She pressed on, her strides quicker. She did not want blame to arise in her heart.
She must resolve the problem herself, because it was she herself who would undergo it all. None of this would be happening if there were no Plikemboh. Plikemboh—Surati shivered. She was supposed to accept that disgusting person. For a moment the vision of Plikemboh disappeared, and was replaced by one of her mother, her father, her little sisters, her Aunt Sanikem. Then for a moment she saw Annelies’s marriage again—Annelies sitting beside her husband, looking so happy. Surati knew such happiness as that was not now for her, nor would it ever be. A tear dropped. She too wished for such happiness. But
it seemed her fate was to be different. And she was afraid of her parents.
“Why is Father like Grandfather Sastrotomo?” she whispered angrily to herself. “How could he do it to his own daughter, just to keep himself safe? What was the use of having me? Why can’t I be like other girls?”
Like lightning, memories flashed by of other friends who had suffered this same fate. All beautiful girls, stolen from their houses, through all kinds of means, by Europeans. Now it was her turn, because now she had reached the age for theft. Like them, she could do nothing. She knew she would have surrendered like the others, had Plikemboh not been so hideous.
The air was cold and the wind whistled and whistled. Her legs walked as if they had a will of their own. To the south, to one particular spot: a village that was at that moment being destroyed by smallpox.
“No one will protect me,” she whispered to the night as it covered her in darkness. “If my own parents can’t do anything, what is to be done, as long as they never come to curse me.”
Without her realizing it, a plan had formed, the plan of a winged ant that wanted to fly into the flames of a fire.
During those tense days, she had tried to gather together the courage to decide. And she could not decide. A maiden dwells in silent loneliness, alone in life. Her only friend is the hope of happiness. Without the hope of happiness, she has lost everything. There is no one with whom she can talk. If she makes what seems like a decision, it is in reality only a surrender to what is going to happen. At the moment Sastro Kassier had decided, such a surrender became an unshakable resolve. One thing that had made its way into her mind at the time was the smallpox epidemic. What must happen now? The coming together of herself and the smallpox epidemic. She would do it.
From behind her came the howls of a pack of wolves that had recently roamed about seeking victims. The curfew had allowed the wolf packs to become kings of the night. Several times already, villagers’ stock had been attacked and destroyed. She was not afraid; the oppression in her spirit had overcome fear. She walked on. Only if she heard the lonely cry of a bird did she stop and look. Perhaps the bird was calling after the moon or crying out its longing for a lover who would never arrive.
She had covered almost ten miles. Sweat soaked her body. The moon was starting to peek out from behind the horizon of silhouetted trees. She stopped under one tree, checking whether she could see anything in the distance. She did not want to be seen by anybody or meet anybody. She checked behind her and to her left and right. There was nothing suspicious. But she remained alert at the places shrouded in thicker darkness. Still and quiet, as if she were the only person on this earth. And the cries of the night birds made the night seem even stiller.
Many times during the last two weeks the army had ordered a curfew. People obeyed. Only the army and police were allowed out, but she did not see even a single soldier.
She traveled on for about another five miles. In the distance she could see a blinking glow in the night sky, like a lamp that had almost run out of oil: campfires among clusters of bamboo. That was the village where she was headed. The campfires were army posts. The soldiers weren’t visible. She kept on walking. She knew the army had issued orders that no one was to approach closer than a mile. The people in the village weren’t allowed out. Those outside weren’t allowed in. Those in the village were pitilessly given up to die, without compassion—sacrifice to Lord Smallpox.
If I die there with them, then I will be dead, her heart whispered to the night wind. It would not be long, and all would be over. Surati was going to kill herself. She had accepted what was to happen. And she felt as though she could still decide, not like Aunt Sanikem. She herself must bring an end to herself.
And if I do not die, it must truly be my destiny to become the woman of that hateful and hideous man. What is to be done, Father, Mother…
The closer she came to the village, the farther she moved away from the roads, plunging into the paddy and through the broken-down, neglected fields. The scratches on her feet and body from the leaves about her went unfelt. She did not even lift up her kain.
She was startled when she disturbed some ducks sleeping peacefully under a bush. The animals scattered, screeching with frightened protests. The ducks had no one looking after them, she thought; perhaps their owners had been killed by the smallpox.
Now she plunged through fields wrecked by wild pigs and
deer. Her clothes were covered with grass blossoms. Her hair had fallen loose and was now tangled. She didn’t care. Her hairpin had fallen who knows where.
The moon shone brighter and brighter. The tongues of fire in the distance seemed to grow larger. Some Dutch soldiers could now be seen running back and forth. The wind began to blow strongly. She knew the village perimeter was patrolled continuously. The nearer she came, the lower she crouched. Finally she began to crawl, like a forest pig.
The fires that lit the soldiers’ camp receded into the distance as she moved away. She kept crawling, making no sound, like a cat. Her hands and feet were covered in blood, cut by the thorns and sharp brush along the way. She sought a rift in the bamboo that fenced off the village. In vain. It was not easy: The clusters of bamboo weren’t smooth bamboo, but thickets of the thorny variety.
She had forgotten her own problems, her own troubles. Her whole being was concentrated on the effort to enter that village, to break through the bamboo fence. Every hole, every gateway, was guarded by soldiers and tongues of fire. Without any sharp instrument, with only her bare hands—the hands of a young girl who had never done any real physical work—she was unable to break through. She had to climb over. So she began her attempts to climb over the bamboo—the first such experience in her whole life.
In the distance she could hear soldiers greeting each other in Dutch:
“Who goes there!”
“A friend!”
In silence, she listened alertly. The voices went away.
I must climb down, she whispered to a stalk of bamboo. But still she didn’t climb down. A lone, gaunt cow dawdled silently along. She could vaguely hear the hungry lowing of other cattle. She cast her eyes across the village on the other side of the bamboo fence. Here and there stood huts with grass roofs, like giant animals trying to hide themselves. The moon shone brighter, reluctantly throwing its light upon all that lived on the earth. She no longer wanted to look up at the moon, whereas in the past she had so often gazed at it while singing with her friends. This time she had to force herself to look; perhaps it would be the last time.
She climbed down into the village carefully, freeing herself from the view of the soldiers and from the jabs of the bamboo’s thorns. The ground below the cluster of bamboo was blanketed in fallen leaves. They rustled under the tread of her feet. She stood silently, listening for sounds. Between the whistling shrieks of the harsh wind as it charged into the bamboo clusters, she heard again the lowing of starving cattle. Perhaps they were still tethered in their corrals. No human sound could be heard. Now she was a member of this village. Like the others, she had surrendered unconditionally to the smallpox. She walked on, looking for the cattle that were lowing so weakly. The moon lit her way to a house with a corral at the back. She lit a match and looked for the cross-bar. There was no human inside, just a pregnant cow. She undid the rope that tied the cow. The animal walked slowly, heading towards a spot from where the grass sent out its delicious aroma. She gazed at the animal, which had no intention of saying thank you, then walked on again. Under a jamblang bush, she saw a she-goat and its kids, sprawled out dead from hunger and thirst. The she-goat was still tethered. It seemed it had just given birth, unwitnessed by anyone.
The moon was shrouded in cloud. Once again Surati forced herself to look up, as if she wished to memorize its face forever before the smallpox entered her body and escorted her to the universe of souls.
Those that live, let them live, she whispered; the dead, lie still in your muteness; don’t disturb me.
Then, confidently, without hesitation, she stepped into a hut. She heard a weak voice coming from inside.
“Is there someone there?”
There was no answer. She opened another door. Darkness gaped out at her from the doorway. Yes, she had heard a voice, a very weak one. She lit a match, and saw a bloated, wheezing baby lying beside its dead mother. A gaunt baby, fleshless, covered in filth. Both lay on a tattered bamboo mat. The match burned out. She lit another and then the kerosene lamp that hung from a nail on a wall.
The soldiers would never dare come here, she thought.
Behind the door, she found another corpse—a man, bare-chested, sprawled on the ground, dead. His right hand reached out. Perhaps he was trying to reach his baby, his loved one.
The man looked very young, less than twenty years old. Surati herself was younger.
The still living baby she took and cuddled. It had the smell of rotten fish about it and its body was hot. She took a bottle of drinking water from her bag and gave some to the baby, but the child was no longer able to swallow. The end for it too was near.
Far away she could hear the trumpets of the soldiers. She didn’t know what they signaled. She didn’t care. She held the dry, shriveled child, dirty and rotten-smelling, as though holding one of her little sisters at home. She hugged the small weightless body to her breast. She kissed it as if saying good-bye, good-bye forever, then to be together again, also forever.
Under the rays of light from the kerosene lamp, the baby finally reached death’s door. Surati began to sing a lullaby so that this very young soul would be able to sleep in eternity caressed by the love of another human being—a human being it had never known. She cleaned the baby’s face with the corner of her
kebaya
.
The child convulsed for a moment, quickly expelling its final breaths. Surati did not know the child’s name. She had never seen a human being on its deathbed. She was not afraid in this encirclement of death. She felt so close, such a friend to them all; soon she too would be part of it all. Death? What lies beyond death? At least, for sure, she would not be meeting Plikemboh. Why are people afraid of death? And why am I not afraid? When the smallpox has entered my body, and death arrives…no, she was not afraid. The curse of one’s parents was more terrible than death. Enter, you smallpox, come into me.
She put the baby down beside its mother. She pulled its father over with great difficulty. The corpse was already stiff. At least, now, the baby was sleeping together with its mama and papa. For a moment she looked at the two parents at peace in death, together again forever. She felt happy that she had done this, as if she had done some deed of unrivaled goodness, that had never been done by anyone else ever, except by Surati.
She found nothing in the hut except some torn cloths piled up on an overturned bench. With these she covered them as with a blanket. She put out the lamp, went outside, and closed the door.
She had heard rumors that the soldiers were going to spray the village with kerosene and set it on fire. Not now; that was still five days away. The village heads in the district had protested
against the plans: It wasn’t right to burn people alive. It was not certain that everyone would be killed by the smallpox. But the government doctor, Lieutenant Doctor H. H. Mortsinger, had calculated that everyone would die within two more days. Even if some hadn’t died, they might spread the epidemic, so they should be wiped out as well. The village heads’ protests resulted in the decision to postpone the burning for a few days, to give everyone a chance to die naturally. The burning was still to go ahead.
To die by fire, there was nothing wrong with that either, thought Surati.
She found more corpses outside the house. Some parts of the bodies had been bitten by animals. They had all begun to ooze blood, corrupting the air with their smell. She became aware of the stench of carcasses coming at her from all directions. The dense rottenness was like the rising scent of incense sticks, bearing her to a faraway universe, a place she had never realized existed until now.
Surati lived thus for three days and two nights in that village. She began to feel the hair on her body creep whenever the wind blew. I have caught the disease, she told herself. Very early in the morning she found a well and bathed. She took out the best clothes in her bag. She began to adorn herself. She put on all the jewelry and other adornments that she owned. She knew the fever was starting to attack. In the darkness of the night, she climbed once more over the bamboo. She moved quickly, as if she knew by instinct exactly how far she must travel. It was as if she were racing against the fever that was dancing within her. A few more days and I will be dead. And I will take you with me, Plikemboh! Everybody then will be free from your torments: children, women, and your workers! Perhaps the world will be a little more beautiful without you.
The fever in her seemed to weaken, subjugated by her will, unable to suck up her strength and her determination. I must get safely to your house, Plikemboh, looking fresh, young, and pretty.
A girl who was not from a peasant family would never have been taught to walk quickly; indeed she would have been forbidden to do so. But Surati’s legs took stride after stride, penetrating the darkness and the night mist, half-running over the paddy-field dikes, now overgrown with weeds. Now she held her sarong by its corners so it would not be soiled by the weeds’ blossoms.