ANDA MANGIL’S CAR was big and comfortable, and though it was about thirty-five years old, it looked pristine, the dark-red paintwork buffed carefully, the silver radiator gleaming, even the tires blackened regularly with special polish. Inside was just as beautiful, with the wooden dashboard and old-fashioned radio, soft, dark-brown upholstery, and chocolate-colored carpet underfoot. But it was more than that—Anda Mangil had decorated the inside of the car with little pictures of Jayangan’s sacred places, cut from magazines and mounted in colorful plastic frames that had then carefully been glued to the walls. Colored foil wreaths and garlands had been positioned around each picture. A tiny silver-and-glass vial of sacred mountain-spring water hung from the rearview mirror, along with a bunch of artificial orchids. In the glove box Anda Mangil kept miniature copies of each of the three great holy books of Jayangan—the Mujisal Book of Light, the Nashranee Book of Love, and the Dharbudsu Book of Life—as protection against accidents. Anda Mangil himself was a Dharbudsu, but he said that it was a good thing to have all three books with you, as triple protection.
Anda Mangil had had this car for as long as anyone could remember, and he loved it dearly. Indeed, it was a standing joke in the village that Anda Mangil was married to his car, that she was a most exacting wife and certainly did not leave him time or money enough to look for a real human wife. Anda Mangil did not mind the joke. He was a round, cheerful, simple man with a bouncy and hopeful nature, and he laughed as heartily as anyone at his obsession with the car.
Dewi’s father sat in the front with Anda Mangil, chatting equably about village affairs, and the weather, and crop prices, and other such ordinary things. Adi and Dewi sat in the back. Normally, Dewi would have enjoyed looking at the pictures of the sacred places, but today she had too many other things on her mind. Adi had looked curiously at them—and had exclaimed over the lovely little sacred books that Anda Mangil had reverently taken out of the glove box to show him—but now he was silent, staring out the window as the countryside slowly unrolled past them.
Dewi suddenly felt sorry for him. At least she was in familiar territory, and she had her wise and brave father with her. Poor Adi was alone. She leaned over to him and whispered, “Have you ever been to Kotabunga before?”
Adi shook his head. “It was to be my first visit. I was so excited. Kota Bau, the main city in our part of the country, is big but ugly, and smelly. But Kotabunga, home of the Sultans, is supposed to be so beautiful.”
“And it is beautiful,” said Dewi. Her face clouded. “How I wish we were just going sightseeing there!”
He nodded. They relapsed into heavy silence, each lost in their own thoughts.
Anda Mangil shot them a glance in the rearview mirror, then leaned forward and clicked the radio on. The latest hit song, “Beloved,” was playing, and Anda Mangil softly sang along to its haunting melody of lost love. Everybody was crazy about that song in Jayangan that year; you heard it everywhere. It lightened the mood in the car; even Bapar Wiriyanto, no great lover of pop music, was smiling. Adi began to hum along with it, and Dewi listened with pleasure as she watched the parade of life outside the windows. Fields and villages lay on either side of the road. The day was well advanced, and people in big hats bent over their work in rice fields; a team of water buffaloes patiently pulled a plow. Cars and trucks and buses and motorbikes and bicycles filled the road like a great noisy river, and roadside stalls were doing a busy trade.
The closer they got to Kotabunga, the busier it became, and soon, as they approached the city proper, horse-drawn carts and pedal-powered betchars, a kind of rickshaw, joined the throng. Anda Mangil, still humming under his breath, was kept busy dodging in and out of all this traffic. He obviously enjoyed it; his round, cheerful face was alight with glee as he cornered and smoothly wove in and out. He played the car horn as if it were a musical instrument at a dance, announcing a new step. Through the smart new suburbs, with their white mansions behind high walls topped with broken glass and rusty iron; through the busy market district, where traffic was slowed almost to a standstill; through the rows of tiny higgledy-piggledy houses of betchar and horse-cart drivers; past stalls and food carts and busy restaurants; dodging through streets lined with hotels and guesthouses full of foreigners from all the corners of not only Jayangan but the whole world; past the huge batik market; and finally into the gold and jewelry district, with its dozens of little shops.
There, at last, was Bapar Suyanto’s guesthouse, sandwiched between two gold shops. Anda Mangil stopped the car and they got out.
“I have decided to stay overnight at my cousin’s place, and only go back to Bumi Macan tomorrow,” said Anda Mangil, as Dewi’s father thanked him and paid him for the trip. “Would you like me to come back here tomorrow?”
His eyes met Bapar Wiriyanto’s. The dukun nodded. “Thank you. That would be kind.”
Anda Mangil smiled. “Very well. Enjoy yourselves.” He looked at Adi. “I think you’ll find Kotabunga exceeds all your expectations. But then, maybe I’m biased!” He laughed, and with a wave, he maneuvered the car back up the street. They stood for a moment, looking after him. Then Bapar Wiriyanto sighed. “How I wish the world were full of people like Anda Mangil, taking pleasure in all things in life. It would be a very much better world if that were so.”
In front of Bapar Suyanto’s guesthouse was a little flower-filled courtyard, with cane chairs arranged invitingly around small round tables, and a fountain playing. Dewi noticed a woman sitting at one of the nearby tables, sipping a glass of iced tea. She was a foreigner, and one of the strangest-looking people Dewi had ever seen. She was tall and thin, with a long nose, blotchy red and white skin, and hair of such a bright red color that Dewi could not help staring. It was as red as flame, she thought, as unnaturally red as the tinsel garlands that decorated Dharbudsu temples on feast days. It stuck out in all directions, escaping the bright paisley scarf she had clumsily tied around her head. She was dressed in a very odd collection of clothes—loose yellow satin trousers under a yellow and red and pink embroidered tunic with long sleeves, a sequined waistcoat, a long black sleeveless coat, and a second scarf in various bright colors draped around her neck. No wonder she looked so hot and prickly! A collection of gaudy trinkets on silver chains hung down her thin, almost concave chest, and long bead and silver earrings hung to her shoulders. Around her ankles she wore thick silver chains, and her dirty feet, with long, incongruously red-painted toenails, were bare.
The woman looked up, straight at Dewi. She smiled, a curiously intimate smile, but it was not this that froze Dewi to the spot. It was the woman’s gaze, which was like nothing she had ever seen before: She had large, light-brown, almost yellow, eyes, black-rimmed as a cat’s, and her pupils—her narrow, vertical pupils—shone red, red as flame. Or, at least, that was how it seemed to Dewi in that horrified instant. She blinked, and saw that she must have been mistaken, for the woman’s pupils were an ordinary black, and round.
The woman smiled again and looked as if she were about to speak, but Dewi had had quite enough. She hurried away to her father and Adi, who were standing at the reception desk talking to the girl there. And what the girl had to say almost made Dewi forget about the odd stranger sitting there in her chair.
“I am sorry,” said the young woman. “I am sorry,” she repeated, “but you have just missed Bapar Suyanto. He was called away to the palace on urgent business by the master of ceremonies, Lord Emas. Perhaps you could go there.”
The dukun pulled at his lip. “Right. Thank you.” He turned to Adi and Dewi. “You two stay here. Miss,” he said, turning back to the receptionist, “please book us a large room. We will stay here tonight.”
“Certainly, sir,” said the girl.
The dukun fumbled in his pocket and brought out a roll of small banknotes, which he handed to Dewi. In an undertone, he said, “Go and buy something to eat from a stall. I will go in a betchar to the palace and return as quickly as I can. Do not go anywhere else, do you understand? And do not speak to anyone about what we are doing here. And”—here he dropped his voice even lower—“there is something else besides money in this bundle of notes, which I want you to keep on you at all times, do you understand? Don’t look at it right now. But keep it, hold it safe, and it will protect you. Do you promise me that, Dewi?”
“Yes, Father,” said Dewi, taking the bundle of notes and putting it in her pocket. Unease gripped her. “Please, Father, you will be careful, won’t you?”
“Of course, my dear child,” he said, gently touching her shoulder. “Don’t be afraid. Just remember what I told you.”
Dewi wanted to ask him more questions, but the dukun smiled at them both and left swiftly, heading back out into the street.
“Shall we go and find something to eat, then?” said Adi.
“I am quite hungry,” admitted Dewi.
“Young ones, listen.” The voice behind them made them jump. “Young ones, you must hear this.”
It was the redheaded woman from the courtyard. Up close, she was overwhelming. Her voice was deep, deeper than any woman’s voice Dewi had ever heard before. She moved strangely, in a motion that was both gliding and jerky, as if she were trying to remember how to walk. Her hands were long, her fingers narrow, her nails curved and burnished to a high red sheen. Her hair swung under her scarf like a living thing, while the angry red heat blotches on her skin seemed to glow brighter with every word she spoke. She smiled in a way that was meant to be reassuring.
“It was not that I, Kareen Amar, did mean to make you afeared.” Her accent was odd, as was the way she used Jayanganese. “I heard what was said. Yet such cannot be true. Lord Emas is away, so it could not be he who called Bapar Suyanto to the palace. It is I, Kareen Amar, who tells you this.”
Adi and Dewi stared at her. The woman came closer to them, and as she did so, a strange smell caught at Dewi’s nostrils. It was a smell like…like…she couldn’t quite place it, but whatever it was, it made the hair rise up on the back of her neck.
“It is I, Kareen Amar, who tells you this. Kareen Amar,” she repeated with an odd eagerness, searching their faces as if they ought to know who she was, and the significance of what she was saying. Seeing they had no idea who she was, she fumbled in the pocket of her jacket and brought out a grubby business card. “You look here. It says.”
They glanced at the clumsily printed card. In big, wavy letters, it announced that this was “Kareen Amar, renowned singer and songwriter.”
“You see?” said the woman eagerly. “You read?”
“We read,” said Dewi uncomfortably, shooting a glance at Adi, who was just as disconcerted. Kareen Amar’s name meant nothing to them; they had never heard of her. Besides, she didn’t look like any singer Dewi or Adi had ever seen, but a freak, a madwoman.
Kareen Amar was surveying their faces anxiously. “I know this, young ones. You must listen to me. Really listen. Lord Emas is away. He is not at the palace. Bapar Suyanto is not there either. Listen to Kareen Amar. Kareen Amar knows. This is so.”
Dewi and Adi looked at each other. Then, with one accord, they rushed out of the reception area, through the outer courtyard, and into the street. They looked wildly up and down the street, then Adi gave a shout. “There, look, the betchar, just turning the corner!”
Unmistakably, it was the dukun, sitting straight-backed in the elevated carriage of the vehicle, the betchar driver pedaling slowly behind him. Usually, betchar drivers were young, but strands of coarse gray hair escaped from under this one’s cap. His slow, almost clumsy gait as he pedaled along gave them hope they might catch up with him. “Bapar Wiriyanto! Bapar!” called Adi, and he ran down the street, Dewi close behind him.
The dukun did not turn around, but the betchar driver must have heard them, for he looked over his shoulder at them. He was a small, wizened man, with little, narrow eyes. He looked at them and smiled. His eyes seemed suddenly to grow, to change from brown to red, his lips to stretch wide, revealing a mouthful of sharp teeth. Dewi and Adi froze in their tracks. There was a malevolent power as deep as it was inexplicable in the betchar driver’s unnatural red eyes: It mesmerized and paralyzed them so that for a few crucial seconds they were unable to move, only stare after the betchar as it went up the street and around the corner.
Not once during all this time did the dukun turn his head. By this, and what they now realized was his unnaturally stiff posture, Dewi and Adi knew he had been bewitched and could not move or speak, any more than they could. It was only when the betchar had vanished around the corner that they regained control of their bodies.
“What was that?” gasped Adi, shaking. Dewi shook her head, baffled. “Whatever it was, we’ve got to follow. This time, I’m not going to stand by and do nothing!” Adi suited action to words, taking off down the street, in the direction the betchar had gone. Shock and fear had numbed Dewi completely. Her father had said not to leave the guesthouse. He’d told them to stay safe. And anyway, they’d never catch up with that thing, that demonic betchar driver. She suddenly remembered something else her father had said, about the thing that would protect them. Heart pounding, she pulled out the banknotes and unrolled them carefully—there, in the middle of the roll, was a strange small, sharp, curved object the size of a fingernail. Her stomach gave a lurch. She knew at once what it was. A claw. A tiger’s claw. Her father’s own talisman, preciously kept. Tears filled her eyes. He had given her his own protection! The numbness drained away. She must be worthy of his trust, she must, she must!
She set off after Adi. Rounding the corner of the next street, she caught up with him; he had come to a standstill.
“Can’t see it at all,” he panted. “The betchar’s vanished completely.”
The betchar must indeed have been an otherworldly vehicle, for it wasn’t easy for a normal vehicle to move in this crowded street, the main gold sellers’ alley. The gold dealers had set out their wares on long wooden tables in front of their shop doorways and were doing brisk business. Most were from the Radenteng people, whose ancestors had come from the mighty empire of Radentengan, far to the north of Jayangan, centuries before.
Adi and Dewi fought their way through to a less crowded part of the street, near a rather down-at-heel little gold store called She-Po Gold Market. There was not even a counter outside this one; the dusty little shop looked closed, a bamboo blind drawn across its smeared window. Panting and disheveled, from the vantage point of the shop’s doorstep they looked out over the milling masses. But of course there was nothing to be seen.
“What can we do now?” Adi wailed.
“I don’t know.” Dewi took out the tiger’s claw. “Father gave me this,” she said.
Adi stared at it. “Oh,” he said blankly.
“It is my father’s talisman. He said it would protect us.”
“I see,” said Adi gently. Their eyes met. Like Adi’s master, Dewi’s father had sacrificed his own safety to protect them. It was up to Adi and Dewi not to let them down.
Dewi’s mind was slowly clearing after the shock of what had happened. She said, “That thing—the betchar driver—that wasn’t a hantumu, was it?”
Adi shook his head. “It certainly didn’t look like anything I’ve heard about. Though it had eyes like those of ogres or demons in puppet plays.” Jayangan was famous for its puppet plays, in which the forces of good—princes, gods, animals of various sorts—battled the forces of evil, like ogres, giants, demons, and witches. “It certainly was not human,” he added firmly.
Dewi shivered. “No. It was not. But if it’s a demon, it must be a shape-shifter. Father would never have got into the betchar if he had seen the eyes of that thing.”
“So how did we see it?” said Adi.
“I don’t know. Perhaps it chose to show itself to us like that because it wanted to frighten us, to warn us off.”
“Then it’s probably vanished into another world,” said Adi gravely. Dewi shivered again.
“There’s only one thing we can do now,” said Adi. “We have to do as my master and your father wanted. We have to go and see the Sultan.”
“You can’t just walk in there! You have to make an appointment through a Court official. And how are we going to do that? We don’t know anyone there. We are young and unimportant.”
“We will find an official,” said Adi, squaring his shoulders. “We will ask for an audience. You will see.” He fumbled in his pocket. “I have my master’s card here. Everyone at the palace knows Empu Wesiagi. He is an honored visitor. They will let us in with this.”
Dewi looked doubtfully at the crumpled business card. “Are you sure?”
“Well, we can try,” said Adi with a sudden, darting smile. Dewi’s spirits lifted. He was so positive, so determined not to let obstacles stand in his way. She smiled back. “Yes, we can,” she said. “We…”
Suddenly, Adi’s face changed. He was staring at something up the street. Dewi turned. Coming straight at them through the crowded street, scattering people right and left, were four black-clad men riding on motorbikes. The hantumu! She turned to run, as did Adi, but before they could take a step, they felt hands grabbing them, propelling them back through the dark doorway of the gold shop. Slam went the door, and they were in a hot, close, dimly lit room. A woman’s voice said sharply, “Get down, there. Don’t move. Don’t make a sound.”
Hardly daring to breathe, Adi and Dewi did as they were told. Crouching in the darkness, heads down, they couldn’t make out the features or form of the person who had spoken to them. They could see only a pair of very small, indeed tiny, feet in beaded slippers. “Stay there. Do not move, understood?”
They nodded, without saying a word or looking up. They saw the feet move off, heard the shop door swing shut, something rattling. Then silence.