It wasn’t the cardboard and bamboo that bothered Indra
Maha—hell, people always got the wrong end of the stick when it came to
government spending—but something else entirely. Something about that damn
turtle statue sitting in Gadobangkong Square that made the short hairs on the
back of his neck stand up.
Fifteen-point-six billion rupiahs. A fortune by anyone’s
standards in these parts. Sure, most of that had gone to the selfie deck, the
leuit, and that culinary building that nobody really needed. But the statue?
That green sea turtle with its hollow eyes staring out at the town of
Palabuhanratu? That had cost almost nothing. And somehow, that bothered Indra
more than if they’d blown the whole wad on it.
Because cheap things have cheap magic. Anyone from
Palabuhanratu with a shred of sense knows that much.
The Chelonia mydas—or “green sea turtle” to folks who didn’t
give a shit about Latin—wasn’t just some random animal they’d slapped on the
Sukabumi Regency logo. It was a symbol. A totem. And like all totems, it had
power.
(or maybe it had power over them)
Indra stood in the square at dusk, briefcase hanging limply
at his side, tie loosened against the Indonesian heat that pressed down like a
wool blanket, even as the sun sank toward the horizon. The statue’s eyes seemed
to follow him.
God, he thought. Get a grip, Maha.
But he couldn’t shake the feeling. Because he knew the
history. He knew what the Dutch had found when they’d first set foot on
Pangumbahan Beach back in colonial times. He knew what Mama Usa had protected
all those years ago, washing those bitter eggs in the shadows of the bintaro
trees.
Kumbah. To wash.
Pangumbahan.
---
Musonip had lived his entire fifty-seven years in Kampung
Jaringao, and he’d worked turtle conservation for most of them. His father had
done the same, and his grandfather before that. In his dreams, Musonip
sometimes imagined the generations of his family stretching back like dominoes,
each one falling into the next, all the way back to Mama Usa himself.
“They’re coming back tonight,” he told the American tourist,
a man with a Red Sox cap and skin the color of uncooked dough. “More than
usual.”
“That’s good, right?” The American—Bill or Bob or something
with a B—smiled with white teeth that looked too perfect to be real.
Musonip didn’t return the smile. “No. Not good.”
The turtles always knew when something was wrong. They came
back in droves when the world was about to shift on its axis. Like they were
trying to warn us. Or maybe just trying to get home before the door slammed
shut.
“The last time this many came,” Musonip said, eyes fixed on
the darkening horizon where the Indian Ocean stretched away like black glass, “was
the day before the tsunami.”
The American’s smile faltered. Good. Let him be afraid. Some
things deserved fear.
The old records kept by the Dutch showed it too, though
those fancy UNESCO people never bothered to translate the faded yellow pages
stored in the conservation center’s back office. Massive turtle returns in
1883, right before Krakatoa blew its top. Again in 1908, before something
terrible in Siberia that the records didn’t specify.
The turtles knew. They always knew.
---
Ade Hendri Yunanto couldn’t sleep. Outside his window, rain
pattered against the tin roof of his small house near the conservation center.
His phone showed 2:47 AM, the blue light harsh in the darkness. He’d been
dreaming about the statue in Gadobangkong Square again.
In the dream, it wasn’t made of cardboard and bamboo. It was
made of flesh. And it was breathing.
His phone buzzed, making him jump. A text from Musonip:
212 tonight. Come now.
Two hundred and twelve turtles. Jesus Christ on a pogo
stick. The most they’d ever recorded in a single night was ninety-three, back
in 2004. The day before the Indian Ocean decided to swallow a quarter-million
souls.
Ade fumbled for his pants, heart hammering against his ribs
like it was trying to escape. As he dressed, a memory surfaced—something his
grandfather had told him when he was just a boy.
“The Dutch didn’t come here for spices,” the old man had
said, his breath sour with betel nut. “They came for what was underneath
Pangumbahan Beach. What the turtles guard.”
“What’s underneath?” young Ade had asked.
His grandfather had only smiled, showing gums more than teeth.
“Better to ask what’s trying to get out.”
---
In Gadobangkong Square, as the clock struck three in the
morning, something happened to the cardboard and bamboo turtle statue. No one
was there to see it—thank God for small mercies—but if someone had been
watching, they would have seen it move.
Just a twitch at first. A tremor that might have been blamed
on the wind, if there had been any wind that still, humid night.
Then more. The neck extending. The flippers flexing. The
eyes—those hollow eyes that weren’t supposed to be anything but painted
cardboard—filling with a deep green light that spilled out onto the pavement
like toxic waste.
At Pangumbahan Beach, forty miles away, two hundred and
twelve turtles laid their eggs in perfect synchronicity, while Musonip and Ade
watched in mute terror. The eggs weren’t bitter this time. Mama Usa wouldn’t
have needed to wash them.
They were sweet. Sweet as salvation. Sweet as the end of all
things.
And deep beneath the sand, something stirred.
(something that had been sleeping for a very, very long
time)
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