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sketchesbydean · 4 years

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A Book I’m Writing: The Island Crown Ch. 1

A day would come when the tide might drop like the sky from above and vanish you in the closing mouth of a wave. Then the earth would turn black and dark with stillness, the light never to be seen again. That day was tomorrow for all Bali could see.

A sudden crackle spit white light across the gray-washed horizon and Bali grimaced. Then, like the two had corroborated together, a hand whacked her shoulder and sent her pencil in a jagged scribble down her brown page. But her string bound notebook laid unmoved on her lap, so she continued to write.

The hand came from a looming figure behind her. It crouched down again and delivered a series of whacks to her shoulder, knuckled and quick as to result in a mess of graphite punctures on her page. It was not enough to harm her, but irritating enough to enlist a response. Without a sigh, without a glance up, Bali slides her pencil into the book like a bookmark and confronts the horizon once more.

The unseen person had no effect on her, but the expanse of water was worrying. This time the figure nudges with their knee, leaning their weight on and off her back.

“Bali. Ba-li. Baa-li,” the figure whines.

She breathes in deep, mind nowhere near the interaction.

“Dinner’s ready.”

Bali gets up, as if she meant to do it of her own will all along. She turns to face Dewa, who towers over her like he does over everybody. Time had curbed her pride of being outgrown by her younger brother, but the thorn that said to splinter any challenge to her authority remained unmoved.

She walked towards land from the wide platform of the bamboo dock without acknowledging him, watching her feet land as a solid color beside the ever-shifting ripple of water.

As they walk back, Dewa nudges her with his shoulder again. It became bothersome and she tried with every ill-tempered cell in her body to remind herself that it was a coping mechanism. His behavior was affection that is not to be misinterpreted as malice, because although no one kept track of it and no one mentioned it, he knew about tomorrow too. Tomorrow was the day another sibling was sacrificed to the fairies.

Nine siblings had been sent to Nusa Irian to be fostered. Two were already gone, put on a ship and sent to the First Land where the fairies would eat their hearts for breakfast. Jusuf and Wayan had been gone nearly a year and no word reached the younger siblings of whether they had survived the journey. The seven remaining on the island thought about them everyday, waiting scared and silent for their turn to be taken away. Bali wondered what the ship that carried her tomorrow would look like.

The fifty or so meters went quick and before Dewa could adjust to the solidness of dirt at the end, Bali suddenly nudges him back with more strength than he knew she had. He stumbled towards the forest but stayed off the ground, smirking at her and resorting to words instead.

“We’re going to be late. Nearly an hour’s ride and you’re slow. A fallen tree in our path sends you around instead of over,” he said.

“That’s Suri, you idiot. I can ride.”

Bali slides her notebook into her back pocket and uses the dock’s railing as a pedestal to get on her horse. Dewa pushes at Bali’s horses’ shoulder to stir it awake before getting on his own.

“Ugh. I have too many sisters, that’s a fact.”

They chuckle only to realize they had it wrong. A quiet moment.

“Tomorrow, there’ll be one less,” Bali whispered.

Dewa raises a sarcastic shrug, “Heartless. You’re heartless leaving me like this.” It’s a coping mechanism indeed.

“I’ll be the one without a heart soon, stabbed or eaten no less.”

“Good, Suri is definitely the better rider.”

“Rude! You can’t talk to a queen like that.”

“You can if you’re a king!,” Dewa is off into the woods. She watches him for a moment, a flash of competition in her eyes, but the quiet creeps in again. Bali turns to squint at the sea. Beyond the horizon, hidden by the clouds, was a place she didn’t allow herself to think of. Tomorrow she would cross the water to set foot there, once there the First Land would be the only thing on her mind. Everything in Nusa Irian, including her six younger siblings and her foster parents would be only a dream.

The next time her younger siblings see her would either be at their coronation or her funeral. Bali turned to the trees and rode forward. She thought she heard another crackle but could not distinguish it from her breaking heart. Her stomach sunk into a chasm she didn’t know existed and her mind told her why: there would be no farewells after dinner, the events of her last night as a child would start and end as a blur. Then, the next day would appear swiftly, and she would walk to the ship as a blank canvas, without a thought in her mind. Her body would move by its own volition to the Main Shore.

And she was right, the next morning when she left, she had no recollection of leaving her bed or walking out the front door. All she knew was that she took a small backpack and fit inside it a single book, praying there would be paper wherever she ended up. In her head, she listed the names of the siblings she would leave behind on Nusa Irian: Tanu, Dewa, Asia, Merah, Suri, and Java. This might be the last time she ever saw them.

Outside, the air felt tight and humid at first, but as the sky lightened up, a freshness and clarity came to her breath. That is all she remembered from her walk to the house to the shore.

The ship was sitting silently by the wooden dock, not to be spotted in yesterday’s horizon but now monumentally present. Mugi Rahayu was painted in golden cursive on the ship’s side. The Captain of the Mugi Rahayu was a man of shorter than average height with skin like coffee and white hair. He dressed simply and had a red headwrap protecting him from the heat. Bali noted the most jewelry she had ever seen collected on his fingers, arms and ears. Nothing ostentatious with pearls or colored gems, only bands of silver and gold. But for all of this he was barefoot. His name was Nyoman.

Nyoman sat on the railing by the plank that served as a stairway up. He saw her and croaked in the voice of an avid sailor with never enough water in his throat, laughed at by the salty sea.

“You’re late.”

He waved at the plank and waited for her in his seat. She climbed up, peaking at the deck. The Crew sprawled playing cards, they didn’t even look up when her head bobbed into view. It was clear to her from then that she wasn’t royalty to them, not yet. Nyoman beckoned her over, he had twisted around, legs now facing the Crew.

“Bali Batavia?”

She nods. Bali bit her lips from inside her mouth, unwilling to let her mouth open. Any word to come would crack in half and tears would stream out before she would have the chance to blink. Nyoman figured as much. He jumped off his seat, held a steady hand on her arm and walked her to the middle of the deck where a cluster of wooden crates were.

“Sit.”

She does.

“Two nights. Three days.”

She nods.

“When we arrive, I will give you some information. The same information I give to all the siblings that have ever made this journey. We will not anchor when we reach land, you will step off a moving ship and you will not turn around to watch us leave.”

Bali opens her mouth to ask a question, but he cuts her off.

“Yes, I sent your brother and sister. They came just after midnight on their seventeenth birthday. Which makes you late.”

He saw her eyes plead for more.

“I have known all the siblings. You parents and their parents. I send you to the island as an infant and I take you away from it. And when the Old Kings and Queens die, I will be the one to deliver you to your coronation. This was my job before you, it will be my job after you. That is all.”

This is what he said when the ship lurched forward and left the island, Bali hasn’t moved since. She learned that the crew was pleasant enough. They brought her food and asked her to join the card game or dance at night. She supposed they knew something about living quietly before abruptly being called into service. Just like Uncle Wayan and Indra, the Crew inherited this ship. The Mugi Rahayu and its Crew was married at birth. Most jobs were inherited in their history.

But islanders were a distinct creature, they were forced by the sun to take on their true colors inside and out. Dark with warmth and freckled from dappled rays obscured by formless clouds. And their hair was always tinged at the ends, like the sun was slowly creeping its way in from outside. The blonde mess of tips appeared on braids and dreads, curls and locks. It’s an agreement the sun had with the sea, these people were theirs and it would show. Meanwhile the fairies turned red in the blistering shine, and their skin began to peel.

Night one came and went, the time between sunrise and sunset a mere breath. Night two was the same. Bali couldn’t talk if she wanted to, it would have come out as a whisper. She felt that if she held all her thoughts inside her, she kept something from snapping. If she talked now then the chances of this being a dream came to an end. Hands worked all around her while she read the only book she brought once, and then again. She had overheard several conversations during the course of the second day, but only one was of any import to her. The first sailor whispered in the same croaking voice the Captain had,

“So there are six siblings left?”

“Yup, there are nine siblings inheriting the Thirtieth Reign,” the second sailor replied, “She’s the third, and the other six are waiting to turn seventeen. At seventeen they become property of the crown, before they are called into service as Rulers, they must sacrifice themselves to the fairies..”

“The fairies don’t tolerate anyone but their own people, they wouldn’t be safe there. They could die!”

“That is how they prove themselves worthy to be crowned the New Kings and Queens of the Nusa, that’s why it��s called a sacrifice. If they can live long enough for the crown to call them home, we will sail them home.”

“But how long must they be sacrificed to the fairies?”

“That’s easy. When the Old Kings and Queens die.”

They both shrug and so the conversation ended, Bali left contemplating her fate once again. It seemed everyone knew what the future held for her except Bali herself.

At the helm, Nyoman watched her and croaked to the crew around him.

“She’s so damn quiet. Don’t know if it’s retardness or poise.”

“Cap, they’re getting more and more aloof this Ruling Family. I’m not even sure we’ll have anyone to sail back to the coronation,” a sailor said.

“Traitors. fairy lovers,” piped another man.

“No,” Nyoman croaked, “Free.”

Bali read on though she heard every word. Then it was the third day and by midday she saw the island running towards her. The Crew’s eyes made their way towards her, waiting for any reaction. They wanted fear or delight, hate or wonder. So she gave them nothing. They saw her eyes peer up at the horizon and back down onto the page without even a sigh. Uncle Wayan and Indra taught her exactly one thing, every lesson, lecture or yelling fit all boiled down to a single fact. They raised her to know they were equal. Kings and Queens or not, fairy or not, Islander or not, neither was superior. Words still wouldn’t emerge from her lips so Bali hummed, it was just another island, and if the fairies were to enforce their superiority over her, she would relay the lesson.

That was the last time she looked up until she saw bare feet approach from the side of the page she was reading. Nyoman stood in front of her, his fingers outstretched. Bali glanced at the varying bands, then at his face.

“Your silence discomforts me, girl.”

She only looked back. Nyoman huffed and wiggled his fingers nearer to her face. Bali inched back.

“Pick one for fuck sake!”

All Bali could do was stare at the rings. Nyoman huffed again and she pointed quickly. He twisted a small ring off his left middle finger, the ring had rested just above his nail. Bali outstretched her palm and he dropped in. It was a small thing, thin and braided together from three smaller bands of silver. Bali quickly found that it fit snuggly only on her right pinky.

“I’ll be wanting it back.”

She squinted at him.

“When it’s time for your coronation. I’ll be having it back,” Nyoman growled. He couldn’t stand her silence any longer and walked away. As he left her view, the land of the fairies appeared, covered in thick mist.

Bali frowned. The docks were dirty and dark. No mountains stood behind them and as their ship came closer, all she saw was dirt and cobble stoned streets. Low rise buildings filthy with dust. Ships and boats of all sizes cramped and tied onto the deck with rotting rope. This couldn’t be where the fairies lived, this couldn’t be the First Land.

The fisherwoman who had braided and cut her hair appeared by her side. She handed Bali a bundle of cloth, a dark grey cloak that Bali put on. Then a cotton pouch filled with bread.

“Thank you,” Bali said.

The woman nearly dropped the bread, startled to learn this silent child spoke.

“I never got the chance to ask, what’s your name?,” Bali asked.

“Bajau.”

Bali smiled a thanks and walked over to Nyoman. He stood at the side of the ship, holding a rope in one hand. The mist was worse now, Bali was lucky to see the dock. Nyoman held up a piece of paper.

“You don’t talk, so I figured writing would save any misunder- standings,” he croaked.

Bali took the paper. She couldn’t see the ships around them though she knew there were plenty, she couldn’t see any people in the thick white smog. But she saw the dock inch closer and Nyoman handed her the rope.

“Much luck, Queen.”

She took it. It felt heavy and rough in her hands, dampened by the misty air. But it was real, like a sip of water or a slap on the face, she felt its weight. The dream had ended and the tide came rushing in. She stepped on the boat’s railing and held onto the rope with both hands. Her body awoke after three days of stillness and her back flexed, stretching itself ready. Bali smiled, and the words felt like morning air in her mouth.

“Why doesn’t the ocean laugh at jokes?,” she asked.

Nyoman’s fingers twitched, confusion trickling from his brow but not reaching his tongue.

“Because it hates dry humor,” Bali said in a voice older and clearer than she had owned before. Then she leapt into the fog, landing on the small chunk of dark wood she could make out as the dock. She let go of the rope quickly fearing it would snap back and bring her into the water. Her legs buckled against solid ground and a knee fell to steady her landing. An odd cackling croak echoed in the mist behind her, it cackled and cackled without apology. Then the sound sank away and the only safety Bali had left disappeared.

She tidied her cloak and stood up, the cool air brushed her cheek and she tugged her hood overhead. She would need warmer clothes and her normally white attire would have to be put away. Bali took her first step forward and the mist began to fade.

More and more of the dark wooden dock became visible and noise broke through. Men yelling, the thumping of footsteps carrying crates and barrels up and down planks from ships, and the waves hitting shore. Everything was grey and brown from the street to the buildings. People wore ragged clothes and stood on old wood. For the first few steps, Bali didn’t look anywhere but ahead. But then she began to see the pale faces of the fairies.

Their skin was fair, white and hidden from the sun. Their noses were pointed and thin. Their eyes big and blue, staring well past your face and into your soul. And their hair was all light, the color of the sun but void of all warmth. They moved like her and she understood them thanks to the mentoring of uncle Wayan and Indra. She admitted that their language was stupid, full of arbitrary excetions to grammar and spelling. They looked human to her eyes, but it wasn’t what they looked like that scared her.

Bali froze. She awaited for an attack of any kind but the fairies stood still. She had been taught of their danger, but perhaps it is not as visible as they would have her believe. Maybe the fairies posed a threat that could reach further and harm deeper than a physical blow. Whatever it was, it was not here yet.

She saw people who weren’t fairies too, lands bordering water had the wonderful feature of bringing in all manner of life. Dark and tan skinned sailors and fishers walked the dock, unbothered by the fairies.

Another step would land her at the end of the docks and onto a street bordering buildings of the dock-dwellers. She stood against a fishing house and took out the sheet of paper Nyoman gave her. It provided a single address and a name, she knew then what her exact route would be. It was getting dark and she meant to reach her new home before daybreak. Bali kept her head low and walked with a sure foot. She walked along the street until she found a path leading into the land at a steep incline, she took it.

Java loved breakfast, simply because everyone was together at the table. And the first few days after a sibling had to leave were the most critical.

On an occasion as Bali’s sacrifice, or when any older sibling was shipped away, their chair at the table was removed to the basement and the younger siblings were given a little more room for their elbows to rest. It was a small victory and Java didn’t get many. He was the youngest on their island and he had come to accept that.

For the first few years of his conscious life here, Java had hoped he would not be the last, that he would spot a ship from the tower and a guard would come ashore with another baby brother or sister. At four, he sulked and cried in fear of being the last until Jusuf picked him up and sung him to sleep. At five, he would wait in the moonlight by the beach before Bali, having scoured high and low for him, dragged him home by the ear. And at six, Wayan was tasked with the gut-wrenching job of telling him that his future was set in stone, six years was too long a gap to hope another sibling was on its way. It marked something for the older siblings too, their wait was over and their safety taken.

He was the youngest sibling on their island, the one to be left behind slowly as everyone grew old enough to leave. This was why they didn’t celebrate birthdays, and even if no one kept track of anyone else’s, everyone knew when their time came to vanish, to live or die by the fairies.

By eleven, Java was a master table-setter, breakfast-cooker, and sibling-wrangler. The reason being this: he couldn’t keep track of everyone’s birthdays, but if someone was leaving he needed to be the first to know. The first time an older sibling left, he was the last to wake and the last at the table. The discovery of Jusuf’s departure was made without him and he felt all the more abandoned. He set upon the task of calling everyone to breakfast from then on.

The first time he called out to an empty room that breakfast was ready, he had run back crying, Wayan had left. But practice breeds expertise and soon he was top pick as deliverer of bad news. In fact, after Wayan left, he managed to core strawberries and whip cream as consolation for their loss.

Today, he chocolate-chipped the pancakes and honey fried the bacon. Sided with mango smoothies and spiked coffee for the adults. He removed Bali’s chair and rearranged the seats. It was perfect and he didn’t even have to look at the clock to know it was time to go from room to room with a glass of fresh orange juice.

Only he didn’t have to. They were all still feeling the loss of their sister. Suri and Asia walked in, they never awoke early and so their eyes were puffy. Then Merah walked in. They must have slept in the same room because Merah did wake early, but her eyes were puffy too. They slumped in their seats. Tanu appeared next. A deranged arrangement of wrinkled scowls and reaping glares. Uncle Wayan and Indra strolled in a little easier. The slowest footsteps were Dewa’s. They knew he would take it the worst.

Of all the siblings, Bali and Dewa held the most resemblance, which is to say that they came from the same parents with warm caramel skin and dark hair, wavy and thick. Of course many had caramel skin, but it was also something in their eyes, slanted but bright like honey. Suri had the same slant but her eyes were dark, her hair the color of her caramel skin. Java had those bright eyes but his skin was like brewing coffee.

They all had their theories of who was directly related to who, but it made no difference. They were siblings by virtue of being marooned on the same island and sharing the same fate. In reality, they were cousins. And in the years to come, they were to be crowned the New Kings and Queens of the Thirty-first Reign of the Nusa. Their parents would then become the Old Kings and Queens of the Thirtieth Reign. And that was how it had always been, the children never meeting their parents, and the parents never raising their children.

Dewa sauntered in, half asleep and his eyes a puffy, ugly thing. He stood in front of his chair, incapable of sparing muscle movement. Java moved with the tray of orange juice to the table. He had prayed to have a seamless transition, he thought it would be one less voice to block out. Only, he misread the importance of his sister.

Bali was wise. Not with books, though she read and wrote endlessly, but with understanding. Her mind grappled and grasped for novelty and individual responsibility. She was aware of how monumental everything was, that there was a bigger picture. This crown confined her to think one way and for one purpose. Some people shouldn’t be kept from seeing the world, they were meant to free it and be free of it. That was the hope that rested in Bali, and if she had to leave, then no one else had a chance.

Jusuf was loyalty and honor. Wayan was brain and duty. Bali was heart and perspective. And it felt, to Java, and the rest of the six younger siblings, that they fell short of any valuable qualities to compare. They waited for Dewa to stumble into his chair. The room stood still, there was that creeping silence again. Finally, Uncle Wayan spoke,

“Eat. We have things to do.”

But the food was sour to the taste, Java’s efforts were met with anxiety and sorrow. So the siblings ate in silence. Java’s mind did the only thing he told himself not to do, he remembered his older siblings and how they all came to the island. And from the faces on the table, everyone was doing the same.

They knew the current Rulers, their parents, were a reign of five people: Sula the Good, Oto the II, Adonara, Timor, and Tagalaya the Small. Of those five, only three of them got married. The siblings were the children of those three. Jusuf was the first child, and he was sent to the island by his parents with Uncle Wayan and Indra. One baby was easy enough for the two to foster, but then the children came like clockwork.

Every several months, a ship with white sails could be seen from the tower. A basket would be left at the main shore with some trunks of supplies. The first basket held Wayan wrapped in a dark blanket. Laid side to side, Jusuf and Wayan did not look alike. Jusuf had chocolate skin and hair to match, a nappy, tangled puff on his head. Wayan was the color of wholewheat bread with straight, pitch black hair. But though the lids that hooded their eyes folded differently, the irises stared back in the same amber glaze, like pools of honey.

Bali followed. Then it was Tanu, who looked like Jusuf in every way but the hair which was a mess of loose curls, sprouting from the roots dark and growing the color of toffee. When Dewa came along, there was no question that his parents were Bali’s parents, they looked exactly the same. Asia and Merah were brought together as a pair. Both had a fuzz of curls on their heads, one was dark and the other a brown on the verge of orange, they were both caramel skinned and honey-eyed. All of them were shades of brown, told to be so by the sun.

The ships slowed after that, Suri came a long while after, and then Java a longer while after that. Uncle Wayan and Indra knew then, things had to begin and they were eager to start. Their role as the Fostering Family was inherited, just like an isolated childhood in Nusa Irian was the inheritance of the ruling family. Common sense and life skills, domestic and otherwise, was left to Indra. Books and arts were left to Uncle Wayan. He wasn’t an uncle, he wasn’t even uncle-aged, but there had to be some distinction between the man and the child. Uncle Wayan and Indra were in their thirties. They would have preferred the title of professor, but having cared for the siblings since infancy made it hard to deliver any hierarchical suffixes without giggles from both parties.

There were, at their peak, six babies squealing in one household. The wooden walls didn’t do much to silence cries. Wailing would domino from room to room and no one would get any sleep. Indra used to joke that she would bring everyone on to the sun deck and let everyone tan, dehydrating in the sun until the point of exhaustion. Then they could all sleep and silence would befall the tall wooden house. But that restful silence had left with Jusuf, now the only silence that would ever be heard was a threat.

Java peeked around the table, no one would look up. He was pretty sure he saw a teardrop fall into the scrambled eggs on Suri’s plate. Breakfast, which was supposed to be a moment of togetherness, uniting them in the endeavor that dictated their childhood, was now the first funeral of many to come.

Nevertheless, the empty plates came piling into the sink and the siblings slowly migrated into the study. They filed in and sat at their desks from oldest to youngest, all except for Asia who crawled in last and glared at the chalkboard to the front of the room. Then, the lesson began.

Asia hated that chalkboard and she was sure it hated her too. The white that dust infiltrated her nose and the chalk’s screeching squeak. Asia wanted to throw a javelin at it and crack the surface unwritable, no matter how pretty it looked against the book filled shelves. Asia’s head wandered as she settled into her desk, she knew she was the only one deep in thought because everyone else dutifully wrote notes as Uncle Wayan lectured.

In her mind, she saw Bali on the bow of a white sailed ship. She saw her covered in mist and muddied in damp dirt. The warmth of the sun couldn’t find her and that was as good as dead. Asia imagined her climbing steep steps and nearly slipping in the rain, cold and wet. Bali fell and scraped at a wall for support. Her ring scratched at the crumbling cement, creating a long scar on the wall. Bali took a moment to catch her breath, she looked at her scratched hand. She noticed two more scars beside, precisely like the one she made with her ring. Bali smiled and continued on. In Bali’s mind was a vast library on top of a hill. At this image Asia snorted.

“Yes, Asia? Something funny?,” Uncle Wayan paused with incorrigible eyes, his chalk pressed halfway into a word.

Asia came back to the room and sat up. She shook her head. He continued and Asia went back to daydreaming. She thought of Wayan, their older sister. Her older sister if Asia was allowed to bet on it. Wayan would write endless notes during class but Asia couldn’t distinguish important from boring. But that wasn’t the convincing factor in Asia’s argument that they had the same parents. It was because of the beauty marks that spotted their bodies. Every year or so a new little dark dot would appear on her nose or back, ear or toe. Studiousness didn’t constitute genetics, but the beauty marks did. Here they called them tai lalat, or, fly poo. She snorted again. The whole room turned to look at her.

“What now, Asia?”

Uncle Wayan had endless patience. They were going over the transatlantic trade and it was not a laughing subject. She allowed a small shrug of apology, but Uncle Wayan put his chalk down anyway.

“I suppose three days isn’t enough time for grief,” he said, “But you all know the history, this is how it’s done. The Ruling Family is given their title for this very reason, they are sacrificed to the enemy to prove themselves worthy of the crown. It just so happens that our current enemies are the fairies of the First Land. If it came to war, we have the lower hand, we are a thalassocracy. Write this word down: tha-lass-o-cra-cy.”

A hand raises.

“Why don’t we infiltrate allies?,” Java pipes.

“We have none left, the fairies conquered them all. Now, a thalassocracy rules over more sea than land, both are territories that make up a country but they cannot be ruled in the same way. How do you rule an archipelago? Can anybody guess?”

“You keep the peace on the water between islands,” says Tanu.

“How do you rule a population of different islands?”

“Equally,” the words came out of Asia’s mouth like melting butter.

“Good. It’s time for your ride,” Uncle Wayan sets the chalk down and the siblings push in their chairs. They leave one by one, arguing about something or other. Uncle Wayan places the book he was teaching from in its slot on the shelf. Not far from it was an empty space, a book had been misplaced and he knew exactly who took it. From a window, Uncle Wayan saw the siblings take their horses by the rein and walk into the woods, disappearing from view.

The woods of their island, Nusa Irian, were varied, but the ones to the north, the ones that surrounded their house, were tall and thin. The leaves grew towards the tops and made helpful shade during the day. Their barks were white and smooth. It was easy to spot everyone on their horses, only Suri was trailing behind.

Suri was easily the neatest rider. Her posture was pristine-- arms straight, heels pressed, shoulders back, but this meant she rode slow. She didn’t like going fast anyway, wind would splinter against her cheeks and dry up her eyes, she shuddered just thinking about hitting a loose rock and tumbling off the horse.

The siblings headed Northwest towards the pink beaches below Cliff’s End, where waves crashed into caverns when the tide rolled it. Suri would surely take the longest so she didn’t bother moving fast. She walked her horse, waking up its muscles and stretching its legs. Ubi was a yellow mare with white hooves, whose legs would prance in a pretty step if you tapped at her feet. The others rode ahead until Suri saw Java’s chubby belly disappear in the distance.

Suri found the tropics an odd place to live, and even though she didn’t know what it was like before the water rose, she knew the speed with which the air moved was strange. Days would be hot and nights would be cold, rain would turn into snow, and wind would crystalize into fog, all within minutes. Perhaps the most alarming part of island life was the visible rise of the ocean. Whenever the tide rode in, it left behind a drop or two more water at the shore. A day would come when the creeping beach swallowed Irian entirely, the earth to renew itself below the water and the island would break free of the nail that kept it in its place. Suri giggled at her preposterous imagination, this kind of thinking would land her washing duty at home.

Uncle Wayan was ever the scholar and he taught them to believe in rational, historical patterns. He paid close attention to human tendencies and massive movements of people or practices, how a mindset was produced or which reoccurrences convinced a stereotype. He liked natural thinking, where one thought follows another, proving facts from visible progression. Suri understood where he was coming from, it had to do with equality, looking at the bigger picture and understanding all of it to understand bits of it. He fought, most often, with Asia who believed the opposite, that to understand everyone else, she needed to know herself. Because it was impossible for anything in her not to be in anyone else, and anything in anyone else not to be in her.

Bali and Indra were of the same thinking, they loved tall tales and unpredictable stories of great valor through humanity. Often their discussions revolved around Greek mythology, beings that were superior to humans but even more fallible. The two side’s arguments made Suri sensitive, it wasn’t tangible and as much as it had to do with people, it didn’t require interaction with people. Suri thrived on interaction, people simply liked her, though all she had to go on were the few on the island. But she considered Ubi a person, and Ubi liked her too. A snap sent her head towards a section of trees. Something had broken a branch.

Suri turned Ubi towards the noise, holding her reins short. She saw movement in the brown of fallen leaves, a small flash of white dots. Suri smiled, it was only a mouse deer. She turned away only to hear another crackle of twigs.

“Foolish, child. Never mistake what it looks like for what it is,” a voice sneered playfully.

Suri froze, a cold sweat broke down her neck. She tugged Ubi around again with the slightest tension of her ring finger to the reins. Where the deer had stood was a boy with tan skin and hair dabbling between grey and brown. He grinned and Suri saw sharp canines, like those of a mouse deer.

“Are you scared, child?”

“I- I’m not a child.”

“You’re all children to me, I’m Kan.”

“Sang Kancil is a folktale.”

“So you do know my name.”

“You’re a trickster.”

“A trickster? Try again.”

“You’re the trickster.”

Kan snickers, he walks in a circle around her.

“Well, if you say so,” he says, “Here is my trick. I will disappear, and one day soon you will need to find me. Ask her.” Kan points.

Suri follows his finger to a puddle that has seemed to appear out of nowhere. She looks to him in confusion, only he is no longer there. Suri digs her heel into Ubi’s rib to nudge her forward, she glances into the puddle but sees only a reflection of herself. A stillness fell upon her surroundings then, the crickets chirping felt a world away.

“Suri!,” Java comes trotting in from behind her on his dark pony, “Come on, you gotta see it. The Komodos are out!”

Suri is still stuck in the moment from before, did she fall asleep and dream it all or what.

“It’s not Komodo season.”

“I know! Come on!”

Java canters away. Suri follows in a fast trot, but a shiver travels down her shoulder as she recalls Kan’s grin.

They reach Cliff’s End in the next half hour and Suri spots the siblings low on their bellies, sneaking towards the edge of the rocks where the grass grew thin. Java jumps off and joins them in a hurry. Suri walks softly, staying on her two feet. She peers from a safe distance down the cliff to Pink Beach. Asia is to her side, muttering a low hush to group.

Below, large black lizards settle in the sun, soaking it up in peace. The Komodos flick their long tongues in and out, ever so often swaying their tails. One of them stood up and that was sign enough for Suri to crouch down low, she whispered at Java on her other side.

“Why are they out so early?”

Java only points to the greenish blue water some meters away from the pink sand. A large white mound sits unmoving in the water. Suri squints to make out the figure, she snorts, having had enough fun with her imagination today.

“What did our island have a baby?”

Asia whacks her and gestures her head towards the white hill. Suri takes a closer look. The mound didn’t have the texture of smooth sand, it had a pattern that looked like the bubbles in boiling water, and it was shiny. Then, the white hill moved. It turned a full circle and Suri could see it turn into a pointed shape, the circular mound transformed into an island the shape of a carrot. Suri nearly shrieked. Java punched her arm to keep her quiet. She heard Tanu’s voice.

“It’s a white crocodile.”

“It’s the size of our kitchen,” Dewa whispered.

The slithering white mound splashed into the deep waters head first and disappeared.

“It’s just an albino croc,” Merah said.

“Did you miss the part where I said kitchen-sized?”

“It’s not albino,” Java cooed, “the eyes were black.”

“Aji Saka,” Suri said simply, “If the giants are coming out of hiding then we’re all in danger.”

“Shut up with your Aji Saka,” Dewa snapped, “Raksasa are myths from before the water rose. They’re human constructs like religion and culture. Not real.”

“Fairies are real.”

“They’re our enemies not stories, Suri. Grow up,” Dewa ups and gets on his black gelding, he gallops into the white woods. Suri turns to Tanu.

“It’s just like spotting a whale, or dolphins, right?,” she asks.

“Yeah, pretty cool huh,” Tanu chuckles unconvincingly, “Alright, fun’s over. Back to studying.”

The siblings smile, happy at their adventurous discovery. A giant white croc was a rare yet rewarding sighting even in island life, but a shape-shifting mouse deer might be more cause for concern then Suri thinks. She kept quiet the entire ride back, and when they sat back in their desks ready for another lecture, Suri found herself daydreaming about Kan.

Uncle Wayan had assigned presentations last week. He gave out a list of historical events and allowed them to pick whichever one interested them most. By the time Suri lifted awake from the daydream, Merah had taken the stage.

Merah began reciting the history of the Nusa and she wondered if Uncle Wayan could see the paragraph of notes she had inked onto her palm the night before. Every time she snuck a peek at her cheat sheet, her siblings choked down a laugh. She was a great story teller, but historical accuracy was a demanding burden.

“The Old Kings and Queens of the Seventh Reign were assassinated before the New Kings and Queens of the Eighth Reign had grown old enough to be sacrificed to the First Land,” Merah said, taking a deep breath before continuing.

Merah peeked at her palms, if she sweat anymore her writing would smudge. Uncle Wayan was behind her, listening for accuracy while sitting on his armchair. Dewa stifled a snicker and Tanu glared at him with laughter in his eyes too, both of them resorted to biting their lips.

“Nusa Raja, where the Old Kings and Queens resided, is the most densely populated island in the Nusa,” Merah continued, “it is also the largest with the hoarder’s pick in natural resources even after the water rose. The--”

Uncle Wayan lifted his hand up, “Name the resources.”

Merah obliged, “Wood, coal, and minerals. Not to mention manual labor. Now, the assassination plan began with the Rulers of the Fifth Reign who, to this day, gave birth to the smalled number of siblings to be sent to Nusa Irian.”

Uncle Wayan lifted his hand again, “Name the four.”

Merah bit her tongue, this wasn’t in her notes. From the back of the room, she saw Suri pantomime the names. Merah squinted and listed for the room to hear,

“Rach...malia. Rachmalia was the eldest. Then...then it was…,” she tilted her head to decipher Suri’s hand gesture, “To...ba, no! Samosir. Samosir of Lake Toba. And tw- twu- two- twooins! The twins! Moa and Morotai. The four rulers of the Fifth Reign.”

At the back of the room, Suri broke a sweat.

“Anyway, the Sixth Reign saw the largest number of siblings sent to Nusa Irian, twenty-two siblings. No one knows what happened during their near twenty-five years sacrifice in the First Land, but only ten siblings sailed back for their coronation. Twelve siblings were lost to the fairies. Twelve--”

A piercing snore came from the room. Java had fallen asleep on his desk and he snorted air out every few seconds. Uncle Wayan sighed sadly. He gestured a circle with his finger,

“Well done, Merah. Wrap it up. The assassination itself, please.”

“The rumor is that those twelve divulged secrets under torture. Secrets that led the fairies to the Nusa, and to Nusa Raja. In a short time, a drug sneaked into the Nusa market. And by the time of the Seventh Reign, it became prized in island to island trade, sickening the minds and bodies of many islanders.” Merah was into it now, her voice high and low in suspense.

She was about to jump and yell to a climactic end when Uncle Wayan cleared his throat. Merah paused abruptly, and in the silence Java let out a roaring snore. The room exploded in laughter. Dewa and Tanu were near tears, and Asia was on the floor. Merah frowned and finished her story quickly, hurt that no one was paying attention.

“People began disappearing in flocks. Then fruits that should have been in season were gone before harvest. Oil and coal began to leak out of their holes and caves. And trees were cut down at their roots.

The Rulers were tirelessly scouring the seas, but that’s the problem with a thalassocracy. Communication came slow, and travel from island to island could not be overcome by breeding the fastest horse.

Then, an offer came. It came through an emissary with pearl-white skin. They promised payment enough to restore all the islands for a settlement on land. The Rulers refused, and now, knowing the cause of their problems, they built a barricade. A thick fog began covering the horizon of the Nusa, nothing came in and nothing came out.

On the third week of the barricade, the fairies could not hide any longer, the sun had burned their skin to a crisp and they scurried out like ants. And we killed them, we burned their war ships and we killed them. The--”

“Dinner’s ready!,” Indra’s shout rang through the study and a cheer erupted. Merah frowned some more. Java stirred awake,

“Is it over?,” he asked.

“It will never be over,” Asia grunted.

“Continue, Merah,” Uncle Wayan said calmly.

“But dinner!,” Dewa protested.

“Do you want to finish it then!,” Merah shouted, frustration finally boiling over.

“Yeah! Before we caught all the filthy fairies, one of them named Flinder disguised gunpowder as ash in the chimney where the Seventh Reign met. They lit a fire and scorched to their deaths, leaving a wing in the palace destroyed. There. Done. Dinner!,” Dewa left.

Chairs scooted and footsteps hurried out the door. Merah sighed and stumbled to the kitchen, she felt a hand on her shoulder.

“That was really, really good, Merah. You should write if ever you find the time. The Poet Queen, it has a nice ring to it don’t you think?,” Uncle Wayan smiled and ushered the now beaming girl out of the study. He turned to stack away books. Indra walks slowly to his side.

“Dinner was a distraction,” she said to Uncle Wayan’s surprise, “A disease has spread through Nusa Raja. The Old Kings and Queens are in the hospital.”

Uncle Wayan’s mouth went dry. Indra lets out a shaky breath.

“They’ll die within a month and...,” she trails off and gives his arm a squeeze. Wayan finished her sentence for her,

“The siblings have been called to their coronation.”

Outside the study, Suri had stayed behind to tell Uncle Wayan about her shape-shifting mouse-deer. She was not prepared to hear this.

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