Dalih Sembiring's Blog
September 24, 2010
Faery Puck, Ol' Earth & the Love Flower
(first short story to get published nationally, born from a boy's naive fury toward the injustice prevailing in his country; apparently, things haven't changed much)
Under the silk cotton trees I greeted the rest of my days. Fibres that had split from their bolls soared in the twirling wind. The ringing of a river afar; cicadas sang in a rising symphonic bar. The colour of dusk rested on the tip of every branch. This forest was a place for survival, and I gradually turned toward sleep.
There was a rare breeze that blew along with the chimes of glass. Melodic enough to coax one eye open and then the other, to see the figure of a sprite, which I was sure flew in, softly landed. Dry leaves rustled where his feet grazed the ground. I rose in amazement sensing the oddity that held the forest silent from its usual creaks and whistles of insects, all carried away by the last wind.
Who are you? You're strange. Never have I seen an apparition with skin as pink as yours. And such curly, yellow hair, too.
“Yellow it is not, but blond! Hath not amazement dawned upon ye, Madam, for thine old eyes to chance upon so handsome a faery as I?”
No, not handsome—adorable. His oval head was not unlike an ostrich egg; those squinty eyes were as green as a young banana leaf. His nose was dainty on a slender bridge, with an overly pointed tip. And those lips, the lines were forever curled in a convivial smile. His body was much smaller than mine, for he was from a fairy race whose skin glowed luminescent like the fireflies that liked to play in swamp ponds. The pair of transparent wings was crisscrossed by veins like silver, fibrous roots.
I asked who are you, man fairy?
“Puck is my name.”
Such a filthy mouth! For a fairy so young, and yet be corrupted by age.
“Ha, ha, ha. Madam, the name's Puck. Puck the mischievous, Puck the romance bearer, Puck the renowned lover. Born in the depth of a dove orchid’s petal wraps, drinks only from the purest pollen taps, the most trusted among my peer faery chaps. I'm Puck!”
Puck—whatever! What do you mean by disturbing my sleep?
“Do not fret so, Madam. Thou were not even up to twenty of your forty winks. I am however in need of a hand. Lookee here, this fading pair of wings has for days transported me across seas to traverse turquoise soils in the hopes of finding earth’s most prized flora: the Love Flower. Wouldst thou be in the knowledge of such a treasure in this forest, Ma’am?”
The Love Flower, he said? The phenomenon that took me back to my younger days when I was still merry and green. The first stages of my life, yes, of which I still remember and let me recount the tale.
Seven sisters were we, each a guardian for the seven wind-points of The Great Forest. A forest that was not monotonous green, but kaleidoscopic. The Love Flower stalks grew in abundance here. Each tree for each flower. The monkeys favoured the purple petals, and the hummingbirds hung by their nectar. We sisters preferred the leaves ourselves and boiled them in curry-and-coconut sauce. Behold the wondrous Love Flower: When you picked one, it grew back in an instant. From the severed end emerged white wax which would turn into fresh buds. It never wilted, never died, but multiplied every time the white wax so happened to fall upon the ground and blossomed between two leaves. This forest was once peaceful, and more spacious, and was called the Emeralds of the Equator.
Until one time, when a fire demon in the shape of a five-horned snake escaped the pits of hell. It swept into the forest through the eighth wind-point. We felt gloom creeping in and saw trees falling down and turning into coals; the bush roots were smelted into the greyest soot; and what was most horrible and unimaginable was that one by one and by one the Love Flowers melted like slimy resin.
My sisters fell dead in succession within unpredictable periods of time. Their fine pores burnt and baked. I did not wish to end the same way so I hid by the crater of Merapi. But the fiendish fire demon knew a lot that he bestowed upon himself the title of The Omniscient. He seized me, squeezed me and stared deep into my eyes. His penis like a rusty ivory thrust and tore until it scattered thick, black blood that oozed from my fine pores. I was not ready to die. He said I would not yet die. But after he had had his way with my body and ravaged every drop of my energy, I was cursed to remain a hag with pus-filled skin and breasts so long and big as the udders of a cow.
“I cannot deny to have noticed the gargantuan bosoms perched atop thee, Madam.”
Yes, but no milk can flow within its ducts.
“Then what, pray tell, art their use?”
The right one nests the curse of the fire demon. And clamped under this left one is where I keep all valuables that remained: gold and silver, emeralds and jades, and what was left of the coal stones. Those are all. And not a trace of the Love Flower.
“What nooks and crannies need I peruse, then?”
I don't know, but I was told the Seven Princes of Hell have their messengers in every forest. You shall have to seek arduously. May there still be a Love Flower hidden between valleys, or a stalk safe in a grassland somewhere.
“How about you, Madam? Does love still reside in thine eyes?”
Ha, ha, ha, ha. Do not pretend not to notice how atrocious I look, Faery. I now feed upon plants that absorb the juice of corpses and breathe the air polluted by lies and treachery of titanic proportions. I'll tell you this: Should you find a Love Flower blooming here, lovers would not idly fall in lust because of it. It is no more an aphrodisiac but a cancerous spite.
Pause.
Not finding what he was seeking, Faery Puck left. Yet he warranted a promise, “Should I find the Love Flower, I shall furnish thee my surplus. Drip a drop of its wax upon the eyes of your dreamy betrothed, and pray to the gods that you would once again appreciate the meaning of love, Madam.”
My name is Pertiwi Ol' Earth. You can call me Pertiwi.
***
This was the pause before the wings of Faery Puck buzzed in departure; the story did not end before he met the other forest dwellers.
First came a group of black field rats which stank of the dirt found between mortal peasant toes. They sniffed out cotton trees, the tunnels of anthills and even my feet. I had to kick one away before it started chewing on my toe (admittedly my toe was rank, but they were fond of the stinking aroma). A rat with a distended belly, the biggest of the pack, arrogantly marched toward me. It glanced at Puck, and then no more. It raised its head haughtily; its long nose pointed almost straight up in defiance of the sky.
“Wench, you are still surviving.”
True, with my possessions.
“Your boobs are ballooning, I see. An increase in what you collect and dig up and squeeze between your lumps?”
It’s your eyes that have bulged. Truth be told my chests have shrunk, sucked by the monkeys. You have salted away all the fruits and trawled all the fish. You only leave them some measly bugs, and thus ending my share of coconut corpuscles. You stowed them neatly in your underground burrows. Clearly your stomach is not big enough, ha?
“You're delirious, Ol' Earth. I dare you to look for 'em. I hide nothing.”
The other rats pulled their lips in a grimace and sniggered. When the biggest rat hissed, they fell quiet.
“Ol' Earth, I know you have lots of stuff under your left tit. How about being a sweetheart and handing 'em to us?”
To what purpose? Metal and stones are not fit for consumption.
“But they sure look good.”
I'll never give them away! And heed my warning, shall anyone dare to run off with my treasures while I am in slumber, I swear to shatter your hideout under the anthill mounds by the riverside.
“With what? With your mammaries that could put an elephant to shame! Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!”
They traipsed away past us laughing uproariously. I caught a sad stare on the little fairy's face. But I told him I was not affected, for what was more saddening was the fate of the monkeys. You must see them. So I took him to the other side of the forest, where all types of trees could be found, some were weak, some on the brink of death. Even the bushes were dried up. I said, the monkeys live here and the rats live luxuriously in The Green Forest.
Small monkeys rushed to crowd upon me and clutched one of my breasts to suckle drips of blood until I was writhing in pain. I welcomed the eldest monkey and introduced her to Puck. Then we asked her to tell us her tale. We listened with our heads hung low.
There was once a time when the monkeys lived peacefully in the Green Forest. They planted corn and fruits. Small huts were built on lush trees. The children bathed in the river under the watchful eye of their fathers who fish for jurung and sepat. Their mothers waited for them in huts, preparing foods or gossiping among the branches. Their days were filled with smiles and cheerful laughter, happy shrieks, joy.
“Way back then, the rats had no power upon us. We would drive them away back into their burrows if they attempted to steal anything. But the fire demon came and gave the rats power. Their teeth were gifted with a poisonous membrane. That night they skulked in herds and plundered our homes; many died, in numbers uncountable. To rid of the stench they cremated the bodies, although the odour from their bodies was just as foul—you could throw up just being near them. And thus we were driven out here, trying to rebuild a place to live. We planted seeds and dug up pools. But the rats stole in and took away all the fruits we planted and all our food supplies, time and again. Until we reached the conclusion that it was wasteful for us to plant seeds if we were not to reap the yields by ourselves. We gave up. That was how our stupid and weak race came to be oppressed by the greedy rats. Now we eat only worms and bugs. If any fresh fruits were found we would race each other. It is not uncommon that we would fight for a bite of a tasty morsel. And we owe our thanks to Pertiwi who delivers the much needed nutrition to our children.”
But that pause was nearing its end, and now... Puck bargained, nay, more accurately he begged me to come with him to the country of beauty. A land whose people were not held back by the bitterness in their own hearts. “Why, why wouldst thou be so readily imprisoned by tears and keep such sorrow that maims bit by bit of thy existence?”
I answered, where did this notion come from that I would be able to fly behind you when I am the energy that holds this forest? Dear Faery, you are not my dear pal the Grim Reaper, are you? Ha, ha, you can’t even see the difference between soul and body. Leave, do not keep memories of me nor this place. Befriending an Ol' Earth like me suits you not, my cheery fairy friend.
Puck's lips trembled. He was a young fairy but he understood and started crying. Pearly tears fell down and disturbed the finest dusts, and singly transformed into a-thousand-faceted diamonds. I collected the translucent stones.
“Hold on to them, Madam Pertiwi. My tears had not been touched by this forest’s musty air. Tend to them near your heart. Thou may later be far from my memories, but please remember me.”
And then...
He was here no more.
Crickets sent him off with their creaks. From a distance the sound of a river faintly flowed on, as if it had been quietly frozen before. Then I heard the whispery winds disclose the hissing of the reigning beast, slithering and shoving tree trunks and smashing down dry twigs. Because its body was flooded by hot lava that could turn even rocks into porridge, yet it was powerful enough to conjure them back into their original form.
Standing in front of me, it boomed in a raspy voice.
“Thou art far from death, but why not just surrender!”
Death is far from you too, but I see hell shadowed on your face. So why don't you repent? Why don't you repent? Why don't you repent, supposing the russet twilight still freely floats?
“Because... my story has yet to end.”
18-20 January 2002
Originally published as “Peri Puck, Pertiwi & Bunga Cinta” in Kakilangit, literary magazine Horison's student section in the May 2002 edition under Dalih Sembiring's nom de plume Ali Depari. Translated by Nana Neither Nor.
Under the silk cotton trees I greeted the rest of my days. Fibres that had split from their bolls soared in the twirling wind. The ringing of a river afar; cicadas sang in a rising symphonic bar. The colour of dusk rested on the tip of every branch. This forest was a place for survival, and I gradually turned toward sleep.
There was a rare breeze that blew along with the chimes of glass. Melodic enough to coax one eye open and then the other, to see the figure of a sprite, which I was sure flew in, softly landed. Dry leaves rustled where his feet grazed the ground. I rose in amazement sensing the oddity that held the forest silent from its usual creaks and whistles of insects, all carried away by the last wind.
Who are you? You're strange. Never have I seen an apparition with skin as pink as yours. And such curly, yellow hair, too.
“Yellow it is not, but blond! Hath not amazement dawned upon ye, Madam, for thine old eyes to chance upon so handsome a faery as I?”
No, not handsome—adorable. His oval head was not unlike an ostrich egg; those squinty eyes were as green as a young banana leaf. His nose was dainty on a slender bridge, with an overly pointed tip. And those lips, the lines were forever curled in a convivial smile. His body was much smaller than mine, for he was from a fairy race whose skin glowed luminescent like the fireflies that liked to play in swamp ponds. The pair of transparent wings was crisscrossed by veins like silver, fibrous roots.
I asked who are you, man fairy?
“Puck is my name.”
Such a filthy mouth! For a fairy so young, and yet be corrupted by age.
“Ha, ha, ha. Madam, the name's Puck. Puck the mischievous, Puck the romance bearer, Puck the renowned lover. Born in the depth of a dove orchid’s petal wraps, drinks only from the purest pollen taps, the most trusted among my peer faery chaps. I'm Puck!”
Puck—whatever! What do you mean by disturbing my sleep?
“Do not fret so, Madam. Thou were not even up to twenty of your forty winks. I am however in need of a hand. Lookee here, this fading pair of wings has for days transported me across seas to traverse turquoise soils in the hopes of finding earth’s most prized flora: the Love Flower. Wouldst thou be in the knowledge of such a treasure in this forest, Ma’am?”
The Love Flower, he said? The phenomenon that took me back to my younger days when I was still merry and green. The first stages of my life, yes, of which I still remember and let me recount the tale.
Seven sisters were we, each a guardian for the seven wind-points of The Great Forest. A forest that was not monotonous green, but kaleidoscopic. The Love Flower stalks grew in abundance here. Each tree for each flower. The monkeys favoured the purple petals, and the hummingbirds hung by their nectar. We sisters preferred the leaves ourselves and boiled them in curry-and-coconut sauce. Behold the wondrous Love Flower: When you picked one, it grew back in an instant. From the severed end emerged white wax which would turn into fresh buds. It never wilted, never died, but multiplied every time the white wax so happened to fall upon the ground and blossomed between two leaves. This forest was once peaceful, and more spacious, and was called the Emeralds of the Equator.
Until one time, when a fire demon in the shape of a five-horned snake escaped the pits of hell. It swept into the forest through the eighth wind-point. We felt gloom creeping in and saw trees falling down and turning into coals; the bush roots were smelted into the greyest soot; and what was most horrible and unimaginable was that one by one and by one the Love Flowers melted like slimy resin.
My sisters fell dead in succession within unpredictable periods of time. Their fine pores burnt and baked. I did not wish to end the same way so I hid by the crater of Merapi. But the fiendish fire demon knew a lot that he bestowed upon himself the title of The Omniscient. He seized me, squeezed me and stared deep into my eyes. His penis like a rusty ivory thrust and tore until it scattered thick, black blood that oozed from my fine pores. I was not ready to die. He said I would not yet die. But after he had had his way with my body and ravaged every drop of my energy, I was cursed to remain a hag with pus-filled skin and breasts so long and big as the udders of a cow.
“I cannot deny to have noticed the gargantuan bosoms perched atop thee, Madam.”
Yes, but no milk can flow within its ducts.
“Then what, pray tell, art their use?”
The right one nests the curse of the fire demon. And clamped under this left one is where I keep all valuables that remained: gold and silver, emeralds and jades, and what was left of the coal stones. Those are all. And not a trace of the Love Flower.
“What nooks and crannies need I peruse, then?”
I don't know, but I was told the Seven Princes of Hell have their messengers in every forest. You shall have to seek arduously. May there still be a Love Flower hidden between valleys, or a stalk safe in a grassland somewhere.
“How about you, Madam? Does love still reside in thine eyes?”
Ha, ha, ha, ha. Do not pretend not to notice how atrocious I look, Faery. I now feed upon plants that absorb the juice of corpses and breathe the air polluted by lies and treachery of titanic proportions. I'll tell you this: Should you find a Love Flower blooming here, lovers would not idly fall in lust because of it. It is no more an aphrodisiac but a cancerous spite.
Pause.
Not finding what he was seeking, Faery Puck left. Yet he warranted a promise, “Should I find the Love Flower, I shall furnish thee my surplus. Drip a drop of its wax upon the eyes of your dreamy betrothed, and pray to the gods that you would once again appreciate the meaning of love, Madam.”
My name is Pertiwi Ol' Earth. You can call me Pertiwi.
***
This was the pause before the wings of Faery Puck buzzed in departure; the story did not end before he met the other forest dwellers.
First came a group of black field rats which stank of the dirt found between mortal peasant toes. They sniffed out cotton trees, the tunnels of anthills and even my feet. I had to kick one away before it started chewing on my toe (admittedly my toe was rank, but they were fond of the stinking aroma). A rat with a distended belly, the biggest of the pack, arrogantly marched toward me. It glanced at Puck, and then no more. It raised its head haughtily; its long nose pointed almost straight up in defiance of the sky.
“Wench, you are still surviving.”
True, with my possessions.
“Your boobs are ballooning, I see. An increase in what you collect and dig up and squeeze between your lumps?”
It’s your eyes that have bulged. Truth be told my chests have shrunk, sucked by the monkeys. You have salted away all the fruits and trawled all the fish. You only leave them some measly bugs, and thus ending my share of coconut corpuscles. You stowed them neatly in your underground burrows. Clearly your stomach is not big enough, ha?
“You're delirious, Ol' Earth. I dare you to look for 'em. I hide nothing.”
The other rats pulled their lips in a grimace and sniggered. When the biggest rat hissed, they fell quiet.
“Ol' Earth, I know you have lots of stuff under your left tit. How about being a sweetheart and handing 'em to us?”
To what purpose? Metal and stones are not fit for consumption.
“But they sure look good.”
I'll never give them away! And heed my warning, shall anyone dare to run off with my treasures while I am in slumber, I swear to shatter your hideout under the anthill mounds by the riverside.
“With what? With your mammaries that could put an elephant to shame! Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!”
They traipsed away past us laughing uproariously. I caught a sad stare on the little fairy's face. But I told him I was not affected, for what was more saddening was the fate of the monkeys. You must see them. So I took him to the other side of the forest, where all types of trees could be found, some were weak, some on the brink of death. Even the bushes were dried up. I said, the monkeys live here and the rats live luxuriously in The Green Forest.
Small monkeys rushed to crowd upon me and clutched one of my breasts to suckle drips of blood until I was writhing in pain. I welcomed the eldest monkey and introduced her to Puck. Then we asked her to tell us her tale. We listened with our heads hung low.
There was once a time when the monkeys lived peacefully in the Green Forest. They planted corn and fruits. Small huts were built on lush trees. The children bathed in the river under the watchful eye of their fathers who fish for jurung and sepat. Their mothers waited for them in huts, preparing foods or gossiping among the branches. Their days were filled with smiles and cheerful laughter, happy shrieks, joy.
“Way back then, the rats had no power upon us. We would drive them away back into their burrows if they attempted to steal anything. But the fire demon came and gave the rats power. Their teeth were gifted with a poisonous membrane. That night they skulked in herds and plundered our homes; many died, in numbers uncountable. To rid of the stench they cremated the bodies, although the odour from their bodies was just as foul—you could throw up just being near them. And thus we were driven out here, trying to rebuild a place to live. We planted seeds and dug up pools. But the rats stole in and took away all the fruits we planted and all our food supplies, time and again. Until we reached the conclusion that it was wasteful for us to plant seeds if we were not to reap the yields by ourselves. We gave up. That was how our stupid and weak race came to be oppressed by the greedy rats. Now we eat only worms and bugs. If any fresh fruits were found we would race each other. It is not uncommon that we would fight for a bite of a tasty morsel. And we owe our thanks to Pertiwi who delivers the much needed nutrition to our children.”
But that pause was nearing its end, and now... Puck bargained, nay, more accurately he begged me to come with him to the country of beauty. A land whose people were not held back by the bitterness in their own hearts. “Why, why wouldst thou be so readily imprisoned by tears and keep such sorrow that maims bit by bit of thy existence?”
I answered, where did this notion come from that I would be able to fly behind you when I am the energy that holds this forest? Dear Faery, you are not my dear pal the Grim Reaper, are you? Ha, ha, you can’t even see the difference between soul and body. Leave, do not keep memories of me nor this place. Befriending an Ol' Earth like me suits you not, my cheery fairy friend.
Puck's lips trembled. He was a young fairy but he understood and started crying. Pearly tears fell down and disturbed the finest dusts, and singly transformed into a-thousand-faceted diamonds. I collected the translucent stones.
“Hold on to them, Madam Pertiwi. My tears had not been touched by this forest’s musty air. Tend to them near your heart. Thou may later be far from my memories, but please remember me.”
And then...
He was here no more.
Crickets sent him off with their creaks. From a distance the sound of a river faintly flowed on, as if it had been quietly frozen before. Then I heard the whispery winds disclose the hissing of the reigning beast, slithering and shoving tree trunks and smashing down dry twigs. Because its body was flooded by hot lava that could turn even rocks into porridge, yet it was powerful enough to conjure them back into their original form.
Standing in front of me, it boomed in a raspy voice.
“Thou art far from death, but why not just surrender!”
Death is far from you too, but I see hell shadowed on your face. So why don't you repent? Why don't you repent? Why don't you repent, supposing the russet twilight still freely floats?
“Because... my story has yet to end.”
18-20 January 2002
Originally published as “Peri Puck, Pertiwi & Bunga Cinta” in Kakilangit, literary magazine Horison's student section in the May 2002 edition under Dalih Sembiring's nom de plume Ali Depari. Translated by Nana Neither Nor.
