her look so hard and calculating. ‘If you go through with it, I’m leaving,’ he said through clenched teeth.
‘Go, then. Who needs you? It’s like Tom says, you’re nothing but a hanger-on.’
‘You can’t believe that. I only stayed because of you.’ The colour drained out of Aryn’s face and he sank down on the bed, holding his head in his hands.
‘More fool you, then.’ She stormed off, slamming the door behind her.
She sank with relief onto her own bed. In a few days it would all be over. The baby would be gone to rich, loving parents and there’d be enough money to make a fresh start. She closed her eyes. Five minutes later she felt her first pain …
Chapter 8
R UBIAH NURSED THE BABY GIRL EXPERTLY; SHE’D HAD PLENTY OF PRACTICE. In her tribe unmarried girls were expected to keep an eye on their younger siblings while they practised their weaving. Weaving was as vital for a Dayak maiden as carving was for a man. A newly wedded couple had to produce all the items needed to survive in the wild, formidable jungle.
‘Skilful weavers never lack for suitors,’ her mother had often chided her when she caught Rubiah daydreaming, the pile of reeds collected from the riverbank uncut beside her on the floor.
Rubiah would roll her eyes and pick up her small knife again. Why should she spend her life stagnating in a backwater like her parents and grandparents? The time of the headhunters was over. There was an exciting new world beyond the jungle that she longed for.
Rubiah was a Dayak, one of the indigenous tribes that inhabited the steamy rainforests of Borneo and lived in communal longhouses along the main rivers and their tributaries. Her family were seafarers who supplemented their income with the sale of excess fish her father caught in the South China Sea, and the ginger and pepper her mother grew in her equatorial garden.
Ever since she’d been a small child she’d listened to the stories travellers told about Miri, the fabled city where a wide river flowed with black gold, and bold adventurers made theirfortunes on the foreign rigs that pumped the oil that gushed rich, thick and black from the seabed. At night she’d lie on a rattan mat on the bare boards of the hut next to her parents and siblings and dream of the bright lights of Miri, a place where a pretty girl could live in a house like a palace and wear a different dress every day, not made from cloth she’d woven herself but purchased from glitzy shops crammed with jewels, creams and perfume, shops with every delight imaginable to make her beautiful for the parties where she’d dance and laugh all night.
Miri was just a day’s trip down the river but to the discontented teenager from the backblocks of Sarawak, it had seemed as far off as the moon. The stars glittering through the palm-frond thatch of the longhouse are the only lights I’ll ever get to see, she thought rebelliously when she lay in bed at night, tossing and turning in frustration.
When the chief’s brother, an elderly widower, had placed three bamboo boxes, a length of black satin and a bunch of sirih leaves, handpicked from the tallest tree in the forest, outside her family’s door, Rubiah had known it was now or never. Frightened that her father would accept the tribal elder’s marriage gifts, she pleaded with her cousin Dedan, who was spending Gawai, the Dayak harvest festival, with his family, to take her with him when he returned to Miri. Dedan felt sorry for his pretty little cousin. He didn’t think it was fair that she should be forced into marriage with an old man and he agreed to help her escape.
Dedan worked at the drycleaners in Miri and he found her a job there too. But Rubiah hadn’t liked the hot, steamy drycleaning shop; the smell of the chemicals made her feel sick. When Roger, one of the customers, told her that his wife was looking for a live-in amah she’d jumped at the chance. A middle-ageddriller from Calgary, Roger told her they
‘Go, then. Who needs you? It’s like Tom says, you’re nothing but a hanger-on.’
‘You can’t believe that. I only stayed because of you.’ The colour drained out of Aryn’s face and he sank down on the bed, holding his head in his hands.
‘More fool you, then.’ She stormed off, slamming the door behind her.
She sank with relief onto her own bed. In a few days it would all be over. The baby would be gone to rich, loving parents and there’d be enough money to make a fresh start. She closed her eyes. Five minutes later she felt her first pain …
Chapter 8
R UBIAH NURSED THE BABY GIRL EXPERTLY; SHE’D HAD PLENTY OF PRACTICE. In her tribe unmarried girls were expected to keep an eye on their younger siblings while they practised their weaving. Weaving was as vital for a Dayak maiden as carving was for a man. A newly wedded couple had to produce all the items needed to survive in the wild, formidable jungle.
‘Skilful weavers never lack for suitors,’ her mother had often chided her when she caught Rubiah daydreaming, the pile of reeds collected from the riverbank uncut beside her on the floor.
Rubiah would roll her eyes and pick up her small knife again. Why should she spend her life stagnating in a backwater like her parents and grandparents? The time of the headhunters was over. There was an exciting new world beyond the jungle that she longed for.
Rubiah was a Dayak, one of the indigenous tribes that inhabited the steamy rainforests of Borneo and lived in communal longhouses along the main rivers and their tributaries. Her family were seafarers who supplemented their income with the sale of excess fish her father caught in the South China Sea, and the ginger and pepper her mother grew in her equatorial garden.
Ever since she’d been a small child she’d listened to the stories travellers told about Miri, the fabled city where a wide river flowed with black gold, and bold adventurers made theirfortunes on the foreign rigs that pumped the oil that gushed rich, thick and black from the seabed. At night she’d lie on a rattan mat on the bare boards of the hut next to her parents and siblings and dream of the bright lights of Miri, a place where a pretty girl could live in a house like a palace and wear a different dress every day, not made from cloth she’d woven herself but purchased from glitzy shops crammed with jewels, creams and perfume, shops with every delight imaginable to make her beautiful for the parties where she’d dance and laugh all night.
Miri was just a day’s trip down the river but to the discontented teenager from the backblocks of Sarawak, it had seemed as far off as the moon. The stars glittering through the palm-frond thatch of the longhouse are the only lights I’ll ever get to see, she thought rebelliously when she lay in bed at night, tossing and turning in frustration.
When the chief’s brother, an elderly widower, had placed three bamboo boxes, a length of black satin and a bunch of sirih leaves, handpicked from the tallest tree in the forest, outside her family’s door, Rubiah had known it was now or never. Frightened that her father would accept the tribal elder’s marriage gifts, she pleaded with her cousin Dedan, who was spending Gawai, the Dayak harvest festival, with his family, to take her with him when he returned to Miri. Dedan felt sorry for his pretty little cousin. He didn’t think it was fair that she should be forced into marriage with an old man and he agreed to help her escape.
Dedan worked at the drycleaners in Miri and he found her a job there too. But Rubiah hadn’t liked the hot, steamy drycleaning shop; the smell of the chemicals made her feel sick. When Roger, one of the customers, told her that his wife was looking for a live-in amah she’d jumped at the chance. A middle-ageddriller from Calgary, Roger told her they
Similar Books
