Chapter One - Richard Lewis

The dregs of the monsoon rain decanted as a thick brown stream into the Batu
Gede mangrove swamps. In the washed out sky, a thin scrim of clouds layered the sun.
The ramshackle village of salt-makers' huts had been destroyed, with only a few
yellowed bones of bamboo visible. The mangrove plants' umbrella roots hid other kinds
of bones and their decomposing flesh. Driving past, Reed caught that sickly sweet stink.
The house where Naniek had boarded with Parwati and her daughters, and where
Desak had hid like a mouse, was a ruined hulk, the roof collapsed in a jumble of charred
timber and broken tiles. Reed didn't know what he was doing here. What was the purpose
of this pilgrimage? What good would it do? Should he get on his knees and like a good
penitent crawl through the high weeds and broken glass until his flesh was torn and
bloody?
He picked his way through the debris to of the wing where the family had lived.
The damp stink of fire and ash rose up around him. Shoving a collapsed rafter out of the
way, he entered Naniek's room, where Desak had also slept. There was nothing there but
a blackened mattress under a roofless square of sky.
The walls still stood, smeared with soot. The crooked window was curiously
intact, glass panes shut tight against the frame. Reed's shoes crunched on smashed tile as
he crossed to the floor to look out the window. High weeds choked the perimeter of wall,
creeping toward the center's patch of bare dirt.
On which was drawn a hopscotch cross, the lines scratched fresh after the rains.
In a couple places around the squares were the impression of small bare feet.
Reed's gaze lifted to the shed where he'd spent the night those many months ago, sagging
and tilting but still intact. The rusty tin door was agape by a few inches, and in the
shadows behind it he sensed eyes watching him.
Reed picked his way out to the back yard. He whistled Old McDonald as he stood
by the hopscotch cross. "Ee-eye, ee-eye, oooooh," he sang. "So, who wants to play a
game of hopscotch? Aiyo, aiyo, come out and play."
The tin door creaked open and an eye appeared along, with a sliver of face.
"There you are," Reed said. "Who won the last game?"
Sri slipped through the gap, a smudged wraith of a girl in a dirty dress, her hair
tangled, her cheeks gaunt, and her eyes wary but hopeful. "I was playing by myself," she
said.
"Where's your sister?"
Sri nodded at the shed. "She doesn't play anymore. She's scared."
"Where's your mother?"
"The soldiers took her. My aunt sent us here. We're waiting for Bapa. Aunt said
he'd come."
Oh dear sweet Jesus son of Mary.
Reed took Sri's hand, and she led him into the shed. Endang lay curled on her side
on the floor, her bed a piece of torn matting. She was awake, looking at Reed with huge
unblinking eyes. She didn't move A safety pin held the torn front of her dress together, a
dirty towel was wrapped around her waist.
Kneeling, Reed felt her forehead and took her pulse. She didn't resist. Her
temperature felt normal, and her heartbeat was strong. "Do you hurt?" he asked.
She didn't reply.
Sri said, "She cries at night."
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