THE POWER OF ANCIENTS
Chapter One: Maruli
Chapter One: Maruli
Obsessed with the thrill of danger, I crept closer to the shaman’s rickety hut. Crouching low, I peered between a row of rotting banana trees, staring at the forbidden doorway. It lay shrouded in mid-morning shadows, like a feral beast ready to make a kill. The faint stench of rotting flesh filled the air.
Built in the jungle beyond the borders of our village, the tiny shack was nestled against the twisted trunk of a mystical banyan tree. Its powerful branches lent strength to the shaman’s home, keeping its rough-hewn boards from collapsing into a pile of dry rot. But the whole concept was unnatural. My people built houses in trees. This man had dared to live on the ground. Did he have no fear of the jungle’s inherent peril?
Three spitting cobras slithered back and forth along the base of the structure’s decaying walls, ready to strike the uninvited. The shaman had trained them to ward off unwanted visitors while he was away. Fellow villagers swore that he used black magic to control them.
Andos, my best friend—my only true friend, signaled that I was making too much noise. Stubborn, I waved for him to follow me toward the other side of the dwelling. We trod carefully, giving the shack a wide berth. Once the other entrance was in sight, my limbs buzzed like angry bees, but I refused to give Andos the slightest hint about how terrified I was. After all, he was a warrior, and I was only a cripple. We froze, listening as sweat dripped down our faces.
Our jungle was typically filled with the sounds of chattering macaques, shrilling mole crickets, and the singing of an untold variety of winged creatures. Around the shaman’s hut, however, I heard nothing but the harsh cawing of crows. My chest burned with anxiety, and my jaw and teeth felt numb.
“Andos, what’s that stench? Smells like a dead animal,” I said, plugging my nose.
“Neighboring settlements have reported missing villagers, Maruli. Could be a dead person.”
“Come on, Andos. The shaman…a murderer? He’s just an old man. Sneaky and secretive, but I don’t think he’d actually hurt anyone… would he?”
We came upon the less-used doorway. Like the entrance of a deep mountain cave, it looked like the shaman had somehow expelled any hint of light from his dwelling. Moreover, the wooden door hung crooked on its hinges, like my crippled arm hung from my shoulder. Right inside the doorframe was a pile of silvery stones, proof of the rumors I had heard. Legendary Quassani stones were talismans of magic used by the island’s mages and shamans. The old man had violated tribal law by keeping them secret.
Andos pulled me back, pinching his lips to signal for quiet. He had joined the tribe’s warrior band three years earlier, and his training demanded strict obedience to tribal rules. I, on the other hand, was curious, and I brushed his hand away.
“The warrior chief has warned us to be wary of the shaman, to keep an eye out for him,” Andos whispered. “He thinks the old man is the one behind the disappearances. He’s not innocent, Maruli, so don’t pull any of your stupid shenanigans, okay?”
I pointed at the Quassani.
“Look, Andos. Those stones are just inside the door. And, if there’s a dead body inside, we need to report that, too.”
Pulling away, I stepped into the open, and spun around. Andos shook his head vigorously, pleading for me to take cover. I returned a mischievous grin, triggering a scowl of disapproval. In silence, we argued to a stalemate. Facing the hut again, I was drawn to the glittery stones. The cobras were nowhere in sight. I crept forward alone, heart beating wildly. The stench grew stronger.
A thin band of sunlight had slipped through the jungle roof, causing the Quassani to reflect an array of striking silvery hues. Andos waved frantic arms, but I kept inching forward. The overpowering smell of death pouring from the shack’s opening made my eyes water, but I pressed forward, holding my breath and pinching my nose.
Without entering, I reached through the doorway and touched a Quassani. Smooth and soft, like it might easily crumble, it felt cool despite the warm sunlight shining on it. Shivering, I peeked into the dark building. At the edge of the shadows lay a decaying corpse, flies and bees rabidly swarming it. Undeniably human. Fresh pangs of fear wrenched my stomach, and my skin tingled. How long had the body been there? Who was it? Why did the shaman have it in his house? Trembling, I couldn’t bring myself to investigate.
With my good arm, I pulled the nearest Quassani outside. Guessing at its weight, I jerked it upward with all my strength. But the stone was astonishing light—as if it were hollow, and I nearly fell backward because I had tugged at it so hard. Quassani in hand, I shot a hopeful glance at my friend still hiding in the bushes. He pounded his thighs, urging me to hurry. Teasing, I ambled lazily toward him. A few paces before reaching him, I shook the stone. It rattled softly.
“Someone’s definitely dead in his place, Andos. We need to report it. But for the moment, look at what I’m holding. Can you believe it? While we still have time, let’s find out what’s inside, and then report everything to the village elders.” Andos ducked at the noise I was making, but I stood proudly, wanting to show him I was brave, even if I couldn’t be a warrior like him.
“Shut up, One-Arm,” he hissed, “and let’s get out of here. Let the Council take care of it. I don’t want to face the shaman out here, much less his pet cobras.”
Pulling on my arm, he dragged me away from the bare-earth grounds that surrounded the shaman’s hut, away from the cobras, and deeper into the jungle.
I grinned at the use of my childhood nickname, One-Arm. A sign of camaraderie. Andos may have been angry, but he was also curious enough not to report me—to bend the rules. Carrying the stone, I dove into the forest past Andos, pushing through walls of vines that hung like curtains from massive teaks and mahoganies, plowing through thick broad-leaved undergrowth. Once we put distance between ourselves and the shaman’s hut, the jungle came alive. Dodging rodents and batting away mosquitos, flies, and flying beetles, we stopped to listen for hints of predators. Nothing. Finally, I felt free to speak aloud.
“We’re fine, Andos. The shaman’s nowhere around. Let’s crack this thing open and see what happens. They’re supposed to be magical, and I could use some magic in my life. We can report the other four stones, and especially the dead body to the Village Council.”
In response, Andos’ lips tightened, and his muscles tensed.
Casting an impish smirk, I wrapped my arm around the stone in a protective stance.
“You used to be more fun,” I jabbed. “Noooobody’s going to find out. You’re curious…like me. Admit it.”
The two of us had been best friends from childhood, though I had seen him less in recent years because of his responsibilities. As a warrior, he was sworn to duty; nobody expected anything of me. My crippled arm disqualified me from ever joining their ranks. Nevertheless, I refused the path of envy. Besides, Andos had shown me more loyalty than my own brother had, a kindness which over the years kept me from slipping into despair.
In a small clearing, I spotted a jagged rock the size of my foot. Tossing a nervous smile at my friend, I crouched over the Quassani, ready to break it open.
Sighing, Andos’ arms fell to his side. He bent down and peered over my shoulder.
He was curious!
Using the sharp stone, I carefully sliced into the forbidden talisman.
A piercing cry flooded the jungle, jarring my mind. Light flashed, and an explosion of energy hurled us backward into a patch of snake fruit palms whose one-inch thorns stabbed into our backs and necks. I opened my mouth to scream in agony, but the effect of the howl—a sad, desperate plea for help—pushed the sensation of pain into the background.
“Andos, what was that?”
Groaning, Andos peeled his body off the red-stained barbs, wincing. Once he was free, he helped me pull away. The pain was excruciating, and neither of us spoke until I was clear.
“What?” he asked, wiping blood from his arms and glaring to communicate that he blamed me for every puncture in his skin.
“That voice…calling for help.”
“Probably heard me screaming,” he groused. “That’ll alert the shaman if he’s anywhere near. Now, let me check you out. Then, let’s get back to the village.”
“Seriously, Andos, someone was calling for help.”
Ignoring me, he gently fingered the punctures on my back.
“You’re imagining things, One-Arm,” he said slowly, as if distracted.
More pain shot through my body at his touch, and I started teetering. Andos’ sticky hands caught me.
“Come on, One-Arm, we really need to get away from here before anyone finds out what we’ve done. What you’ve done.”
A rustle among the leaves startled us. Andos yanked me toward him. Swirling through the air, a sharp object grazed my waist and slammed into the trunk of a mighty teak behind us. A keris—the rippled blade of sorcery used by masters of black magic. Andos had saved me. I jerked my eyes to where the blade had come from.
Lurking beneath a dense patch of ferns and struggling saplings a hundred feet away was a thin shadow of a man, limbs knobbed and contorted like a broken cockroach, swaying as if ready to pounce. He flashed yellow eyes of madness, the telltale sign of possession by an evil spirit. My doubts about the shaman being a murderer vanished in an instant.
“Run, Maruli,” Andos whispered, pushing me into motion. “Warn the village. I’ll hold him off.”
I dashed away at half the speed of what Andos could do, but it was as fast as my misshapen body could carry me. My back stung as sweat trickled into the thorn punctures. From the forest floor, tree roots reached up for my slow right foot, and I tripped. Spitting out mouthfuls of ants, dead leaves, and damp soil, I forced myself back into motion, cursing the childhood accident that had left me with a crippled shoulder and arm.
When I emerged from the jungle, I stopped in shock. The village’s eastern sector was barren of people. I ran under the circle of mango, guava, and rambutan trees that typically surrounded the giant mahoganies where we built our homes. Looking up, I spotted a youth climbing a ladder to his.
“Where’s the Warrior Chief or the Village Leader? The shaman is raving—possession.”
“Everybody ran north—to the river. Outsiders have come.”
Outsiders? The Village Leader never allowed people from other tribes into our territory. Why now?
My feet started pounding the bare ground again, sending plumes of clay dust into the air.
Soon, I came across other villagers streaming in the same direction. Stumbling into a pair of young children earned me curses from their parents, but I kept running. My own scrape with death had scared me senseless, and the rumors I had heard about the raving shaman nearly murdering a warrior two months earlier came rushing into my mind.
Hundreds of people had gathered along the riverbank—a bare stretch of land just beyond the northern sector. There, the water chattered over a wide, rocky course, making it the only safe place to bathe and wash clothes in what was in other parts a torrent.
I ran down a gentle grassy slope toward the chattering stream, but when I reached the crowd, I couldn’t see over their heads. Too short. As I pushed through layers of people, someone shoved me back, and I fell into the dust. Mocking catcalls from youths sounded above me, but the commanding voice of the Village Leader rose above them, and the taunting stilled.
“You’re testing, Maruli?”
Hands on her hips, the Leader scowled.
Disoriented, I looked into her glaring eyes. Dressed in a white gown—whiter than anything should have been in the jungle—she clicked her tongue. Filthy, bloody, and crippled, I wanted to disappear. She waved a dismissive hand.
“You’re not fit to be tested, young man. Go, tend to those wounds—”
“I don’t want to be tested,” I blurted, scrambling to my feet and bowing low. “I don’t even know what that means. Andos and I were attacked…by the shaman. He’s raving again, and he’s near his hut. And, we found a dead body inside.”
With the smooth quickness of a leopard, the Leader clapped her hands and barked orders, sending a dozen spear-wielding fighters dashing away to rescue Andos. Nobody hesitated when the Leader uttered commands.
Villagers backed away from her, allowing me my first glimpse of the outsiders. Each was dressed in strange garb from neck to foot—highlander garb. Nobody wore clothes like that in the hot, humid climate of the lowlands. My eyes zeroed in on the nearest visitor and I gasped.
Domu!
Arms shaking, I couldn’t breathe. All my present worries left my thoughts. Never expecting to see my older brother again, the burning pain of longing and anger flushed through me. Three years earlier, Domu had joined the Forsaken—the silent exodus of young men from our tribe. No Forsaken was ever allowed to return to our people.
Yet there he stood.
Still almost a foot taller than I was, he glanced my way. Despite the loose-fitting outsider clothes he was wearing, I noticed he hadn’t lost any muscle mass. If anything, he seemed even stronger than how I remembered him…and more resolute. The right side of his face, scarred from his warrior days, looked as if he had earned even more injuries during his three-year absence. My brother, once friend and fierce protector, accompanying complete strangers. What had he been doing? How had he changed?
With everything in me, I wanted to rush over and confront him, but I held myself back. I knew the social price my family would pay if I even so much as acknowledged a Forsaken in public.
One of the outsiders, an old man with a thick silver mustache, long hair, and a thin beard white as jasmine blossoms stepped toward me. Stretching from neck to ankle were whitish garments to match, hiding all but his dark wrinkled hands, feet, and face. He had a kindly demeanor.
Domu had whispered in the man’s ear and stepped forward to translate. The outsider addressed the Village Leader in another tongue, pointing at me.
“Honorable Leader, we shouldn’t discount this young man so quickly. Surprises can come from unexpected places.” Smiling, he held out his hand to me. Listening to my brother speak this foreigner’s tongue fluently, I was dumbstruck. I didn’t dare to look at the Leader, much less Domu.
“What is your name, son?” the elderly man asked.
“Maruli,” I answered, my voice scratchy from the dust. I coughed, triggering laughter from fellow villagers. Gritting my teeth, I turned my back to them.
“Well, Maruli, we’re going to give you a test.”
I shifted nervously, but the man’s kind eyes somehow gave me courage.
He called for an assistant.
A young woman approached. One glimpse of her, and I stopped breathing. She was prettier than anyone I had ever seen…even prettier than the Leader’s daughter who was Andos’ betrothed. I guessed she was about twenty-one, like me. Her skin was a slightly lighter brown than mine—as if she had managed to avoid sunlight. She had black silky hair, and her eyes, bright and lively, latched onto me, making my heart beat wildly. When she glanced at my birthmark, a diamond-shaped patch of unnaturally white skin above my navel, I felt naked. I practically was naked compared to her, for the men of our tribe, the Jupami, wear a loincloth and nothing more. Her eyes were as wide as our river as she looked at me, shaking her head and smiling awkwardly—as if she had seen a ghost. I, on the other hand, caught myself gawking.
“Have this young man tested,” the elderly man instructed. “His name is Maruli. Domu, please continue translating for him.”
The young woman stuttered as she spoke, her mouth twisting into odd shapes.
Domu didn’t translate what she had said, but I felt the reservation in her voice, the disagreement. In a flash, I fell into the all-too-familiar pit of self-loathing. Was my deformity that appalling? Was it my bloodied condition that made her reluctant? Or was it because I was a Jupami? My people were painfully aware of how other tribes on our island of Jawa looked down on us, especially the Priangan people.
Anger simmered internally as I followed her.
“Who is that man?” I asked accusingly. “And where are you all from?”
Domu stayed right behind me to translate.
“You’ll learn our names if you test positive,” she clipped, as if avoiding my stare. “For now, it’s enough to know that he’s a senior mage in Menara. Have you heard of the mountain fortress?” I shook my head, hoping to hear her golden voice as she explained. Domu knew I was lying, but he didn’t let on. “It’s located in the Priangan highlands, a two-week journey to the East. Now, my turn.” She spun toward me with the force of a gale and pointed at my crippled right arm. “What happened, and how long have you been this way?”
I dropped my head.
“H-happened when I was five. Big jackfruit fell from a tree and crushed my shoulder blade…never healed right.” Hearing Domu translate my words into another language made me feel small, like I was shrinking in stature before someone strong, powerful.
Surprisingly, she sniffed, rubbed her nose and eyes, told me to bathe in the river, and rushed away to speak with another visitor. Domu jabbed a warning finger at the river, telling me to hurry up and bathe, and then chased after her.
Bewildered, I approached the muddy stream. Even though this portion of the river was shallow, memories of village bullies trying to drown me in deeper parts flooded my mind.
Your parents should have hit you on the head and thrown you into the river.
I could still hear their wild taunts as they pushed me underwater again and again, my toes searching in vain for a foothold on the riverbed. Squirming and struggling against their arms, I was desperate for any and every breath of air I could steal in the rare moments I had forced my way above the surface.
Shuddering, I couldn’t break the spell of fear. In the distance, I noticed Domu heading toward me, so I dipped into the river. The muddy water stung as it entered the thorn punctures on my back and arms, so I washed the wounds as speedily as I could. By the time my brother approached, I was dripping on the riverbank.
“What are you doing back here, Domu? You’re Forsaken.”
“Careful, Maruli, elders may be watching.” His eyes darted to and fro. “Dahat is gathering human soldiers in the East. Already, he has slaughtered entire villages—any refusing to send men to his army. He’ll soon be marching west. The mages are recruiting people with ilmu talent to help defend Menara and save whatever tribes we can.”
“W-what’s ilmu?”
Even though I asked about ilmu, the mention of Dahat’s name sent my heart throbbing like the pounding on a heavy Jupami drum. Rumors of the demon Ancient haunted the dreams of every child in our village. Even as a teenager, I had had nightmares about him. The thought of him marching an army toward us was an unspeakable horror.
“She’ll explain,” Domu whispered as he stood at attention.
The young female mage approached with a tall lanky man. He was dressed like the other outsiders but looked to be only three or four years older than me. His right eyebrow was arched normally, but his left eyebrow caused me to stare. It was unusually thick, and instead of arching downward toward the lower part of his temple, it angled upward toward his hairline.
He said something to her, which earned him an angry retort. Domu refused to translate. Squirming, I wondered what the argument was about.
She drew her lips tight and glared at her counterpart. Into my palm, she slapped a piece of wood. Curved at the large end like a trumpet flower and narrow at its base, it was as long as my forearm and surprisingly heavy.
“Imagine fire shooting through the end of this…Maruli.”
Having no idea what she was talking about, I looked to her counterpart.
The tall lanky mage scolded her, but she folded her arms in defiance. Glancing at Domu, I hoped for an explanation, but he shook his head in embarrassment.
Sighing, the tall mage stepped toward me, Domu translating.
“This, Maruli, will test your talent potential in ilmu—the magic studied by the mages of Menara. Now, close your eyes and imagine the largest fire you’ve ever seen. When you’ve captured the picture firm in your mind, imagine that fire spewing from the end of this piece of wood. Can you do that?”
Magic? The word conjured images of the shaman’s dark arts, and again, I shivered. Was ilmu any different? I told myself it had to be. Unlike the shaman, these outsiders had honest faces.
Tipping my head backward, I closed my eyes, drinking in the warmth of the sun. I mused over a fantastical thought. Could I funnel such a powerful flame through the end of a small stick?
Too big—don’t even try, I told myself.
Instead, my thoughts settled on a giant bonfire—the kind made during a celebration. But how was I supposed to channel something that big through a tiny piece of wood? Casting doubts aside, I let my imagination loose. As I did so, I felt energy—a voice—a presence—take hold in my thoughts. Beads of sweat rolled down my forehead, and my arms shook. Within seconds, my whole body convulsed—as if I were possessed by the shaman’s raver.
“Stand back,” someone shouted in warning.
Before I knew what was happening, a huge ball of flame erupted from the wood, shooting across the river and knocking me to the ground. The blow winded me, and I curled into a ball, fighting for air. Others had been hurled backward, too, and they were similarly struggling to recover. The elderly mage and the Leader came running, followed by dozens of villagers.
Terrified by what I had done, I wanted to hide, to run into the jungle and disappear. But Domu reached for my arm, startling me back into the present. His eyes were wide with awe…or alarm, I couldn’t tell which.
The elderly mage said something in a weak voice as we hobbled to our feet.
“Found our candidate,” Domu whispered in translation.
In the midst of this confusion, villagers started yelling. Waves of fear sped through the crowd. Then, someone slammed into the outer ring.
“Watch out,” one of them cried as the crazed shaman broke through the final row of startled onlookers. People backed away as he snarled, licking his lips and grinning cruelly. People scattered amidst a chorus of shrieks. From his loincloth, the squint-eyed man drew his wicked keris and hurled it directly at my heart.
Built in the jungle beyond the borders of our village, the tiny shack was nestled against the twisted trunk of a mystical banyan tree. Its powerful branches lent strength to the shaman’s home, keeping its rough-hewn boards from collapsing into a pile of dry rot. But the whole concept was unnatural. My people built houses in trees. This man had dared to live on the ground. Did he have no fear of the jungle’s inherent peril?
Three spitting cobras slithered back and forth along the base of the structure’s decaying walls, ready to strike the uninvited. The shaman had trained them to ward off unwanted visitors while he was away. Fellow villagers swore that he used black magic to control them.
Andos, my best friend—my only true friend, signaled that I was making too much noise. Stubborn, I waved for him to follow me toward the other side of the dwelling. We trod carefully, giving the shack a wide berth. Once the other entrance was in sight, my limbs buzzed like angry bees, but I refused to give Andos the slightest hint about how terrified I was. After all, he was a warrior, and I was only a cripple. We froze, listening as sweat dripped down our faces.
Our jungle was typically filled with the sounds of chattering macaques, shrilling mole crickets, and the singing of an untold variety of winged creatures. Around the shaman’s hut, however, I heard nothing but the harsh cawing of crows. My chest burned with anxiety, and my jaw and teeth felt numb.
“Andos, what’s that stench? Smells like a dead animal,” I said, plugging my nose.
“Neighboring settlements have reported missing villagers, Maruli. Could be a dead person.”
“Come on, Andos. The shaman…a murderer? He’s just an old man. Sneaky and secretive, but I don’t think he’d actually hurt anyone… would he?”
We came upon the less-used doorway. Like the entrance of a deep mountain cave, it looked like the shaman had somehow expelled any hint of light from his dwelling. Moreover, the wooden door hung crooked on its hinges, like my crippled arm hung from my shoulder. Right inside the doorframe was a pile of silvery stones, proof of the rumors I had heard. Legendary Quassani stones were talismans of magic used by the island’s mages and shamans. The old man had violated tribal law by keeping them secret.
Andos pulled me back, pinching his lips to signal for quiet. He had joined the tribe’s warrior band three years earlier, and his training demanded strict obedience to tribal rules. I, on the other hand, was curious, and I brushed his hand away.
“The warrior chief has warned us to be wary of the shaman, to keep an eye out for him,” Andos whispered. “He thinks the old man is the one behind the disappearances. He’s not innocent, Maruli, so don’t pull any of your stupid shenanigans, okay?”
I pointed at the Quassani.
“Look, Andos. Those stones are just inside the door. And, if there’s a dead body inside, we need to report that, too.”
Pulling away, I stepped into the open, and spun around. Andos shook his head vigorously, pleading for me to take cover. I returned a mischievous grin, triggering a scowl of disapproval. In silence, we argued to a stalemate. Facing the hut again, I was drawn to the glittery stones. The cobras were nowhere in sight. I crept forward alone, heart beating wildly. The stench grew stronger.
A thin band of sunlight had slipped through the jungle roof, causing the Quassani to reflect an array of striking silvery hues. Andos waved frantic arms, but I kept inching forward. The overpowering smell of death pouring from the shack’s opening made my eyes water, but I pressed forward, holding my breath and pinching my nose.
Without entering, I reached through the doorway and touched a Quassani. Smooth and soft, like it might easily crumble, it felt cool despite the warm sunlight shining on it. Shivering, I peeked into the dark building. At the edge of the shadows lay a decaying corpse, flies and bees rabidly swarming it. Undeniably human. Fresh pangs of fear wrenched my stomach, and my skin tingled. How long had the body been there? Who was it? Why did the shaman have it in his house? Trembling, I couldn’t bring myself to investigate.
With my good arm, I pulled the nearest Quassani outside. Guessing at its weight, I jerked it upward with all my strength. But the stone was astonishing light—as if it were hollow, and I nearly fell backward because I had tugged at it so hard. Quassani in hand, I shot a hopeful glance at my friend still hiding in the bushes. He pounded his thighs, urging me to hurry. Teasing, I ambled lazily toward him. A few paces before reaching him, I shook the stone. It rattled softly.
“Someone’s definitely dead in his place, Andos. We need to report it. But for the moment, look at what I’m holding. Can you believe it? While we still have time, let’s find out what’s inside, and then report everything to the village elders.” Andos ducked at the noise I was making, but I stood proudly, wanting to show him I was brave, even if I couldn’t be a warrior like him.
“Shut up, One-Arm,” he hissed, “and let’s get out of here. Let the Council take care of it. I don’t want to face the shaman out here, much less his pet cobras.”
Pulling on my arm, he dragged me away from the bare-earth grounds that surrounded the shaman’s hut, away from the cobras, and deeper into the jungle.
I grinned at the use of my childhood nickname, One-Arm. A sign of camaraderie. Andos may have been angry, but he was also curious enough not to report me—to bend the rules. Carrying the stone, I dove into the forest past Andos, pushing through walls of vines that hung like curtains from massive teaks and mahoganies, plowing through thick broad-leaved undergrowth. Once we put distance between ourselves and the shaman’s hut, the jungle came alive. Dodging rodents and batting away mosquitos, flies, and flying beetles, we stopped to listen for hints of predators. Nothing. Finally, I felt free to speak aloud.
“We’re fine, Andos. The shaman’s nowhere around. Let’s crack this thing open and see what happens. They’re supposed to be magical, and I could use some magic in my life. We can report the other four stones, and especially the dead body to the Village Council.”
In response, Andos’ lips tightened, and his muscles tensed.
Casting an impish smirk, I wrapped my arm around the stone in a protective stance.
“You used to be more fun,” I jabbed. “Noooobody’s going to find out. You’re curious…like me. Admit it.”
The two of us had been best friends from childhood, though I had seen him less in recent years because of his responsibilities. As a warrior, he was sworn to duty; nobody expected anything of me. My crippled arm disqualified me from ever joining their ranks. Nevertheless, I refused the path of envy. Besides, Andos had shown me more loyalty than my own brother had, a kindness which over the years kept me from slipping into despair.
In a small clearing, I spotted a jagged rock the size of my foot. Tossing a nervous smile at my friend, I crouched over the Quassani, ready to break it open.
Sighing, Andos’ arms fell to his side. He bent down and peered over my shoulder.
He was curious!
Using the sharp stone, I carefully sliced into the forbidden talisman.
A piercing cry flooded the jungle, jarring my mind. Light flashed, and an explosion of energy hurled us backward into a patch of snake fruit palms whose one-inch thorns stabbed into our backs and necks. I opened my mouth to scream in agony, but the effect of the howl—a sad, desperate plea for help—pushed the sensation of pain into the background.
“Andos, what was that?”
Groaning, Andos peeled his body off the red-stained barbs, wincing. Once he was free, he helped me pull away. The pain was excruciating, and neither of us spoke until I was clear.
“What?” he asked, wiping blood from his arms and glaring to communicate that he blamed me for every puncture in his skin.
“That voice…calling for help.”
“Probably heard me screaming,” he groused. “That’ll alert the shaman if he’s anywhere near. Now, let me check you out. Then, let’s get back to the village.”
“Seriously, Andos, someone was calling for help.”
Ignoring me, he gently fingered the punctures on my back.
“You’re imagining things, One-Arm,” he said slowly, as if distracted.
More pain shot through my body at his touch, and I started teetering. Andos’ sticky hands caught me.
“Come on, One-Arm, we really need to get away from here before anyone finds out what we’ve done. What you’ve done.”
A rustle among the leaves startled us. Andos yanked me toward him. Swirling through the air, a sharp object grazed my waist and slammed into the trunk of a mighty teak behind us. A keris—the rippled blade of sorcery used by masters of black magic. Andos had saved me. I jerked my eyes to where the blade had come from.
Lurking beneath a dense patch of ferns and struggling saplings a hundred feet away was a thin shadow of a man, limbs knobbed and contorted like a broken cockroach, swaying as if ready to pounce. He flashed yellow eyes of madness, the telltale sign of possession by an evil spirit. My doubts about the shaman being a murderer vanished in an instant.
“Run, Maruli,” Andos whispered, pushing me into motion. “Warn the village. I’ll hold him off.”
I dashed away at half the speed of what Andos could do, but it was as fast as my misshapen body could carry me. My back stung as sweat trickled into the thorn punctures. From the forest floor, tree roots reached up for my slow right foot, and I tripped. Spitting out mouthfuls of ants, dead leaves, and damp soil, I forced myself back into motion, cursing the childhood accident that had left me with a crippled shoulder and arm.
When I emerged from the jungle, I stopped in shock. The village’s eastern sector was barren of people. I ran under the circle of mango, guava, and rambutan trees that typically surrounded the giant mahoganies where we built our homes. Looking up, I spotted a youth climbing a ladder to his.
“Where’s the Warrior Chief or the Village Leader? The shaman is raving—possession.”
“Everybody ran north—to the river. Outsiders have come.”
Outsiders? The Village Leader never allowed people from other tribes into our territory. Why now?
My feet started pounding the bare ground again, sending plumes of clay dust into the air.
Soon, I came across other villagers streaming in the same direction. Stumbling into a pair of young children earned me curses from their parents, but I kept running. My own scrape with death had scared me senseless, and the rumors I had heard about the raving shaman nearly murdering a warrior two months earlier came rushing into my mind.
Hundreds of people had gathered along the riverbank—a bare stretch of land just beyond the northern sector. There, the water chattered over a wide, rocky course, making it the only safe place to bathe and wash clothes in what was in other parts a torrent.
I ran down a gentle grassy slope toward the chattering stream, but when I reached the crowd, I couldn’t see over their heads. Too short. As I pushed through layers of people, someone shoved me back, and I fell into the dust. Mocking catcalls from youths sounded above me, but the commanding voice of the Village Leader rose above them, and the taunting stilled.
“You’re testing, Maruli?”
Hands on her hips, the Leader scowled.
Disoriented, I looked into her glaring eyes. Dressed in a white gown—whiter than anything should have been in the jungle—she clicked her tongue. Filthy, bloody, and crippled, I wanted to disappear. She waved a dismissive hand.
“You’re not fit to be tested, young man. Go, tend to those wounds—”
“I don’t want to be tested,” I blurted, scrambling to my feet and bowing low. “I don’t even know what that means. Andos and I were attacked…by the shaman. He’s raving again, and he’s near his hut. And, we found a dead body inside.”
With the smooth quickness of a leopard, the Leader clapped her hands and barked orders, sending a dozen spear-wielding fighters dashing away to rescue Andos. Nobody hesitated when the Leader uttered commands.
Villagers backed away from her, allowing me my first glimpse of the outsiders. Each was dressed in strange garb from neck to foot—highlander garb. Nobody wore clothes like that in the hot, humid climate of the lowlands. My eyes zeroed in on the nearest visitor and I gasped.
Domu!
Arms shaking, I couldn’t breathe. All my present worries left my thoughts. Never expecting to see my older brother again, the burning pain of longing and anger flushed through me. Three years earlier, Domu had joined the Forsaken—the silent exodus of young men from our tribe. No Forsaken was ever allowed to return to our people.
Yet there he stood.
Still almost a foot taller than I was, he glanced my way. Despite the loose-fitting outsider clothes he was wearing, I noticed he hadn’t lost any muscle mass. If anything, he seemed even stronger than how I remembered him…and more resolute. The right side of his face, scarred from his warrior days, looked as if he had earned even more injuries during his three-year absence. My brother, once friend and fierce protector, accompanying complete strangers. What had he been doing? How had he changed?
With everything in me, I wanted to rush over and confront him, but I held myself back. I knew the social price my family would pay if I even so much as acknowledged a Forsaken in public.
One of the outsiders, an old man with a thick silver mustache, long hair, and a thin beard white as jasmine blossoms stepped toward me. Stretching from neck to ankle were whitish garments to match, hiding all but his dark wrinkled hands, feet, and face. He had a kindly demeanor.
Domu had whispered in the man’s ear and stepped forward to translate. The outsider addressed the Village Leader in another tongue, pointing at me.
“Honorable Leader, we shouldn’t discount this young man so quickly. Surprises can come from unexpected places.” Smiling, he held out his hand to me. Listening to my brother speak this foreigner’s tongue fluently, I was dumbstruck. I didn’t dare to look at the Leader, much less Domu.
“What is your name, son?” the elderly man asked.
“Maruli,” I answered, my voice scratchy from the dust. I coughed, triggering laughter from fellow villagers. Gritting my teeth, I turned my back to them.
“Well, Maruli, we’re going to give you a test.”
I shifted nervously, but the man’s kind eyes somehow gave me courage.
He called for an assistant.
A young woman approached. One glimpse of her, and I stopped breathing. She was prettier than anyone I had ever seen…even prettier than the Leader’s daughter who was Andos’ betrothed. I guessed she was about twenty-one, like me. Her skin was a slightly lighter brown than mine—as if she had managed to avoid sunlight. She had black silky hair, and her eyes, bright and lively, latched onto me, making my heart beat wildly. When she glanced at my birthmark, a diamond-shaped patch of unnaturally white skin above my navel, I felt naked. I practically was naked compared to her, for the men of our tribe, the Jupami, wear a loincloth and nothing more. Her eyes were as wide as our river as she looked at me, shaking her head and smiling awkwardly—as if she had seen a ghost. I, on the other hand, caught myself gawking.
“Have this young man tested,” the elderly man instructed. “His name is Maruli. Domu, please continue translating for him.”
The young woman stuttered as she spoke, her mouth twisting into odd shapes.
Domu didn’t translate what she had said, but I felt the reservation in her voice, the disagreement. In a flash, I fell into the all-too-familiar pit of self-loathing. Was my deformity that appalling? Was it my bloodied condition that made her reluctant? Or was it because I was a Jupami? My people were painfully aware of how other tribes on our island of Jawa looked down on us, especially the Priangan people.
Anger simmered internally as I followed her.
“Who is that man?” I asked accusingly. “And where are you all from?”
Domu stayed right behind me to translate.
“You’ll learn our names if you test positive,” she clipped, as if avoiding my stare. “For now, it’s enough to know that he’s a senior mage in Menara. Have you heard of the mountain fortress?” I shook my head, hoping to hear her golden voice as she explained. Domu knew I was lying, but he didn’t let on. “It’s located in the Priangan highlands, a two-week journey to the East. Now, my turn.” She spun toward me with the force of a gale and pointed at my crippled right arm. “What happened, and how long have you been this way?”
I dropped my head.
“H-happened when I was five. Big jackfruit fell from a tree and crushed my shoulder blade…never healed right.” Hearing Domu translate my words into another language made me feel small, like I was shrinking in stature before someone strong, powerful.
Surprisingly, she sniffed, rubbed her nose and eyes, told me to bathe in the river, and rushed away to speak with another visitor. Domu jabbed a warning finger at the river, telling me to hurry up and bathe, and then chased after her.
Bewildered, I approached the muddy stream. Even though this portion of the river was shallow, memories of village bullies trying to drown me in deeper parts flooded my mind.
Your parents should have hit you on the head and thrown you into the river.
I could still hear their wild taunts as they pushed me underwater again and again, my toes searching in vain for a foothold on the riverbed. Squirming and struggling against their arms, I was desperate for any and every breath of air I could steal in the rare moments I had forced my way above the surface.
Shuddering, I couldn’t break the spell of fear. In the distance, I noticed Domu heading toward me, so I dipped into the river. The muddy water stung as it entered the thorn punctures on my back and arms, so I washed the wounds as speedily as I could. By the time my brother approached, I was dripping on the riverbank.
“What are you doing back here, Domu? You’re Forsaken.”
“Careful, Maruli, elders may be watching.” His eyes darted to and fro. “Dahat is gathering human soldiers in the East. Already, he has slaughtered entire villages—any refusing to send men to his army. He’ll soon be marching west. The mages are recruiting people with ilmu talent to help defend Menara and save whatever tribes we can.”
“W-what’s ilmu?”
Even though I asked about ilmu, the mention of Dahat’s name sent my heart throbbing like the pounding on a heavy Jupami drum. Rumors of the demon Ancient haunted the dreams of every child in our village. Even as a teenager, I had had nightmares about him. The thought of him marching an army toward us was an unspeakable horror.
“She’ll explain,” Domu whispered as he stood at attention.
The young female mage approached with a tall lanky man. He was dressed like the other outsiders but looked to be only three or four years older than me. His right eyebrow was arched normally, but his left eyebrow caused me to stare. It was unusually thick, and instead of arching downward toward the lower part of his temple, it angled upward toward his hairline.
He said something to her, which earned him an angry retort. Domu refused to translate. Squirming, I wondered what the argument was about.
She drew her lips tight and glared at her counterpart. Into my palm, she slapped a piece of wood. Curved at the large end like a trumpet flower and narrow at its base, it was as long as my forearm and surprisingly heavy.
“Imagine fire shooting through the end of this…Maruli.”
Having no idea what she was talking about, I looked to her counterpart.
The tall lanky mage scolded her, but she folded her arms in defiance. Glancing at Domu, I hoped for an explanation, but he shook his head in embarrassment.
Sighing, the tall mage stepped toward me, Domu translating.
“This, Maruli, will test your talent potential in ilmu—the magic studied by the mages of Menara. Now, close your eyes and imagine the largest fire you’ve ever seen. When you’ve captured the picture firm in your mind, imagine that fire spewing from the end of this piece of wood. Can you do that?”
Magic? The word conjured images of the shaman’s dark arts, and again, I shivered. Was ilmu any different? I told myself it had to be. Unlike the shaman, these outsiders had honest faces.
Tipping my head backward, I closed my eyes, drinking in the warmth of the sun. I mused over a fantastical thought. Could I funnel such a powerful flame through the end of a small stick?
Too big—don’t even try, I told myself.
Instead, my thoughts settled on a giant bonfire—the kind made during a celebration. But how was I supposed to channel something that big through a tiny piece of wood? Casting doubts aside, I let my imagination loose. As I did so, I felt energy—a voice—a presence—take hold in my thoughts. Beads of sweat rolled down my forehead, and my arms shook. Within seconds, my whole body convulsed—as if I were possessed by the shaman’s raver.
“Stand back,” someone shouted in warning.
Before I knew what was happening, a huge ball of flame erupted from the wood, shooting across the river and knocking me to the ground. The blow winded me, and I curled into a ball, fighting for air. Others had been hurled backward, too, and they were similarly struggling to recover. The elderly mage and the Leader came running, followed by dozens of villagers.
Terrified by what I had done, I wanted to hide, to run into the jungle and disappear. But Domu reached for my arm, startling me back into the present. His eyes were wide with awe…or alarm, I couldn’t tell which.
The elderly mage said something in a weak voice as we hobbled to our feet.
“Found our candidate,” Domu whispered in translation.
In the midst of this confusion, villagers started yelling. Waves of fear sped through the crowd. Then, someone slammed into the outer ring.
“Watch out,” one of them cried as the crazed shaman broke through the final row of startled onlookers. People backed away as he snarled, licking his lips and grinning cruelly. People scattered amidst a chorus of shrieks. From his loincloth, the squint-eyed man drew his wicked keris and hurled it directly at my heart.
