LITMIR.BIZ

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as though he were molting. When he opened his eyes, there was no spark of recognition in them.

      All resentment fled. Sri Bujang said, appalled, “Ayahanda!”

      He was immediately conscious of a wave of cold disapproval from Sri Kemboja at his failure of tact.

      “You look better today, Ayahanda,” she said. “Look, here’s Kakanda.”

      Sri Bujang touched his snout to his father’s foreleg in a salam. Sri Daik said nothing at first, and Sri Bujang remembered that they had parted in extreme acrimony. In this very room Sri Daik had called him anak derhaka: ill-taught, unmannerly, and irresponsible; a traitor to God, his father, and his king. Sri Bujang for his part had said nothing, repeating a mantra in his head: I am going to seek liberation. I am going to seek liberation.

      In a way, it was the same thing as asking himself: What would a sage do?

      It was not what a good son would have done. Sri Bujang had departed in peace, making no apology, taking with him as little as he had ever given his parents.

      He had not spoken to his father since. He winced now, bracing himself for rejection, dismissal, storms.

      “The raja muda has come?” said Sri Daik finally. “Good, good. Have you seen Bonda?”

      It was the voice that pierced Sri Bujang like a spear in his flank. Sri Daik was venerable—he had inhabited the South China Sea ever since there had been a South China Sea—but he had never before sounded old. Sri Bujang shook his head, speechless.

      “You must go and greet her,” said Sri Daik. “She is somewhere around. These girls can tell you. She will be very happy.”

      Even saying so little exhausted him. He shut his eyes. There was a silence, long enough that Sri Bujang wondered if his father had fallen asleep. But Sri Kemboja and the handmaidens waited, watching Sri Daik with calm expectancy.

      After a while, he opened his eyes and lifted his head. A dugong rushed to his side.

      “Which one are you? Balkis?” said Sri Daik. “I almost forgot. We must have the raja muda crowned as king. You will arrange the proclamation? Thank you.”

      His eyes fluttered. Sri Bujang opened his mouth, but before he could object, his father roused again.

      “Balkis! Are you still there? The regalia, remember to bring out the regalia. You must see if the royal dress fits the raja muda. Don’t forget, yes? You’re a good girl, Balkis.”

      They waited for another half an hour, but this time it seemed Sri Daik had said all he had to say. The handmaidens ushered Sri Bujang and his sister out of the chamber.

      “We’ll call you if His Majesty wants you,” said the one called Balkis. “The raja muda’s room will be made ready.”

      Sri Bujang was staring straight ahead. Sri Kemboja had to repeat herself to get his attention.

      “What?” he said.

      “I said,” said Sri Kemboja, raising her voice, “are you sure my royal brother wants his room?”

      The dugong Balkis’s forehead wrinkled. “But where else will His Royal Highness sleep until the coronation? We will prepare the royal bedchamber, but it cannot properly be used by His Royal Highness until after the ceremony.”

      “Where, indeed?” said Sri Kemboja meaningfully. When Sri Bujang did not react, she lowered her voice and hissed, “You said you’d come back for a visit only! Then you were going to go back, no?”

      The handmaidens looked away in embarrassment, pretending not to hear. Sri Bujang said absently:

      “Did I say that?”

      He had been too distracted by his distress over Pak Laminah to pay attention to his surroundings when he had entered the istana, and interior decoration had been the last thing on his mind during the audience with his father. But now that Sri Bujang looked properly, the signs of decay were everywhere in his father’s palace: buckling floorboards and rotting timbers, black mold creeping out from the corners.

      The istana took its measure from the king. As Sri Daik faded, and his magic with him, the istana would follow. And the sphere of influence radiating out from the istana, which Sri Daik had built over so many hundreds of years—the nobles he had cultivated, the followers who depended upon him and gave him importance—all of that too would fall away.

      “Well, that won’t work,” said Sri Bujang.

      Someone would have to take it on. There was no one else. He was the raja muda. His parents had selected him to be the chief bearer of their hopes and disappointments.

      It had been mostly disappointments so far … but that would change.

      Sri Kemboja gaped. “You’re going to let them crown you? I thought you wanted to attain liberation?”

      You couldn’t be a prince and a bodhisattva, which was why Sri Bujang had left home. Being a king would be even more of an obstacle to liberation.

      Sri Bujang thought of Pak Laminah. He had been Sri Daik’s nest brother, closer to Sri Bujang than any of his blood uncles. When he had left home, it was Pak Laminah who had met him at the gates and pressed gold into his paws, refusing to take it back: “Up there, even to breathe you must pay. You will need it.”

      Now Pak Laminah was dead, all that was left of him the eyes and snout of a stranger. What would be left of Sri Daik after his death, if Sri Bujang did not step up now?

      “It doesn’t have to happen in this life,” he said, trying to ignore the wrenching at his heart. “Since Ayahanda intends to abdicate, I must discharge my duty as king. The next life will be soon enough to become awakened.”

      “Really? You don’t mind waiting?” Sri Kemboja evidently could not believe her ears. “So you’re going to give up your mountain and all that nonsense?”

      “No,” said Sri Bujang. If it mattered what became of his father after his death, so did it matter what became of Sri Bujang. To cease his efforts now would be to lose the prospect of liberation even in the next life.

      Sri Kemboja was frowning, back on familiar ground—Sri Bujang the unreliable, from whom nothing could be hoped for. “Don’t play around, Kakanda. This is a serious matter. Ayahanda and Bonda have suffered enough. Either take it up, or let them know what to expect.”

      Sri Bujang told Balkis, “I will sleep in my old room.” The handmaidens made an obeisance and left.

      “You have to commit,” said Sri Kemboja. “How are you going to be king if you’re not willing to sacrifice?”

      Sri Bujang assumed his most enigmatic smile, honed by centuries of practice. “I guess you’ll have to wait and see.”

      Tapping the steering wheel, May Lynn noticed that her fingernails were too long.

      It was not a new observation. They had been too long for weeks. The thought had gained the familiarity of a landmark one saw every day, like the mountain rising out of the bottom right-hand corner of the windshield.

      May Lynn dug in her handbag for her phone and texted her mother: At Gunung Sri Bujang. The predictive text brought up the name of the mountain even as she typed At. She sent the same text message at the same time every day, to let Ma know she was almost home.

      Ma wouldn’t let May Lynn cut her fingernails when she got back from work. Cutting your nails at night was bad luck, she said. She was not a woman who was easily parted from her convictions and it was not possible to persuade her that that was a superstition belonging to a time predating electric lights.

       “… said the recent unseasonal rainy weather has increased the risk of accidents and asked motorists to avoid driving during storms. The government has formed a taskforce to investigate measures to prevent further landslides …”

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