Saints and Bodhisattvas

By Joyce Chng

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Where the straits interlaced each other with the confluences of currents and trade routes was the famed Golden Chersonese, a beacon of light, the center of all wealth and riches. Saints and bodhisattvas met there, allies in the inter-exchange of spirituality and learning. You would find your path there, they said. You would never hunger nor would you thirst. Bewitching creatures lurked in the Golden Chersonese, fantastic animals that populated your mind’s bestiary. Birds of paradise with tails that flamed like the sun, dragons with large flickering tongues and poisonous saliva, and large cats that roared and founded a city. It lured many explorers, sailors of the sea and wind. It lured me.

I was born in the middle, a straddler between two worlds, one of the sea and one of solid land. The midwife laughed and said I was destined to ride the waves, breathing both ocean air and the sap of sea almond and angsana trees easily. Ibu was perturbed by the midwife’s words, but she only held me, so she said, trying to protect me from the elements. I was in the middle, where the currents of life swirled like whirlpools forming at the wake of ships. At two, I was already swimming. At four, I stood at the prow of a skiff, the sea breeze on my face, the sea singing in my veins. At ten, I joined my father in his travels. I remembered soaring sunbaked stupas, the Sanskrit and Pali of saffron-robed monks, and the solemn tolling of gereja bells on Formosa’s hill. I remembered the fragrance of spices and sandalwood wafting through the narrow streets of Melaka, the cries of the vendors hawking their wares.

When I turned eighteen, I was given my own perahu. Rare for a girl, but I was never a girl, never a boy either. I wore a lacy kebaya at home, a simple chinon and baggy trousers at sea. My hair was bound tight. I swung on ropes, unencumbered by loose strands of hair. My right hand held a dao, a gift from a friend whom I saved. His ship burned, his cargo gone, but he lived. He was grateful to be alive. I was a saint for saving him.

I fought with his dao, now my dao. With it, I explored the Golden Chersonese.

Then, she came into my life like a bodhisattva.

My men were loudly discussing the merits of cooking while they repaired my ship. Away from home, they longed for their homes so they distracted themselves with repair work. Sleek, sharp of prow, my ship cut through the sea like a kris. Yet it was not invincible against the forces of nature. Wood wore down easily, got chipped and sometimes dented. The underside of the ship had to be scraped thoroughly. Months at sea meant abundant growth of sea life. The sharp edges of the shells on the ship’s sides hurt our exposed skin.

They joked about making seafood kari with the mussels as they removed them. On lean days we often picked them off the sides of the ship and ate them boiled in coconut water. I never liked them. I craved my mother’s ulam. I missed the cleansing taste of the finely chopped herbs and the bitterness of the fried shallots. But to play along, I laughed with them, like the way my father had taught me. In their eyes, I was the towkay’s son.

The last raid saw our rival, another band of lanun, trying to escape. In their panic, they rammed the prow of their perahu into the side of my ship. The sound of it made me sick to the stomach. It reminded me of breaking bones. We were lucky water didn’t seep in. We limped into our port, our lives and cargo intact. I was livid. We would have to spend the whole month repairing the ship and miss a season of plying the sea before the torrential rains returned. I hated returning to port and having to wait the rains out. For the repairs, I traded in a new chest of precious Chinese silk in exchange for tools and timber. I had intended the chest to be sold to a buyer. It felt like a bad start.

Around this time, the dry season was nearing its end, ready to go but unwilling to leave. The land was parched, the grass a brittle brown, and the wind hot against my cheeks. It blew in gusts, stirring up puffs of dust from the ground. A large desiccated spider tumbled across my sandaled feet. The withdrawing tide exposed the seabed rippling with life. Tiny fish darted in the pools of clear water. Crabs waved their pincer claws. I leaned back into the warm sand, my arm across my eyes, glad for some respite. I only wanted the repairs done as soon as possible. The heat lulled me into a light nap.

I heard someone walking towards me, footsteps crunching on the sand. I glimpsed beaded slippers glittering vivid red and green. Beaded slippers? I raised my face then to the glare of the afternoon sun. She stood before me, imperious, the sunlight outlining a slim figure clothed in a vivid sea-green kebaya and red sarong. Young nonyas were usually accompanied by a stern matronly chaperone when they left their house, if they ever left it at all. They led sheltered lives. What a rare occurrence indeed.

“You must be the captain of the Sri Matahari,” the voice was young and confident, clear with precise pronunciation of the patois spoken in our parts of the Golden Chersonese. I got up quickly, dusting my chinon and trousers as I surveyed the girl in front of me.

Her hair was a light brown. Under the sun, the strands shimmered gold. Her skin was the color of my own: the color of a Peranakan child - olive with subtle shades of perang. Her dark eyes were large and bright with a lively intelligence. Portuguese Kristang, then. There was a large population of them in this part of Melaka. They were mostly fishermen. The wealthier ones ran shipping consortiums.

“I am,” I said briskly.

“I have a request...a job for you,” the young woman continued without any introduction. “I will pay you.”

I smiled wryly. “I won’t agree to any request without knowing the name of my potential hirer.”

Her full lips twitched. She must have pouted a lot as a child. She schooled her irritation with a smile too. “I am Maria.”

“What can I do for you, Maria?” I stifled my own chuckle. She must have thought I was a man.

She leaned forward suddenly, her manner at once shy and conspiring. Something flashed bright at her neck. A silver necklace. “I want you to kill a man.”

“Kill a man?”

I raised an eyebrow. I had encountered such requests before and twice I refused them very politely. I wasn’t an assassin.

“Captain Neo,” Maria said severely.

“So you do know my name. Back to my question: Kill a man?”

“Not so loud!” the young woman snorted. My first mate, Halim, looked up sharply. He was always alert and quick to respond. That was why he was my father’s first mate and now mine. Only he knew who I actually was.

“I am not a killer,” I shook my head.

“You are lanun. Lanun kill people,” Maria pushed on. I frowned. I was beginning to dislike her attitude. I wanted her to go away. “You are not averse to killing.”

“You must have mistaken me for something I am not. I am just a simple trader,” I said very mildly. My men knew that particular tone very well. Suddenly, all repair work stopped and the men stood up, very slowly, with hands on their parangs and kris knives, glaring darkly at her. “You have such a low opinion of us. We are not the ruffians you think we are.”

“Ai meu Deus!” Maria said angrily. She had noticed their reaction. She was no fool.

“I know that expression, senhora. You don’t have to swear.”

“I would like you to hunt down the man who killed my father,” Maria whispered, her voice harsh, almost guttural. Her eyes were wet with unshed tears and she clearly hated showing that weakness in front of me and my men. “I know who and what you really are. Please help me.”

Her voice tugged at something in me. Loss. Pain. Despair. I thought of my father, already several years dead. He died when I was twenty, a victim of the prolonged coughing sickness.

“Please. Que os santos te abençoem.” May the saints bless you.

I knew the phrase. All the captains who plied the Golden Chersonese learned the two or three languages spoken at the major and minor ports, besides the “port tongue,” which was a mixture of all thelanguages together. I glanced at the silver necklace on her neck. It was a small crucifix. Serani. Most of the Portuguese Kristang were called Serani by the rest.

Against my better judgment, I nodded.

Her full name was Maria Fernandes.

Once she was perceived as non-threatening, my men went back to repairing the ship, their voices loud enough to be heard from the deck where I invited Maria for freshly brewed Ceylon tea. I did so, because it was the right way to show hospitality to guests, and because this was the way my father had taught me. It was also a good way to gauge my guest face to face, over tea and preserved sweetmeats from my own personal store.

Maria took off her slippers to walk up the wooden plank, even mincing daintily across without losing her balance. She politely declined my helping hand to step into the ship. Her sarong restricted her movements, yet she moved quickly and with grace. Soon, she sat, legs tucked under her, while I poured the tea into delicate porcelain cups. They were the craze at the moment, all the way from China. She nibbled on the sweetmeats, complimenting the taste of the sugared dry hawthorn. I sipped my tea, wondering who she really was, where her family lived.

“I am an orphan,” she said without being prompted. “If you are curious as I think you are. I was adopted by a Peranakan family. But I left on amiable terms. This kebaya and sarong…they belong to a friend who took me in out of pity.” She lapsed into silence, staring into the sea. Heat shimmered over the horizon. The sky was a clear blue.

“Ah, I see,” I said. “How will you pay me? This is a business transaction.”

She looked up, her eyes wide, her nostrils flaring. I realized she was afraid. “I will...pay you once the deed is done. At the meantime, please grant me permission to work onboard your ship.”

“This is still very vague, Maria. I can’t work on the basis of empty terms. My men need payment. Let me remind you that we are all rough people,” I shook my head. “We are all used to rough and hard work.”

Maria stared hard at me. “I have heard rumors about you, that you are actually a woman in disguise. I can work just as hard as a man.”

“What if I am?” I challenged back, suddenly angry at the intrusion of my privacy. Rumors were often spread by jealous gossip and idle chatter. “Can you handle a weapon? Will you faint at the sight of blood?”

“NO!” her shout startled me with its sheer vehemence. “I am not some fragile flower! If it’s handling weapons you want, I can do it. Teach me!” She spat the words out as if they bothered her.

“Well, then,” I said finally. “My ship’s still being repaired. We can’t leave immediately.”

“I can wait,” Maria pouted. “Even if it means a month.”

Halim chose this time to pop up, peering straight into the ship at us. He was a wiry man, built for the sea. Age had grizzled his temples, but his eyes were still sharp, his tongue even sharper. I saw him as a father of sorts, a replacement for my own. He wore his customary dark sarong and left his torso bare. His family kris hung by his side. “Adakah semua dalam keadaan yang baik?” he asked, glancing at Maria sternly. Maria glared back, unafraid.

“We are well,” I smiled, waving him away. “Don’t worry.”

My first mate nodded curtly and ducked back out into the afternoon sun, shouting orders to the crew to stop lazing around. Maria left her tea untouched. “I have no family left,” she said.

“We will talk more tomorrow,” I said, suddenly tired. Maria’s presence had stirred emotions I’d thought were gone. I missed my family.

I woke up from a dream where my mother was making sambal with the batugiling. Her strong hands rolled the stone cylindrical pestle across the large mortar board. I could hear the stone grinding against the chilli and herbs. Somewhere, someone was singing. The smell of the chopped galangal and chilli being mixed intoxicated me. My heart ached with longing. I opened my mouth to say something to my ibu...only to peer up, sore and ill-rested, at the ceiling of my cabin.

I found Maria waiting for me at the bottom of the ship. It was barely morning yet. The tide had rolled in and the hint of rain was in the air. The men slept in, wrapped in their sarongs. Only Halim seemed awake. He was idly fishing, but I knew he was also alert and listening for any sign of trouble.

She had not slept. She was still wearing her kebaya and was wrapped in a tattered shawl. I glanced down at her feet. Bare. The beaded slippers were gone.

“Are you comfortable?” I asked. Maria smiled wanly at me. “We walk barefoot on the ship. Are you sure you don’t need protection for your feet?” My own were callused from years on board ships.

She only nodded. The sky was beginning to lighten. A sliver of golden orange peered over the east. Was Maria the kind to bolt? Time to seal the agreement. I spat into my right hand and extended it to Maria. Without hesitation, she spat into her right palm and then pressed it against mine. She didn’t even flinch.

“Your life is now mine and my life is now yours,” I intoned the formal phrase used amongst people of our particular trade. “You share your food with us and we share our food with you. We eat the same food. We breathe the same air. The sea protects you and me.”

“Amém,” Maria said, crossing herself. My lips quirked. I decided I was going to like her.

“Let’s break fast,” I walked towards Halim who had started a fire to grill the ikan kuning he’d caught. “And let us get you something to wear. That finery has to go.”

“Please let me keep the kebaya,” Maria hurried to join me. “I want to remember something from my former life.”

“Of course,” I answered coolly. The cooking fish smelled delicious.

We found headgear, a plain grey chinon and dark green trousers for Maria. The cloth cap came from Halim’s own pile of clothing, the chinon and trousers from my chest since we shared a similar body type. Divested of her kebaya and sarong, Maria looked like a boy in her new clothes, her hair tied up into a tight bun and hidden under the cap. She wore no weapon yet. Her necklace still hung on her neck.

She ate with what seemed like a healthy appetite, picking the flesh off the fish bone with her fingers and chewing the whole fish head before chasing it down with more Ceylon tea.

“The ship’s not ready yet,” Halim reported. “We need one day more.”

“Our men are hardworking,” I said. My first mate grinned, a flash of white teeth.

“They are motivated by the sea,” he said, before leaning closer, darting a quick look at Maria who remained ignored by the rest of the men who swarmed over the ship. “You trust her?”

“Hers is a blood feud. She seeks revenge.”

“Keep an eye on her, kapitan. I would rather have her off the ship.”

“She has no family.”

Halim snorted. “That’s the reason given by half of our men. And...she’s...you know...a woman...” He let the sentence trail into silence.

“You said that about me a long time ago.”

“You are our towkay’s child.”

“Son. Our towkay’s son.”

Halim’s face reddened. “Kapitan, you proved yourself on the sea. Her? I am not sure, though I have heard that there are women on the other ships too, just as fierce and bloodthirsty as men.”

“Let her go clean the ship’s deck first,” I said finally, wrapping my headgear around my head. “That’s her first test.”

By mid-day, Maria hung around like a bedraggled ghost. The ship floor was scrubbed but she was thorough.

“Not bad,” Halim said, sounding unconvinced.

“Let her mend the sails,” I said.

By evening, she sat, looking pale. The sails were mended, the tears neatly sewn. She managed to get the tools from the men who treated her as some sort of novelty. Halim made seafood kari, the spices courtesy from our own supplies, the fish and shrimp netted from the day’s catch. Maria received her coconut husk-bowl of kari and retreated to the prow of the ship where she ate alone.

“Now let us see if she decides to stay,” I nibbled at my own food.

I was woken up by the sound of splashing water and the smell of cooking fire. I peered out from my cabin. Maria was boiling water in the tin kettle. Fish was already cooking on wooden skewers she picked from the fallen twigs beneath the portia trees. She had caught enough for all of us.

I smiled.

Sri Matahari cut through the water, as if relieved to be released from confinement. Her sails caught the wind full. I heard them humming their familiar song. Around me, the men went about their usual duties, checking the ropes, the hooks and sharpening their weapons. Halim stood at the lookout, his eyes watching everything. Our pilot, Abdullah, steered the rudder. He had an intuitive touch when it came to guiding the ship.

“Maria!” I barked.

She ran up quickly. Her eyes sparkled. I could feel her excitement. So far she had shown no seasickness. She didn’t seem to mind the sea. Perhaps, somewhere in her blood, there was seawater.

“Where does the murderer of your father live?” I asked.

“Temasek,” she replied quickly, her voice cold. “He lives on Temasek.”

While Sri Matahari sailed, I taught Maria basic weapon drills. I couldn’t possibly teach her all the things I knew. Instead, I chose one weapon and stuck to it. Maria handled the dagger easily. Block, attack, strike. Block, attack, strike. I knew the men watched the practice from the corner of their eyes, still painfully polite and reluctant to engage her with their activities.

“You need to be more aggressive,” I pushed her. “ Attack me. The people you meet later will not be nice nor will they be gentle.”

Maria gritted her teeth. She had stopped pouting. In fact, I had not seen her pout since she came aboard. She came at me, her guard open. I stepped aside and twisted her arm. She struggled.

“Again,” I said. I released her. She didn’t rub her arm. Instead, she inhaled deeply, closing her eyes, before opening them again. She rushed, I evaded, only to have her side-step me. Her foot caught me off-balance. I tripped and stumbled. The men chuckled.

She reached down to help me up. Her grip was strong. I got to my feet. I could smell Maria. She smelled of spices and sweat. Her hair oil was not unpleasant, her body soft and warm. I felt my body respond, a flush of moist heat between my legs. The response surprised me. I had never felt like this before.

Before I could speak, she had placed her dagger onto my bare neck. I felt the cold edge press gently against the skin. “Surprise,” she whispered in my ear. “You have thick soles. I think you need shoes.” She smirked.

“Beginner’s luck.” I pulled away, scowling at her. “Well done and thank you, no. I don’t.”

Halim sighted the ship from a distance.

We were nearing Temasek, having navigated the complex network of small islands and sandy shoals surrounding the island. Maria had spent the week on the ship learning how to steer the rudder, wrestle and hone her fighting skills, and scrub the deck with coconut-husk bristles. The week had passed uneventfully. The season had only begun. Most ships would only emerge from their hideouts and ports once the merchant ships arrived. The ones plying the straits now were either fishermen or...people like us.

I had grown used to watching Maria prepare hot water and food every morning. I…grappled with the surge of emotions and physical sensations whenever I saw her. I dreaded and craved standing next to her. She was the saint I couldn’t bear to touch, a bodhisattva so holy I felt guilty for even walking close to her. An exquisite and rare beautiful bird-of-paradise. Yet, she saw me as her captain and the person whom she had hired to kill her father’s murderer. The voice of reason in me warned me to stay far away from her and maintain an air of business. I had never had a woman on board my ship. Halim was right. It stirred up things in me.

The men were not immune either. One by one, they started to drift close to her, so that they could catch a glimpse of her before scuttling away with their dignity intact. A couple of them tried to share food with her. When she washed herself with the clean water we stored in barrels, everyone pretended not to see. We draped a sheet across her part of the ship to cordon off the area. Yet, she didn’t seem interested in any of the men. She treated them like older brothers. Strange and distant older brothers.

Kill the murderer, get my payment, and we would be rid of her. These thoughts filled my head.

Where would she go once the deed was done?

“Perahu!” Halim shouted.

It slid in confidently, like a hunting shark lured by blood and the prospect of a meal. The perahu was of the same make as Sri Matahari. Its sails were angled sharply. The captain was banking on speed. There were lanun who prided themselves on their attack skills. Many were hit-and-run experts: attack their opponent or a merchant, take what they needed, kill everyone aboard. I had seen ships adrift at sea, the crew dead and the cargo stolen. Most of the time, we just sailed past and offered a prayer.

What else could we do?

There were ten figures standing at the side of the ship, their weapons drawn. They were ready to board. Their pilot was steering the perahu so that it was heading at us directly. They were ready to board and kill. Abdullah yanked at the rudder and Sri Matahari moved, pulling away. It was our own tactic, to draw the enemy into a circling dance. “Let them give chase,” I said, my heart pounding. I relished the taste of the hunt. My blood was singing in my veins. Beside me, Maria swallowed convulsively. Her eyes widened.

The lanun drew close, enough to see their features. Their faces showed a range of colors: perang and putih. There were three Dutch men among them. Some of the Dutch decided to stay after incursions into the area. Most had moved to Batavia where I heard they wreaked havoc and were terrible masters. They had fought with the Portuguese for territory and local rulers used them as pawns to their own bid to power. These Dutch men looked battle-hardened, their skin thick and leathery, their eyes fierce. They wore the same clothing with the rest. They had thrown in their lot with these lanun.

“Short sabers,” Halim muttered darkly. “Probably stolen.” He hated the Dutch.

Maria gripped her dagger with a wild look on her face. She seemed to have seen something...someone on the ship.

“What’s wrong, Maria?” I said.

“It’s him. I recognize him. He’s there on the ship!” Her voice trembled, halfway between fear and exhilaration.

“Who’s he?” I growled.

“My father’s killer. One of the white men! There, look, he’s wearing headgear!”

I saw him. He was a middle-aged man with white hair and grizzled face. Tall and lanky, he leaned heavily to his left. Old injury?

“Are you sure?” Halim snapped.

“Yes!” Maria shivered. “Yes!”

“You ready?” I asked her. “Are you sure?” I repeated Halim’s question.

“Yes, I am.”

“Abdullah, we are going in,” I shouted.

Abdullah needed no further instruction. Sri Matahari began her attack run.

“He killed your father?” I whispered.

“Yes, he did. They fought over something a long time ago. They were...friends. He killed papa. He killed him and Mama pined to her death. I saw her die. I was only ten. Ten. I want to kill him for what he did to Papa and Mama. He destroyed my family!” Maria’s knuckles were white, her breathing shallow. Her eyes, though, blazed with hatred.

“Today you get to kill him and avenge them,” I said.

We drew close enough to board. The lanun yelled curses at us. My men hurled the boarding hooks.

With a laugh, I leaped across, my dao aimed at the captain of the ship.

He was an old man, even older than Halim but he fought harder than a cornered harimau. Still, I managed to subdue him, kicking him hard in the ribs. He fell hard backwards, his head hitting the boards. Dark blood seeped beneath the head. His men roared, having witnessed the death of their captain. They were going to fight even more viciously now.

In the tumult of combat, I didn’t see Maria. Everybody was busy killing or trying not to get themselves killed.

The chaos parted, to reveal Maria confronting the Dutchman who killed her father. Her eyes screamed death. She yelled a stream of Portuguese words so obscure I didn’t understand most of them. Only “death” and “go to hell” made sense.

The man seemed to freeze, as if he recognized her, before he launched into a series of slashing cuts to drive her off. He wanted to kill her.

Maria ducked, dodging the saber. The silver necklace swung, catching the light of the sun. Then my line of vision was hindered by a tumbling mess of wrestling men. When they rolled away, I looked desperately for Maria. What I saw sent shocks up my back.

The Dutchman had her pinned to the floor, his saber tip pointed towards her throat. She was resisting him as fiercely and strongly as she could, spitting into his face. He swore and cursed at her. Suddenly, he grunted and his entire body stiffened. Maria had somehow managed to shove her dagger deep in his chest.

“Go to hell,” I heard her say in Portuguese. The man didn’t respond. He was already dead. She looked disgusted as she pushed the corpse off her body and pulled the dagger out of its chest. There was a deep hole, welling quickly with thick red heart’s blood.

By this time, the battle was done. The remaining crew members begged for mercy, only to have Halim slit their throats with his kris. The rest of my men went about the dead bodies, making sure the crew remained dead. The ship was carrying stolen cargo: three boles of expensive Chinese silk and two large cedarwood chests. Upon opening the chests, we found eighty gold and silver ingots in each. They must have recently attacked a merchant ship to have such riches. We were in luck. I thanked all the deities, even the saints and bodhisattvas. I was already planning to give some of the gold to Ibu in my next visit to my family home.

Dagger in hand, Maria stood in the sea of corpses, staring numbly at the dead men, including the body of her father’s killer.

“It’s done,” she said in a soft voice. “Rest in peace, Papa and Mama.”

She didn’t cry. After wiping her dagger clean of blood, she helped the men carry the cargo across the plank, back to our ship.

We left the perahu adrift, the fate of every lanun who died at sea. Sri Matahari sailed away, richer and heavier.

“I am voiding our agreement,” I told Maria when the ship found shelter at a quiet mangrove swamp. Halim was wading in the soft mud, ready to hunt for the large meaty crabs. We would celebrate later with a meal of boiled mud crab.

“Why? I promised to pay you,” Maria sputtered. She seemed to have weathered her first kill well.

“We have two chests of ingots. I am going to give you eight of the gold ones. I hope you can start a new life with them.”

“Eight gold ones,” Maria let her words trail off.

“We will drop you back in port tomorrow,” I said. “Go back to your friend. Pay her one gold ingot as compensation.”

“No, I want to stay,” Maria said firmly. “I want to stay on the ship. With you.”

“I am not your protector.”

“You are not,” Maria said. “But we swore an oath, remember? Your life is now mine and my life is now yours.”

“Ah.”

“I want to uphold our oath,” she said, watching Halim catch his first mud crab. He was chuckling away like a little boy with his first catch, his face and legs smeared with mud. The men laughed too. It had been a bountiful day.

“I want to travel the Golden Chersonese with the ship...with you,” she continued, her gaze returning to rest on me. She was very close now. I could smell her. She washed herself thoroughly with our water after the encounter with the lanun. She bore the fragrance of sea salt. Her dagger rested tucked in her belt. “I want to know you better,” she said shyly.

My heart rose at those words. I tried to maintain a stern demeanor. “You might get more than what you bargained for.”

“The Peranakan matriarch bitch made me do all the menial chores,” Maria snorted. “I can endure anything.”

“Anything? Including me? I can be rather unbearable, just ask Halim,” I replied. “Are you sure?”

“You are interesting, Captain Neo,” Maria giggled.

“I am only interesting?”

Maria laughed her first real laugh. Such a wonderful sound. The men glanced quickly at her, startled by her sudden gaiety.

“Of course,” her eyes sparkled merrily. “That is why I want to know you better.”

“Indeed,” I said. “Indeed.”

So, you came into my life like a bodhisattva. We sailed the Golden Chersonese together, you and me, straddlers between the worlds. With two of the gold ingots, I bought you a pair of new boots, no more beaded slippers, but in the latest fashions outside the Golden Chersonese. They were apparently the rage in the courts of the kings and queens. They were made of the finest leather, with the tracery of yellow flower embroidery curling along the edges and the softest of velvet lining their insides. You laughed and said you could run faster with bare feet. “Don’t be silly,” you said as the sun rose above us in reds and oranges.

I laughed back. You kept the shoes in your private wooden box with the kebaya and sarong. You still wore your silver necklace.

And all was right in the world again.