The Long Forever Way Home

Auwruun

Loneliness, desolation, and fear have a scent and Auwruun’s tiny body had soaked deep in it.

The men who came and touched him all over called “Bintang” (Star) at each encounter. His name was Auwruun from the time his mother uttered it. He tried to tell them that, but they never listened.

“Bintang, คุณสวยแค่ไหน!”

(“Bintang, how beautiful you are!”)

Lifting me from my prison to stroke me, their eyes shone in a way that made my belly queasy and my legs freeze as they ignored my cries for Mama. Metal, like ice against my ribcage. Searching my mouth, eyes, and ears again but not the loving way Mama did.

I hate them.

Two days of no sleep.

Anxious pacing. Constant cries.

He opened his eyes to a sun that had not yet risen and called again for Mama, his throat sore and stinging. Raspy sounds.

"Mama! Mama! Mama! Mama! Mama! Mama!"

The shaking floor unsettled him in a way that all new experiences undoubtedly would, especially without his mother and brothers for support and comfort. A strange place so unlike the rainforests and mountains of Sumatra, the only home he’d ever known without need of a name.

Right now, he’d welcome even the stench of the corpse plant, rotten and fetid, to the misery aromas of his confinement with its scraggly grey covers near the light holes, and yellowing paint-chipped dull sides. Dried scratchy grass with dark rags strewn about everywhere did little to disguise such an unnatural environment. This place held nothing of his world, a canopy of dense tree-covered havens, sweet flowing rivers with plenty of places in the bush to hide and play. Where the clouds spreadeagle the sky, holding moisture low with the tease and promise of rain. Were he at home, he’d be snuggled next to Mama sleeping, deftly maneuvering between two brothers for the warmest spot where he could hear his mother’s steady heartbeat, feel her changeable panting breaths.

But here, the air and ground emanated stagnant cold. The sounds, only monotonous clangs and hums, scarier than the occasional chainsaws that echoed the forests, raising the ire of the elders and warriors, drawing ancestral wrath.

The lump of male youngling wrapped in blanket had not moved since they left him. None of the men would speak when they came to check him or call him a strange name. Hours crept by before he stirred.

Was he also taken? Why wasn’t he crying? Did he belong to the men? Was he even alive? No one answered and nothing gave me peace.

“Mama…Mama…Mama…Mama…Mama.”

I could not smell her nor my brothers anywhere and my chest filled with sorrow.

Was I being punished?

I would have come sooner when Mama called, but the butterfly I nearly had in my grasp took every ounce of concentration as I wandered further and further away until…

Entanglement in the strongest of white plants I had never seen.

Struggling…and grabbed.

Brightness went dark.

But Mama would always catch me, scolding me for my naughtiness. Except this time, she didn’t. Was Mama dead?

*Whimpers*

I pushed at the hardened enclosure for the thousandth time and dropped exhausted by the water, moaning Mama’s name until the memory of myself ebbs to a flicker. The only thing that would quench and soothe my thirst: A familiar heartbeat.

I cannot stay here.

Abyasa

The dark veil that obscured vision went beyond solitary perception, but at least awareness loomed. Between blinking eyes, newly eight-year-old status-acquired Abyasa Sustani could see the sky’s hold of blackness on the morning, as if it too harbored reluctance of what the next few hours of life would bring.

Uncertainty is a pack of bloodthirsty hounds who’ve caught a scent that’s hard to lose.

Sucks big time when you’re prey wanting to stay hidden. Safe.

Or pining for escape from a place remote and foreign.

Home is reliability. Sameness. Not just a place but a feeling. A feeling that you don’t think of losing…until now.

“Ibu? (Mother?) Paman? (Uncle?) Muni?” A dull flickering yellow light did not do much to aid sight. “Bapale? (Father?)”

The low rumbles of train were the only noises in alien space.

Grogginess was new.

The sensation of cotton stuffed in his brain and leaking through his ears, occluding all coherent thought. Heavy eyelids that flickered though he determined to open them.

It’s not sleep. I’m dead. This is in and out of death, threading and weaving like the sea grass cloth Mbah Putri (Granny) makes, minus the TV networks’ crowding her for interviews and attention over a lost and dying art. Nothing about this is right. I must be dead.

*Whimpers*

At some point, Abyasa could smell the sea, far away. Once. Did he dream it? He couldn’t be sure, as time had upended with the remnants of his brain. Were he really coming out of a dream, Ibu would be finishing nasi kuning for breakfast. Heated coconut milk pungent with turmeric, lemongrass, fresh picked bay and pandan leaves in the rice would pull him from sleep on instinct in an instant. He could already taste the ginger bringing water to his mouth while he washed for morning salat (prayers.)

“The ginger settles stomachs,” is what mother told him and his older brother Muni from young. They both would get sick on long boat rides to Medan in rough seas. Ginger candy coated in powdered sugar became a savored luxurious treat, even when the seas were calm. He and Muni would feign stomach upset. Their mother would smile and reach for her bag.

The trips were essential to get to market and sell sea cloth with other vegetables the Sustani family grew. When their father took ill, the brothers helped mother haul the heavy crates and bags aboard the boat without complaint. They understood without explanation. But wherever here was, nothing was understood, and in deepened bouts of clarity, Abyasa could not smell the sea or any other familiar odors. The sea meant Langsa and home and this place was neither. Nothing lived here but regret and fear.

Muni and I had both been scared beyond reach and reason about Bapale. Ibu would adjust her hijab (head covering) and only smile when we asked. She’d tell us he had bad fever and would be out of hospital soon, but I sensed she too was worried. We had taken to wearing makeshift face coverings when riding to Medan after covid struck. Muni and I had faces that reflected terror at the numerous people dying on the TV news. Did Bapale have coronavirus? Was he going to die too? Would he be hastily buried by the Imam before we got to even see him?

As July approached, my appetite waned. Bapale weighed heavy on my mind, silently drenching saltwater on my pillow at night as I tried to be brave like everyone else. He showed me where and how to find bait for fishing. He taught me how to read the stars if ever lost in the forest and listened patiently, when on occasion, I fought with my best friend Cipta. His advice always gentle but firm, encouraging me to think things through.

When Bapale first took ill, Paman (Uncle) Hanif carried us to Hat Yai for a couple of weeks to visit with his cousin while Ibu stayed at the hospital. It was me and Muni’s first time on the train. The conductor man checked our three tickets as Paman held them in such a way so we could not see the price. It is the way in our culture. You do kind things for others and do not let them know about details. It shows a virtuous, pure heart.

Uncle Hanif joked with us and pointed out this or that mountain, river, and distant bird across the changing landscape through the window. He prayed with us when it was time. Still, it was hard to enjoy the trip. But Uncle never gave up.

Ibu delivered the news when we returned fifteen days later. Our Bapale would be home in four days!

Uncle finished his taxi business in Medan early to drive us all to Mutiara Waterpark in Kola Langsa to celebrate my birthday. Muni and I, finally able to relax after weeks, had so much fun. Maybe it was my fault, not coming when Ibu said it was time to go. I just wanted to get Muni back for surprise dunking me, then I would come. But Ibu called three times. I am half run-swimming around the waterslide, closing in on Muni when a towel covers my face. I fight and try to scream but it smells weird and my body evaporates into fog.

Voices come near. One lifts the blanket and rests cold metal on his chest. His back. Holds his wrist with light fingers as his throat feels like it is on fire. An eight-year-old frame groans and rolls.

Different voices. None familiar. None speak Jawa. Nothing Indonesian. Is it Thai? What kind of train is this with no other people on it? Where no one comes to check tickets? I have nothing. No money. No ticket. No one. No clue where I am or where I’m going. Rides are never free. This is not good.

“Too hot…needs air,” says a thick British accent.

The blanket is removed following the rush of wind through a window that touches skinny brown limbs.

Light clothing moves from focus to the distant corner where the whimpering sounds are faint, like that of a suffocating infant. It’s a terrifying, mournful sound, reminiscent of forest elephants after one of the herd is lost to despicable poachers. The grief permeated throughout earth's existence to rend heaven.

The compartment shifts suddenly, the train increasing speed as the brown blurs stagger forward for balance. There are sounds of distant thunder peals. Abyasa listens as the door locks after the panicked blobs rush out as if a fire is behind them.

Strangled cries continue in my ears and don’t stop.

He pushes himself upright on the mattress. His legs are pins and needles and he rubs them vigorously, willing sensation back. Faraway booms still sound and draw nearer, or is it further away? It’s so hard to tell with cotton for brains.

Mangled scratchy cries erupt like air is being lost. Maybe someone else is like him, trapped and confused. Scared. Through the window, outlines of rushing trees are now seen against the palest orange-pink sky light.

I need to get out. To run as far and fast as I can and figure out the rest later.

A deafening explosion interrupts thought and sound. The trolley compartment lurches left, careening precious seconds before righting itself. Hay, rags, and nondescript debris are momentary impromptu confetti, airborne for the eeriest of reasons. He had never experienced the ‘no sound’ of space taught by Mrs. Sentiawan in science class. Far off screeches and more blasts unheard. Perhaps the better, so it did not turn his terror into frozen paralysis.

Abyasa did spend an occasional lazy afternoon glued to movies on Muni’s iPad that showed the bloody heat of battles. But the midst of actual conflict made his heart race and eyes water. Made every limb tremble as if he were having a seizure. Shrieked of innards falling from stomachs and limbs torn off. Or worse, becoming pink obliterated spray mist with no body part distinguishable.

Halting unsteady steps carry him towards the train window.

I need to see my Bapale!

I must become Paman Uncle. I must not give up hope.

The cool morning air has him straining to remember Uncle’s last train distractions on vegetation and terrain, mountainous areas, and where rivers and lakes could be found following nature’s signs. He grabbed the rim of the open window and turned to his right to look for something to stand on when he saw it.

The shock knocked the breath from him. Piercing eyes fixated. A body in surrender mode, motionless on the piss and shit-covered floor. It was then that Abyasa felt chilled to his core certain.

The Preman.

He ripped a side of gray curtain and stretched to grab a few rags to stuff in the pockets of his khaki shorts. Then, he slowly lifted the cage and stroked the still breathing belly. He rested the tiger cub inside his tank top and secured it with tied curtain, praying it would hold as he squeezed his tiny frame through the window. When he reached the top of the train, still shaking and ears ringing, he held the bundle to his chest and whispered into ears that twitched.

“We’re gonna find home.”

He sat and felt the cold metal against his legs. He listened past intermittent air pressure releases and vibrating engine and fast breeze of rushing air. The train increased velocity, speeding him further and faster away from Ibu and Bapale, from Muni and Paman. He closed his eyes and listened beyond, and only stood when he felt sure he knew where the sound and scent of home came from.

Phillip

Covering one mistake with another has never been a good strategy, but desperate people do stupid things. For Dr. Phil Hastings this was by far the stupidest.

Could he even call himself a doctor anymore?

Nightmares siphoned any hope of sleep since unofficially joining. But you didn’t just quit the Preman, they cut your throat and your body was never found.

His mother Martha always beamed when she came thrice weekly to his West London, Ealing GP surgery bringing him lunch. He didn’t bother telling her not to. Her pride in having a son as a doctor could not be contained. She alone still believed in him when his wife didn’t after he was struck off the GMC register for dishonesty.

There’d been a road traffic collision—not his fault—as he was hit from behind, but the four pints after a knockout row with Harriet he imbibed at The Rose & Crown, meant he failed the standard breathalyzer, the second within five months that he—oops—failed to disclose to the medical regulatory body. Harriet had warned him. Nagged him really.

But Sophie’s uni costs mounted. She had chosen neurology as a specialty.

My turn to be proud parent.

But was it because she wondered what went through the minds of married couples who did nothing but argue, spewing hatred and vitriol during nearly every waking hour? Or what part of the brain allowed them to have a child in the first place?

Well, that last one was an easy answer. But what to do as a doctor, when you’re no longer a doctor, wasn’t.

My escape was traveling. Australia. Japan. China. Philippines. India. Malaysia. Singapore. Thailand.

Until the money ran out.

I got introduced to someone who knew someone.

One short job lead to two. Then…

I thought I’d make just enough money to buy a small bungalow in Muscat. A modest something, facing the Arabian Sea. But the only way out was death. With all the base crimes I’d committed as an underworld crime syndicate doctor, death already had me with hell not far behind. I used to wish I’d get caught. Then I could stop. My friend Kasemchai put an end to that. As an ex-prisoner, he told me the jails were worse than hell and death combined.

Like a robot, I examined illegally trafficked, endangered animals to ensure health for black market buyers and concocted illicit substances for prostitutes in every red-light district from Geylang to Patpong Market.

My worst hellish-filled moments involved administering spinal blocks to young girls in far less than sterile conditions. Afraid of infection? I was afraid of far worse. I knew what would happen to those abducted girls that the bosses wanted to ensure didn’t run away. Their innocent faces haunted me every night while my daughter’s picture lay crumpled and fading in my wallet asking,

“Why Daddy? Why?”

The routine precision work with the Preman over years meant he garnered some degree of trust, whatever leverage that gave. For Phil, it meant an incomplete dosage of lidocaine to wear off quickly with the young boy abducted two days ago. He received the full sedation dose of ketamine and midazolam while Phillip prayed he’d survive. At least he would have a fighting chance.

Phil would not arouse suspicion, water bottle swinging from his waist and rations hidden inside medical supplies. While the two lower-ranking Preman mobsters navigated the conductor through an unforeseen active military zone, he went back to complete ‘assessments’ on the ‘young merchandise’ already sold to a household in Rangoon, infamous in dark circles for inhumane treatment and pled on powers he’d be awake and a tiny, sweet Bintang still alive.

The metal cage lay on its side and the boy’s blanket on the filthy floor in the disheveled, empty compartment. I had no idea how long ago they would have left.

Where my backbone had been all these years, I had not a clue. I just knew they stood no chance in the jungle alone without food, water, and fire. If I survived without fractures, I’d have to be quick, wander back in hopes of finding them before…

As I climbed to the top of the train, I could see the distorted silhouette of a boy limping downwind against the evanescent darkness, thick foliage parting and camouflaging him soundlessly against the roar of the train’s forward racing engine. He headed southwest, at least a four-day trek to the closest river tributary and untold miles from the coast, but roughly in the direction of everything reminiscent of his home. I swallowed hard, then muttered long since expired ‘Hail Marys’ and leapt towards the spot he disappeared, falling towards the light for the first time in a forever.

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