

Melati keeps remembering these words.

She washes her face and looks up at the sky.

There’s not a cloud in sight. Over the hills in the east, a streak burns along the tops of the trees like a white flame, then fans into purest yellows, blending into changing hues of blue reaching skywards overhead, until they purple in the west. And the dark bay is transforming into a gleaming expanse of liquid turquoise edged by white beaches and emerald green palms.

Birds are taking on their vivid plumage as they try to sing louder. Koel birds caw as if they’re quarrelling. Glossy black petrels squawk and poke hungrily about on the beach. The crickets are being challenged by the throbbing rasp from the cicadas. Long-tailed monkeys bicker as they scramble through nearby forest trees. And in the vast jungle beyond, a building cacophony welcomes the rising Sun.

...It’s going to be even hotter than yesterday.

Her mother walks into the verandah in her usual day-sarong, now fraying at the edges. Melati checks the lines on her mother’s forehead for a sign of her mood – which changes more often than the sea ebbs and flows.

...Mother looks calmer this morning.

‘I’m sorry,’ she says, hugging her mother. ‘We’ll keep the shutter closed at night. I promise.’

‘Our Spirit blesses you, daughter.’ Her mother returns the hug with a fierce strength, then she lets go and blesses Harta with her open palm on his head. ‘Bless you, son.’

Father joins them on the verandah. Facing the rising Sun, he kneels and closes his eyes. They do likewise and say together, ‘Welcome our Spirit, born from Mother Earth.’

This is a familiar routine. But this morning it occurs to her she doesn’t understand how the Sun Spirit is born.

Melati ponders on this topic. And a little later, as they all eat their sarapan in the verandah, she asks:

‘Father, I want to know about the Sun Spirit?’

Everyone stops talking and looks at her. Now she feels nervous about questioning the Spirits.

‘Why – I mean how does the Sun Spirit get born?’

Her father raises his eyebrows and pulls out a fishbone from between his lips as he prepares an answer.

‘We are in the dry season now. The Sun will burn today. But soon will come the wet season when the rains will water Mother Earth. Yet every season there is always our sky mother, the Sun who looks down on us all.’

He motions his hand respectfully towards the rising Sun. ‘There is always our Mother Sun and our Father Moon. They created water, our Life Spirit, and all the other Spirits who are born from Mother Earth. And so, we say our Sun is being born every morning from Mother Earth. This is our Malay knowledge passed from one generation to the next.’

‘The Sun is not being born like us,’ says her mother. ‘It has a different meaning, doesn’t it, Wayan?’

‘Yes, Endah.’

‘They must be told.’

‘Yes, alright.’

Melati pretends she hasn’t heard this brief exchange.

‘About being born,’ her father resumes. ‘Spirits want to live. All animal Spirits want to live, even plant Spirits want to live. We all want to live, don’t we?’

He pauses but no one offers an answer.

...What can we do but live?

‘Being born is very important,’ he says, stroking his goatee beard as he thinks about something.

What happens if we don’t get born?

She glances at Sukma, who’s just blinking.

Harta is scratching his nose.

Her father sighs as if he’s made a decision.

“So,” he says. “We welcome our Sun every morning.”

‘Where does the Sun go at night?’ she asks.

‘Our Sun goes into Mother Earth and is born again in the morning.’ Her father strokes his beard and then adds, ‘Bandri has been thinking about this.’

‘That’s because he’s clever,’ says Sukma.

He accepts her observation with a chuckle.

But then Harta mutters, ‘He’s still in bed.’

Her father slaps a hand down hard on the table.

‘Don’t speak like that!’ he shouts, jabbing his finger at Harta. ‘Your brother is a man and deserves respect. When you’ve earned the mark of our Spirits on your back, it will be different – but then you face the judgement of the others!’

CHAPTER THREE 'Smelting'

In the mornings, Melati always visits Musang, her pet civet cat. Musang’s bamboo cage had been built onto the shady side of their house. She feeds him and refreshes his bedding, then crouches on the pebbled floor, stroking his brown and cream fur as she sings to him.

‘Careful you don’t shoot anyone,’ she says as Sukma opens the cage door and ducks inside, carrying her little bow and quiver with its sharpened bamboo arrows.

‘I only shoot lizards and snakes.’

Pulling the door shut, Sukma props her toy bow and its quiver in the corner of the cage, and then produces a ripe banana. Musang jumps into her arms for his favourite treat.

‘Suk, I have to tell you –’ Melati begins, but stops.

...How can I tell her about the Java men?

Instead, she says, ‘I’m sorry about the shutter.’

‘Forget it,’ says Sukma as she peeks out through the small square holes in the cage walls. ‘It’s their jabbering that did it – they’re always jabbering.’

...Who does all the jabbering?

‘But about the shutter –’

‘There’s your brother,’ announces Sukma. ‘I’ll ask him about fishing.’

Sukma gives Musang back, opens the cage door and ducks out. Melati puts Musang on his bedding and follows – closing and locking the door before catching up.

‘You two always hide in there,’ quips Bandri. ‘Then you jump out and scare people.’

Sukma giggles, and pleads with Bandri using his soft name, ‘Biru, please take us fishing – it will be a good day.’

Melati sees the unusual flecks of blue in the brown of her brother’s eyes as he looks at her. Sometimes he’s called ‘Biru’ because everyone else has completely brown eyes.

‘It’s a good day,’ he says. ‘Even without fishing.’

‘Please Biru,’ says Sukma, skipping winningly beside him. ‘You can take us fishing.’

‘You should ask your father,’ says Bandri.

‘I’ll ask Father, then we all go fishing. It will be fun.’

‘I’ll show you some fun,’ he says. ‘Follow me.’

He leads them towards the large shed where Sukma’s big brother is at work. Agung’s long black hair is hanging down over his face as he bends to feed a fire.

‘Watch,’ Bandri whispers. ‘You’ll learn something.’

Melati shakes her head, remembering what her father had told her: Be careful, Agung is dangerous to you.

‘Pagi,’ says Bandri in a morning greeting to Agung.

Agung stands tall, flinging his clammy hair aside.

Feeling a spasm of unease, Melati looks away.

‘Pagi,’ she hears Agung answer, with a tone so gruff that it sounds more like a grunt.

‘Come on, Mel,’ says her brother and takes her hand.

She resists but he tugs her up the pebbles.

‘It’s alright,’ he whispers, pulling her deep into the shade of Agung’s cavernous workshed.

The shed contains many things. There’s equipment for smelting bronze – including the fire burning in a clay hearth. There are various lengths of wood. Resting against the back wall are spears and bows. In one corner, there’s a stack of quivers made from the skins of dead animals. These quivers hold all sorts of arrows, mostly with long shafts and feathered flights, but some contain short bamboo arrows fletched with reeds. Hanging from the rafters are animal hides: buffalos, crocodiles, babirusa pigs, cucus bears. She also recognises the small furry pelt of a civet cat.

In one wall of Agung’s shed, there is a door into his house. I’ll never go inside his house, she promises herself.

‘Have we got enough?’ asks Bandri, letting go of her hand and picking up a chunk of green coloured rock from a small pile on the floor.

‘Not usually,’ answers Agung.

‘Can they watch?’ her brother asks.

Melati’s face becomes hot and she gazes down at her fingers. She can never look directly at Agung. Anyway, he’s often busy in his shed, or working on the big boat, or he’s out hunting and killing. ...He kills anything – always stalking about looking for something to kill – like civit cats.

‘Good,’ says Bandri. ‘You two can learn how to make bronze. We’re making a knife today. You’ll like it.’

‘It’s alright,’ says Sukma, perching on a woodpile and swinging her feet. ‘Anything’s better than making rope.’

Melati sighs in acceptance, settling down to watch as Bandri and Agung add more charcoal to the fire.

...This place is going to get really hot.

Their brothers are about the same age. Her brother, Bandri, is slimmer, although he still has powerful shoulders and well-muscled legs. He has hardly any hair on his body – just a wavy mat of black hair on his head. Sukma’s brother, Agung, is taller, bigger, and more muscular. Agung’s body is also hairier and he’s got the beginnings of a beard.

...Agung’s like a beast, and he never washes his hair.

They both have manhood tattoos of the Mother and Life Spirits on their backs, which show the Sun rising from waves of water. Her father and Sukma’s father have even bigger tattoos signifying their ancestral Kima tribe.

‘Feel this,’ says her brother, putting white powder in her hand, which feels dry and slippery between her fingers.

‘What is it?’

‘Coral – it’s been ground into dust.’

Bandri then shows them a wooden model of a knife and sprinkles it with the coral dust. ‘This stops sand from sticking to the bronze. But we haven’t got much of that,’ he says, pointing to the green rock. ‘So, it’s a small knife.’

Agung takes the dusted wooden model and presses it into a bed of fine damp sand. Alongside it, he places some thin bamboo strips. She watches how Agung nudges the tiny pieces of bamboo around with the tips of his fingers.

...How can he do that when he’s so brutal?

Agung adds more sand and packs it with a mallet.

‘Now the difficult bit,’ explains Bandri. ‘We open the mould and take out the wood to leave empty spaces. Then we have to put it together again without breaking it.’

Agung pumps on a handle fixed to a bag made from animal skin. Air howls into the hearth, making the flames cook the granite crucible until it glows red. The sweltering heat in the workshed forces Melati to loosen the top of her sarong and waft the fabric in an effort to cool down.

‘We add a little of this rock from the riverbed,’ Bandri explains as he drops some grey chunks into the crucible.

‘Why?’ she asks over the noise.

‘On their own, they’re soft,’ he tells her. ‘But together they become harder and make bronze.’

Agung carries on pumping the bellows while Bandri scrapes off scum from the top of the crucible. The heat inside the workshed is now almost unbearable. Sukma and herself splash water over their arms, faces, and even their legs.

‘That’s the bronze,’ Bandri tells them. ‘Have a look.’

Incredible heat hits her in the face as she peers into the crucible. ‘It looks like fiery honey,’ she shouts in wonder.

Agung picks up the heavy stone crucible with a pair of big wooden tongs – then tips so that the incandescent liquid spills out into the mould, crackling and spitting sparks.

‘Evil,’ Sukma exclaims with delight. ‘It’s so evil.’

‘You like it,’ says Bandri. ‘It’s hot, isn’t it?’

‘Too hot,’ she says. ‘Aren’t you thirsty?’

‘Oh yes,’ he chuckles. ‘It makes me very thirsty.’

The young men drink their fill and splash water over their bare chests. As steam rises from the hearth, a kind of hypnotic aura emanates from their glistening skin – and she can’t help but stare at Agung’s rippling torso.

‘Muscles,’ Sukma whispers in her ear.

Stricken by guilt, Melati turns away.

‘What do you think?’ she hears Bandri ask.

Meeting her brother’s gaze, she avoids an answer by asking a question: ‘When will it be ready?’

‘When it goes hard,’ says her brother and chuckles.

Feeling that she doesn’t properly understand, she asks another question, ‘So when it’s hard you get a knife?’

He smiles at her and his eyes glint mischievously.

‘It’s hot now, so we leave it in,’ he says. ‘But when it cools down, we take it out.’

She smiles back at him, believing she understands.

‘The knife needs a handle,’ he says, smiling again.

Melati wonders what her brother is smiling about now.

She realizes then that Agung is watching her. In this moment, she sees his face clearly. She sees the faint scar over his left eyebrow and his impenetrable brown eyes as they focus on her alone, mesmerising and fixing her to the spot as some illicit thrill floods her senses.

He’s going to smile at me, she thinks.

Agung doesn’t smile at her. With a blank expression, he picks up a carved wooden handle and offers it to her.

But now another emotion strikes. She feels shame for her wanton desire and hesitates, then folds her arms across her breasts and shakes her head.

...I must not accept it – Father warned me about him.