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Authors: Jeff Talarigo
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and Miss Min stands up and gives a bow, sits back down, and then the room is silent:
Out of a single giant cedar they carve the prau, four village men long. From early in the morning, when the young
girl came down with the fever, and for the whole of the day
and all of the night, the villagers work.
It was this way five years before, when the man’s skin
burst out in blisters—the prau worked then—only the
man died, and the village was spared. Six years before
that, when a young woman returned from the jungle,
foaming at the mouth and crazed, then, too, they had begun to build a prau, but they stopped when her mother
found the puncture wounds of the viper on her daughter’s
left shoulder. The demons hadn’t sent disease their way,
only the normal strides of nature. But with this girl and
the fever, they knew they had to get the prau built and
sent off as soon as possible.
As the women work on the image of the man, creating
him from husks, tree bark, palm leaves, the men hollow out
the insides of the tree. Children feed the workers, whose
hands are too busy to stop. They turn their heads away
from the work only long enough to have some water
poured down their throats, atop their heads. The village
elder comes to the shore.
“Fever’s getting higher.”
He turns and heads back to the hut where the girl
burns away. Hands mold the man-doll faster; machetes
fling the red insides of the tree onto the sand; children
stack fruit and gourds of water alongside.
It isn’t until the banana of a moon has crawled
halfway across the roof of the island that the village elder
reappears.
“The demons have taken her.”
The workers pause to offer a prayer for the girl. The
fires made by the children light the way for the finishing
touches on the prau.
They wait until the tide begins to walk away from the
shore, then launch the boat, running alongside, pushing it
until the water reaches their necks. Several boats follow
the prau, urging it along, making certain that it doesn’t
turn back to Buru Island. On the shore, the villagers are
chanting: “O sickness, go from here, turn back. What do
you want here in this poor land?”
In three days, they will return to the shore and kill
a pig, offering part of the flesh to Dudilaa, who lives in
the sun, and the village elder will recite a prayer: “Old sir,
I beseech you make well the grandchildren, children,
women, and men, that we may be able to eat pork and rice
and drink palm wine. I will keep my promise. Eat your
share and make all the people in the village well.”
But on this night, after the long day, the villagers,
when the prau is out of sight, still do not rest.
They go back
to the village and prepare to bury the young girl whom
the demons have stolen from them.
Miss Min stops and takes a drink of water handed to her by Mr. Yamai. She straightens herself in her chair and begins the second story:
Awake, before the call to prayers, the naked young boy is
looking at the prau, which has washed ashore during the
night.
The once-recognizable man-doll is wet and beaten,
but still intact. The two-month journey has left the sail in
tatters; the anchor lies next to the toppled prau; somewhere in the Seram Sea the oars have been lost. The boy
picks at the seaweed caught up in the large doll.
The sky to the east of Manipa begins to lighten ever
so slightly. This is when the screams of the village elder
shatter the sleep of every villager. Not like the call to
prayers, but haunting, deep from the guts. Screams, the vil
lagers know before they are even out of their thatched
huts, that will leave things
different for quite a while,
maybe for their lifetimes.
The village elder is dragging the boy away from the
prau when the others arrive.
There is enough light now to
see the outline of the prau, to know what has happened,
what has to be done.
Whatever sickness has been sent away
from one of the surrounding islands, whatever has been
sent, will have come on this prau, has
Out of a single giant cedar they carve the prau, four village men long. From early in the morning, when the young
girl came down with the fever, and for the whole of the day
and all of the night, the villagers work.
It was this way five years before, when the man’s skin
burst out in blisters—the prau worked then—only the
man died, and the village was spared. Six years before
that, when a young woman returned from the jungle,
foaming at the mouth and crazed, then, too, they had begun to build a prau, but they stopped when her mother
found the puncture wounds of the viper on her daughter’s
left shoulder. The demons hadn’t sent disease their way,
only the normal strides of nature. But with this girl and
the fever, they knew they had to get the prau built and
sent off as soon as possible.
As the women work on the image of the man, creating
him from husks, tree bark, palm leaves, the men hollow out
the insides of the tree. Children feed the workers, whose
hands are too busy to stop. They turn their heads away
from the work only long enough to have some water
poured down their throats, atop their heads. The village
elder comes to the shore.
“Fever’s getting higher.”
He turns and heads back to the hut where the girl
burns away. Hands mold the man-doll faster; machetes
fling the red insides of the tree onto the sand; children
stack fruit and gourds of water alongside.
It isn’t until the banana of a moon has crawled
halfway across the roof of the island that the village elder
reappears.
“The demons have taken her.”
The workers pause to offer a prayer for the girl. The
fires made by the children light the way for the finishing
touches on the prau.
They wait until the tide begins to walk away from the
shore, then launch the boat, running alongside, pushing it
until the water reaches their necks. Several boats follow
the prau, urging it along, making certain that it doesn’t
turn back to Buru Island. On the shore, the villagers are
chanting: “O sickness, go from here, turn back. What do
you want here in this poor land?”
In three days, they will return to the shore and kill
a pig, offering part of the flesh to Dudilaa, who lives in
the sun, and the village elder will recite a prayer: “Old sir,
I beseech you make well the grandchildren, children,
women, and men, that we may be able to eat pork and rice
and drink palm wine. I will keep my promise. Eat your
share and make all the people in the village well.”
But on this night, after the long day, the villagers,
when the prau is out of sight, still do not rest.
They go back
to the village and prepare to bury the young girl whom
the demons have stolen from them.
Miss Min stops and takes a drink of water handed to her by Mr. Yamai. She straightens herself in her chair and begins the second story:
Awake, before the call to prayers, the naked young boy is
looking at the prau, which has washed ashore during the
night.
The once-recognizable man-doll is wet and beaten,
but still intact. The two-month journey has left the sail in
tatters; the anchor lies next to the toppled prau; somewhere in the Seram Sea the oars have been lost. The boy
picks at the seaweed caught up in the large doll.
The sky to the east of Manipa begins to lighten ever
so slightly. This is when the screams of the village elder
shatter the sleep of every villager. Not like the call to
prayers, but haunting, deep from the guts. Screams, the vil
lagers know before they are even out of their thatched
huts, that will leave things
different for quite a while,
maybe for their lifetimes.
The village elder is dragging the boy away from the
prau when the others arrive.
There is enough light now to
see the outline of the prau, to know what has happened,
what has to be done.
Whatever sickness has been sent away
from one of the surrounding islands, whatever has been
sent, will have come on this prau, has
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