Chapter Five

The evening streets of Bato-Ko teem with brightly clothed people. Bead-draped locals parade beside us while Eastern visitors thump down the street in polished black shoes. I hear Rythian accents and speakers from the southern country of Malago. Street vendors hawk food from everywhere imaginable and some unimaginable. I smell pandan leaves steaming, curried fish balls, and fried potatoes spiced with paprika. It feels like we are at the center of the world instead of a lonely crack at its corners.

A hawker shoves a bowl of squid near my face, and a little black sauce splatters onto my tunic. Kuran dances away unscathed. She wears her long malong knotted at her chest like a dress, with her shoulders bare and her hair loose. Her ankles jingle with small bells. Even I can’t tell that she was crying only a little while ago.

“We should be careful.” I grimace and attempt to wipe away the stain, but it only widens into a greasy blob.

“You act like you’re my grandmother, not seventeen,” she says.

“Hah. You’re the one that should be setting a proper example for me, Ate Kuran.”

“I am! I’m showing you how to be young!” Kuran’s false sigh tugs into the widest of smiles, and it lightens my mood when I should be the one trying to cheer her.

Nothing can ever deflate her. That’s Kuran. I love her for it, and I envy her for it.

Unlike Kuran, I wear a malong on my hips, pleated over a simple tunic. The cloth is the finest thing I own, a gift from my father’s family when I was born, woven with stripes of gold and emerald. My mother slung me in it as a baby, and perhaps someone will wrap me in it when I die. My blue silk scarf doesn’t match, but I refused to go without it, no matter how much Kuran pouted.

I frown when the Toso compound comes into view. Making pleasantries sounds as appealing as sticking needles into my eyeballs. Kuran says I should not be so shy, but I cannot help that my tongue trips up and suddenly my feet do not work right. I worry I’ll knock over glasses and break plates. I hate parties, but this is for my sister’s happiness, not mine.

We walk through the gates into a space bathed with soft lantern light. Buildings of lacquered wood and generous windows cluster around a large central square open to the sky. It’s not unlike our grandmother’s home, but here, children peer down from balconies and the outdoor kitchen teems with cooks. Chickens cluck somewhere out of sight, and colorful paper lanterns are strung between the buildings overhead. Soft cushions are strewn in clusters on the wooden walkways that circle the space. It all looks so comfortable and inviting.

Kuran takes me straight to our host, Oshar Toso. It is the woman who asked for pineapple cloth, and she wears it as a stiff shawl over her shoulders as she stands near a table laden with food set up in a corner of the square. A cloud of soft white curls frames a kind brown face wrinkled with smile lines. Oshar is stocky and a little bit short, and she is everything I dreamed my grandmother might look like before I met her.

“Call me Nanay Oshar, my darlings.” She does not extend a hand to give a blessing but squeezes my shoulders as if we are family. “Have you eaten? Come, come, don’t be shy.”

She introduces us to her wife, Sayarala, a tall Turinese woman with deep russet skin. I paste on another smile and hope it looks pleasant instead of fearsome. Some old ladies come to chat with us at our market stall because they are lonely. I don’t mind them, but Bato-Ko has left me cautious, and from the din of voices in her house even at this early hour, Oshar is surely not lonely.

On the road, sometimes we eat thin soup for days, made of bones boiled until there is no flavor left. Here the sweets are piled up on one table: sweet sticky rice wrapped in banana leaves, sponge cakes colored with purple yams, flan dripping with syrup. Much of it is Tigangi fare, made with ingredients hard to come by this far north. My mouth waters at the smells, but Oshar’s warm welcome feels too good to be true.

“I thought there would be three of you?” Oshar asks, eyes bright with curiosity.

But before I can answer, Kuran smiles. “Unfortunately, our last performer has decided that religion suits him better than music. He’s off to join the Baylan, po.” If she’s affected by the admission, it doesn’t show on her face, but I feel another strike to my heart.

“Heavens bless him, then. I’m sure you will do just fine without him.” An odd look that might be sympathy passes across Oshar’s face.

“What songs would you like us to perform, Nanay Oshar?” Kuran asks, all smiles and fluttering lashes for our host.

“Let us begin with the destruction of our homeland and the founding of Tigang,” Oshar says.

“‘The defeat of Chaos by Astar the Builder’?” Kuran raises her brows. It is a song for funerals, not parties. My skin prickles as if awakened. Oshar nods.

“I will sing first and then eat later, Nanay Oshar,” she says.

Oshar nods, pleased, but settles down on a cushion and looks askance at us as if confirming some secret suspicion. Could she know our family? I gaze at the grass and hope any resemblance to my grandmother is not as keen as I think.

I busy myself clearing a space for Kuran’s performance. She kneels on a cushion under the cozy overhang of a porch and arranges her malong around her feet. She must be missing her musician, and I am only a mediocre performer, but her smile remains convincing.

She opens her mouth to quiet the crowd, but the gate swings open before she can begin. Guests rise to their feet, and Kuran is forgotten. My heart beats wildly, and I am frozen as if magic binds me again.

Arisa enters the house, dressed in scarlet silk. Today her hair is done in an intricate braid topped with the same golden comb from before. Glittering earrings dangle to her shoulders. She looks like someone born to rule others. She locks eyes with every guest who dares to challenge her. “I heard that the Toso family was having a party tonight. I’ve come to give you my blessing.”

I quickly bow my head, worried she might recognize me. I suck air in and out to calm my nerves, but my heart beats so loudly that I am afraid she can hear it.

“You are always welcome, Arisa, our beloved Astar.” Oshar bows and presses Arisa’s hand to her brow with a grimace she barely deigns to conceal.

I can’t breathe. The revelation of who she is brings no relief. What did that Archivist Alen do to incur her wrath? I feel in my gut that it has something to do with my mother, but I don’t know why, and I squirm as I stand there.

“May Omu’s light shine on you.” Arisa finishes the ritual, and amusement curls at the edges of her lips.

Arisa is the Astar reborn, picked by Baylan in her infancy to fulfill the role once taken by the founder of our country—appointed by the Diwata themselves. She is more than dangerous. She is important.

“The entertainment is about to begin, po,” Oshar says. Her tone betrays nothing but flawless politeness. Oshar’s age should demand respect, but the Astar is above us all, and Arisa seems to revel in it.

When I dare raise my eyes, I spy Arisa’s curly-haired guard out of the corner of my eye. I catch only the side of his head as he slips into the compound without notice, but I am certain it is him. His fingers twitch as if it’s difficult to keep them still. His movements remind me of a bird, as though his footsteps barely touch the ground. His presence brushes against something deep within me. My breath catches in my chest, and I force it back out.

“Perhaps we should choose another song.” My voice quavers, but it carries across the quiet.

Arisa remains focused on Oshar, but Oshar lifts her chin and squares her shoulders. “I have requested ‘The defeat of Chaos.’ Let us hear it.”

With a nod from Kuran, I lift my tumpong to my lips and blow a soft melody through the bamboo flute. Kuran tilts her head to sing, and her voice soothes the tension like a balm.

…

“In the time before…” Our stories always begin. I imagine the archipelago of Arawan as though I was there. A city perches upon the slopes of a great volcano, and the roads gleam black, cobbled with volcanic rocks. Everything around us is green and dark, and the air is thick with moisture. Always, in the song, it is sunset. The sapphire waters gleam as if on fire. The chirping of lizards and frogs welcomes the end of day as I gaze upon all seven of the islands that make up Arawan. They are so beautiful that Astar never longed for the heavens where she was born.

A country that even the immortal Diwata were jealous of.

My eyes drift over the crowd lulled by the spell of Kuran’s song. No one notices that I skip notes and fumble with my flute. Kuran has the attention of Arisa’s guard now, too. For a little while, I watch him, even though I should be wary.

His curly black hair is tied back in a short tail. He wears the uniform of the Guardians: a plain black tunic, loose trousers tucked into boots, and a red sash at his waist. I have no idea if the color indicates rank.

He stills as though he is waiting for something. Then he very slowly turns to look at me.

The unfathomable darkness of his eyes draws me in, and I am caught.

There is no way he could recognize me, I tell myself, but his eyes linger too long to be polite. His expression reminds me of a coiled spring. I fear my pounding heart will escape my chest, and I blow several off-pitch notes. Would he give me away to Arisa?

He looks away, and my breathing steadies as the song ends. The people in the room burst into applause while Kuran bows elegantly before them. I nod my head with a grimace and ball my hands tightly.

It feels as though an invisible hand released its grip on my heart, and I slump into myself. I wrap my arms around my chest and wish the night were over.

Oshar incants a prayer to honor the memory of Arawan, then requests a silly rhyme. Kuran cheerfully obliges. This time the children get involved, and the performance devolves into a pandemonium of banging brass gongs that outmatch the delicate sound of my flute. I wish I could share in the hooting laughter and the applause, but I am afraid to meet the guard’s unsettling gaze. I’m not needed, so I walk into a corner padded with cushions and try to melt into them.

I mumble polite answers meant to drive away polite guests. I keep my false smile painted on, but it fades every time my eyes drift back to Arisa’s Guardian. He leans against a shadowed wall with his arms crossed, and a sliver of warm lamplight caresses his cheek. I wish he would step into the light so I could see him better, but he seems more friendly with the shadows.

I sneak another look. The long sleeves of his tunic hide any paint on his arms, but I would be surprised if he had no ink on his body. He wears no weapon but a ceremonial kris tucked into his sash. Its ironwood sheath is engraved with a serpent design. The handle is a serpent’s head banded with gold. Guests walk hurriedly past him as if he is a snake sunning himself on the riverbank.

He does not act like a bodyguard, which is unusual. There is no deference in his posture, even toward Arisa. He gazes at his charge with mild disinterest, and if Arisa finds his attentions lacking, she does not chide him for it. I wonder again what it means, and I fear that he is someone not to be trifled with.

Kuran bumps into my shoulder, and I jump to my feet.

“His name is Teloh, by the way.” My cheeks are hot and not red, I hope. I despise that I have been so obvious.

“I can appreciate a fine pair of eyes.” My voice sticks in my throat. She doesn’t know what happened in the street, and she can’t ever know.

“Is that all?”

“I’m not a child anymore.” I turn to her, and she skewers me with a skeptical lift of the eyebrows. “Besides, it doesn’t matter. I’m not…” I couldn’t explain it to her even if I wanted to. To look at him feels like watching an approaching avalanche when there is no time to get out of the way.

Kuran rolls her eyes. “You are my sister, and you need to start acting like it.” She has a gleam in her eye that I do not like. “Let’s talk to him.”

“No!” I protest so loudly that guests eye us, but Kuran guides me through the throng, and they part for her, smile at her, and she smiles back. She doesn’t understand that this isn’t some silly girl’s infatuation. I curse that there’s no escape.

“Excuse me.” She puts on her brightest smile and doesn’t let me squirm away. “I’m Kuran. This is my sister, Narra.” His expression slams shut at the sound of my name. His eyes burn into my neck as though he can see through the scarf I always wear. My skin prickles this close to him, as if there is lightning in the air. But he doesn’t see Kuran. He gazes only at me. Kuran slaps my back with too much force, and I stumble toward him. I catch the silk of his tunic to stop from tumbling, and the world falls away.

The vision is like a wave crashing over me, holding me under. In it, we are slipping silently through the darkened streets of Bato-Ko.

“Are you sure no one saw us leave?” I ask. My voice sounds different, and when I glance at my reflection in a passing window, I don’t recognize myself, but Teloh remains the same. He’s not wearing the black of the Guardians, but a tunic one size too small paired with a red tapis over ill-fitting trousers. I match, only my clothes are too long, as if we’ve stolen clothes from someone else’s closet.

He flashes a grin at me. “And who’s going to stop us? In all this time, I’ve never been to the Lantern Festival!”

Tonight, all the houses have turned out their lights or pulled the drapes, and so for once, nothing lights our way except the moon and the stars.

I glimpse a glow up ahead and catch a little of Teloh’s enthusiasm. Soon we’ll be discovered, so I sear the memory of his smile into my soul and hoard it like a precious gemstone. I am not fond of touching people, but his hand in mine feels right. I pull him on, racing faster than him now, toward a lantern made of colored rice paper. It’s shaped into a star and dangles from a tree. The candle within it flickers dimly, almost burned out.

“Another one!” I laugh, pointing down the street. This one is a child’s contribution, a blobby-looking ball painted with a face. A few other late strollers walk toward the city’s most central square, and we follow them. As we approach, the street turns awash in light. A thousand lanterns hang on wires above and several hundred more sit on the ground. It’s as though we are trapped within a cloud of color.

Teloh sucks in a breath, and I am secretly pleased, for no matter how long I have known him, some things still manage to surprise him. When I am with him like this, the terrible past loosens its grip, and I revel in the freedom. For a moment, nothing matters except that he is here with me. Teloh’s dark eyes drink it all in, as though he’s ravenous for color, and when he turns to me, they lose not one bit of that hunger.

I take a step backward and stagger into Kuran as Oshar’s house comes back into focus. My head spins as if I’ve downed a jug of wine. What just happened? Could it be a memory from another life? I’ve heard such things are possible, but nothing close to it has ever happened to me before. I search Teloh’s face for an answer, but I cannot read it in his expression. I hate that I’m disappointed.

Before Kuran can speak, the Guardian raises a finger and points it at me. “Get her out of here, now.” His words are like a slap in the face.

Her. Not Kuran but me.

The next instant, we are pushed out the gate and left staring at it like two hungry rats chased with a broom. Kuran doesn’t know what to say when Oshar comes running out to apologize. She slips far too much money and plates of food into our hands, despite our protests. But Oshar does not invite us back in, and for once I think that luck is on my side.

I can’t get ahold of my heart. It races too fast, and a boom boom boom rattles against my chest like a warning. Run, my heart warns. Run away. You should never have come here.