Afterglow, p.12
Afterglow, page 12
“You think they hear ’bout we?”
“Who?” Her brow furrowed.
“You know, them girls ’pon the other islands,” Keona’s words slipped their way in like high tide. Her mouth hung open trying to catch an answer. She was only just getting settled on this island. She hadn’t had the space to think about other islands, let alone other girls. Keona’s point had again unmoored her. Theirs was the island chosen to disappear completely in the roulette of seasonal disaster. Nowhere had stayed the same, but the other islands were still there. They had survived effacement. And there were still girls out there. Landlocked girls, stranded, trying to make life on the edges of other islands. Had anybody told them what had happened, what had changed?
“And what if they did?” she challenged Keona to soothe her.
“Well, think if it was you. What you would do?”
Keona wasn’t easy at all. They let the challenge slip back into her hands like a glob of jellyfish. But she knew all too clearly what she would have done. If she knew she couldn’t drown, she would have stepped straight into the water and never looked back. Safety at the surface was never something she could rely on. The safest space she had known was in the belly of the sea. But it was a safety bought with loneliness. Swimming out into the deep, she knew that no one could endanger her because she was the only one there. It could never be enough for her, of course, but now maybe it didn’t have to be. The water’s surface trembled in her mind, giddily breaking with all the possibilities. She could see them on the horizon, a sea of girls like her. Bodies both like and unlike hers, and the ocean was big enough to hold all of them. Lungs filling with seawater, new-growth corals breathing in their place, they could drop their shoulders, loosen their swinging hips, and let all that salt air untether them from harm. She loved that for those girls. She wanted all of it for them. And for her, too. She let her vision pool in her hands. Turning their backs on the surface, they would find it. A whole new world to breathe in.
• • •
The seaweed was beginning to thin above her and the water grew shallower and shallower. She could feel the sun burning through like holes gnawed out of a rusty tin roof. Its stinging woke her up. Her body knew it was almost time. She would soon become a colony. Beneath her, the road disintegrated into sand and mud. It was much saltier up here. It all looked so murky, except for the black wet roots that tentacled the ceiling. Everything felt unstable, slippery and dark, like she was crossing a dying mangrove. Maneuvering the brambling roots, she noted all the grief as she climbed toward the surface. Fruit trees bowed low, stripped of their bounty. Palms and pawpaw stalks swayed headless in the wheezing current. The ground beneath her, a skull of limestone razed of any and all memory. Like no blood had ever spilled here. Like no cane ever grew. Sunken out of place, everything lay damned. And with each step, the water turned hotter and greener. It was hard to move in this much heat. She could barely think. The mud was biting her heels and all her polyps screamed into the sun. Since she, the coral, and the water were bonded by the breath, she worried the surface was still no place for girls like her. It glittered right atop her head, trembling from its own ripples. She stared upward, frozen, as if the ceiling were going to collapse. As if the sky would drop a house on her for who and what she was becoming. For who she’d always been. A girl who swam too far out, now turning to come home. Light danced on her face and the gentlest pain fluttered across her, tingling any new corals that had begun to flower.
The shape of the island was pooling through the surface. Reading the ripples, there wasn’t much to look at. It was scalped of anything she would have recognized. She could only make out some blackened spindly trees eeling into the sky. It did look like a sea urchin, she thought. Small, fragile, and protective of itself. Just trying its best to survive in a turbulent world. Beautiful to see and dangerous to touch. She wondered whether the island would let her hold it this time. Right beneath the surface, she continued to hesitate. She didn’t know how to move and that wasn’t because of the coral. The decision to resurface was pinning her in place. Nothing here was recognizably her island. She didn’t know what she was returning to. Everything was new. It had just resurfaced. And she wasn’t sure if she even had the right to demand so much from this place. She didn’t even know if the island could remember her. She just kept looking, not sure what to make of it. This fragile little place flickering through the unsteady window to the surface. She watched as it trembled in the play of light and water. Over and over, it was dissolving, falling apart and coming back together, like it couldn’t decide what it wanted to be. The island just kept changing.
THE CASE OF THE TURNED TIDE
Savitri Putu Horrigan
THE BOAT JOSTLED AND EVERYTHING WENT SIDEWAYS. I FLEW TO Mom’s side, worried that her wheelchair would tip over and hurt her, but she had an iron grip on one of the many grab bars scattered throughout our boat home. The sound of things crashing around us quieted as the rocking abated, but my stomach was in knots from the suddenness of it.
“Was that an earthquake?” I asked. Mom shook her head, none the wiser.
“You stay here,” I told her. “Let me just check that there’s nothing sharp on the floor.” Mom nodded, her eyes wide and hand still clutching at her chest. We have had fewer earthquakes since the Decree was passed, slashing public and private funding to the fossil fuel industry and redirecting that capital toward renewable energy solutions. It also implemented social programs to minimize and contain the effect of climate change on island nations like ours and funded humanitarian relief efforts for those left houseless from climate-related disasters. Mom grew up in that time where chaos abounded, the devastating impacts of earthquakes and tsunamis compounded by increased frequency, and widespread mitigation efforts seemed like nothing but a dream. She didn’t talk about it much, but it was possible that shakes like this surfaced old memories of those times and any loved ones who might have suffered.
I made my way gingerly across the living room, picking up books and pillows to clear the path for Mom’s wheelchair. I picked up a framed picture of my brother, Arjuna, and Dad in front of their apartment in town where they stayed while Mom and I had active cases. Ever since my apprenticeship in Mom’s expanding detective business, this boat had become more of a home for me than the cramped space of our stifling-hot two-bedroom apartment.
Thankfully, boat living had conditioned us to leave our breakables in locked wooden cabinets. Unfortunately, one of those cabinets had burst open and shards of multicolored glass, clay, and ceramic pooled around it. I turned back toward Mom and said, “Don’t come near the storage wall until I clear this up. We’ll just have to use that bamboo set your friend gave us for the time being.”
“Oh!” Mom called out, and the sharpness of her voice made me think it was out of pain.
“Mom! Are you okay?” I called back.
“My Barong statue! Something smashed it,” she moaned. I used a brush to scoop up the broken kitchenware and locked the cabinet before jogging back to her.
“What happened?” I asked. She just stared at the barely recognizable pile of paint-chipped wood at her feet. The Barong was a mythical lion often placed in homes for protection. Only the statue’s large eyes and wide, toothy mouth remained whole. I placed my hand on her shoulder. “I’m sorry, Mom. That really sucks.”
Mom sighed and picked up the larger pieces. “I’ve had this since I was young. My parents gave it to me when I married your father.” She sounded broken, but there was little I could do, and our clients were arriving soon.
“I’m sorry, Mom,” I repeated. “Maybe we can find someone to fix it?” I scooped the pile onto a scarf and tied it up, storing it in a bag for safekeeping.
An hour later, our clients entered our living room and settled on the freshly cleaned couch. They were dressed immaculately in cotton slacks and blazers, and sustainable shoes made from seaweed and recycled plastic. One of the clients, Betty, had tan skin and sleek blond hair tucked into a side ponytail. The other, Arnold, had brown skin and curly dark hair that hung over his eyes. They looked around the small room, and I saw their eyes land on the government-issued Sea Debris Scooper that public and private boats were required to install for passive collection of microplastics and inorganic material. It gave off a gentle whirring sound that some found unpleasant but didn’t bother Mom and me, who were just happy that we could benefit from it without having to break the bank. Betty and Arnold were representatives of Sea Debris, a Dutch company that created large-scale commercial environmental solutions.
“I see you have one of our best sellers,” said Betty.
“And our saline-resistant solar panels,” Arnold commented, craning his neck to better see the panels fastened to our upper deck.
“Yes,” my mom said mildly. “Your products are a point of pride for us.”
“Then you’ll be pleased to learn that we have a new product coming out this summer,” Betty replied. “A state-of-the-art technology for harnessing tidal power and wave energy for the masses. This will bring much-needed diversity to existing renewable energy infrastructure and reduce the chance of homes like yours being stranded at sea after a string of cloudy days.”
“We’ve done extensive tests on our prototypes,” Arnold added, “and are scheduled to deploy models this summer for major cities across the world. Your capital, Jakarta, will receive one as well.”
“That sounds great,” I said, excited about the major news but feeling confused about the direction this conversation was taking.
“Which is why we need your help,” Betty said. “This technology is highly innovative and could drastically change the market for tidal energy. But just as we were about to ship the final blueprints to our partners, they went missing. Along with one of our engineers.”
“We suspect that this engineer ran off with the blueprints and is planning to sell it to one of our competitors,” Arnold continued. “If they patent our technology, it would be impossible to fight for proprietary rights, and the debt we’ve accrued from funding this research could destroy us.”
I glanced at Mom and could tell we were wondering the same thing. How could a company that raked in millions each year from private and public partnerships possibly be in debt?
“Do you have any information on this engineer?” Mom asked.
Betty produced a tablet and swiped to unlock it. On its smooth surface a calm face framed by dark wavy curls peered back at me, their brown skin and brown eyes achingly familiar. They looked Indonesian, but I was not sure until I scanned the text below their picture and saw their country of origin and last place of residence: Jakarta. Their first name was recorded as “unknown,” which was not uncommon due to the different naming structures of different countries. But aside from basic information on appearance, background, and length of employment at Sea Debris, the file revealed shockingly little.
“Is this everything?” Mom asked with an arched brow.
“Unfortunately, yes,” Arnold replied. “Although Pertiwi worked with us for nearly ten years, she kept a low profile. When we interviewed her supervisors, they didn’t have much to say other than noting her stringent work ethic. In fact, she never took time off, except once a year for something called Nyepi, which is … ah, some kind of local holiday from her hometown Jakarta,” he said with a shrug.
Nyepi was a Balinese holiday. It shouldn’t surprise me that they would mix up the traditions and customs of different islands, but my heart grew heavy with the knowledge that we were going to have to find and turn in someone from the same island as us.
“We can make do with this,” Mom said, bringing me back to the conversation. She entered her code into the tablet so that Pertiwi’s file could be uploaded to our virtual case management system with encryption for confidentiality. Mom discussed our payment policy with Betty and Arnold before leading them outside to our dock and promising to contact them frequently with updates.
We dove headfirst into the investigation, splitting up tasks like running Pertiwi’s information through local record systems, scouring news articles and social media, and making inquiries to banjars across the island. Mom was insistent on reaching out to the banjars herself, as these community groups often acted like local government and had key, intimate insight into the goingson of their towns and neighborhoods. Building trust with the banjars was easier to do if you spoke the local language, Basa Bali, instead of just the lingua franca, Bahasa Indonesia, which had been adopted for inter-island communication. Mom was fluent in both, while I could only speak the latter. That was just as well since I also had to tamp down a general feeling of unease about this case, and the best way to do that was through tedious tasks like navigating data systems and hashtags.
Hours later, our solar-powered lamps kicked on as the sun dipped below the horizon of gentle, lapping waves. None of the people we contacted had gotten back to us yet, but I did enjoy some of the posts that came up in my social media search. Searching for variations and combinations of different terms came up with lots of random posts and rabbit holes, but one of my favorites was by a local singer crooning an old ballad with the description “for Pertiwi” under the video. She looked to be about my age and had an amazing voice, strumming along on a guitar and wearing a white kebaya top with a frangipani flower tucked behind one ear. It looked like she had just come from temple, with the sun streaming through some banana trees behind her. Switching on Bluetooth, I played the song over from the beginning so Mom could enjoy it as well.
She hummed along for a bit, tapping her feet in time to the music. “This is nice,” she said. “What song is this?”
“It’s that old song that used to play on the radio a while back, remember? This singer tweaked it a little for an acoustic version, and I found it because she dedicated it to someone named Pertiwi,” I said with a chuckle. We knew from our records search that there were hundreds of people with that name on this island.
Mom nodded then turned back to her work. A moment later, a small chime went off on someone’s device and Mom scooted back from her table with a loud whoop. “We got a reply!” she said with excitement and turned around to flash me a broad grin. “Tomorrow we’ll meet with Banjar Mimpi for lunch. They said they are willing to sit with us and hear our questions.”
• • •
The next morning, we took an automated, zero-emissions hydrogen train up north to a town named Mimpi. The open market was packing up, and activity on the streets had thinned as a result of residents and schoolchildren taking their lunches to some shaded retreat. It had been a while since we ventured into these parts, and I was not sure if the infrastructure here would be accessible for Mom. However, we were pleasantly surprised to find that most of the buildings surrounding the town center were equipped with railed rampways made from cork and recycled rubber tires. The roads were also well paved and spacious enough for Mom’s electric wheelchair, which is standard-issue and fully funded from the post-Decree People’s Healthcare Plan. Its embedded gyroscope and spherical frame made from molded bamboo and reclaimed metal is phenomenal at keeping her upright on any terrain regardless of slope, but does require smooth surfaces to operate on.
Mom led us toward a raised pavilion that was open to the elements but blissfully shaded from the sun in most parts. We removed our shoes before rolling up the ramp, ducking under a sign hung overhead that read “Banjar Mimpi,” and were greeted with a burst of intoxicating aromas. We neared the table where food was being served, drawn to it like flies, and ogled the vast array of sumptuous dishes. Creamy coconut rice; spring rolls loaded with julienned veggies; crispy fried matchsticks of tempeh tossed with peanuts in a sweet-and-spicy sauce; curried tofu and potatoes; chilled, spiced local veggies and seaweed; and my personal favorite, gado-gado. I zoomed in on the dish of crisp bean sprouts, green beans, chopped cabbage, tofu, and congealed steamed rice cakes slathered in heaping amounts of spicy peanut sauce, my mouth watering at the heavenly smell. But before I could grab a bowl, Mom grabbed my arm in a steel vice and leveled me with her most severe don’t-even-think-about-it stare.
“My apologies,” Mom said, and I belatedly realized that she had been talking to someone. A tall man in his sixties was standing next to her, his hair close-cropped and wispy white against mottled dark brown skin. He was dressed in a well-worn shortsleeved shirt with a sarong wrapped around his waist that featured a lovely batik pattern in burnt umber. “My daughter must have been distracted,” Mom continued, giving me the side-eye. “This is Pak Surya, he is the head of the banjar for this town. He has graciously invited us to lunch with him and his husband, and then after we can ask any questions we have.”
“It’s very nice to meet you, Pak Surya,” I said as my cheeks flamed with embarrassment. “You and your husband are very generous.” Despite the hunger churning in my stomach, it was no excuse for my rudeness. He smirked knowingly and nodded toward the food, indicating that we should serve ourselves before joining him in the center of the pavilion.
We joined Pak Surya and his husband, Pak Jendra, on some faded but sturdy rattan chairs. As soon as they lifted a delicate handful of food to their mouths, I inhaled my gado-gado and sagged in delight at its comforting texture and flavor. My dad’s version would always be my favorite, but I loved how spicy Pak Jendra’s dish was and how the local veggies he had used were crisper and sweeter than the ones in our town. He’d also added small boiled rice-paddy snails that were delightfully chewy and combined well with the steamed rice cakes made from a red variety grown only in this region.
Pak Jendra grinned at me. “I’m glad you like my cooking,” he said, leaning into his husband with affection. “You might already know that I source all of my food from this town and its surrounding area. This red rice is a source of pride for me, in particular.”
