In a jungle hut:
One hot rainy morning, ten years to the day after her death, Angka’s mother stood up from her place by the firepit and, stepping over the baby, stepping over the rotting threshold, stepping over the pig, her skirts hiked, was gone down the mud-washed path, down to the river, down the river, and away, over the Sea.
The baby, quite astonished, fell into the firepit, and was burnt almost to a crisp before Angka rescued her and, clucking in vexation, threw her into the rainbarrel for the rest of the morning to cool off.
Angka stood for a while outside the door, eyes screwed up against the rain. The rain drummed the long boats of leaves. The wet brown leaves at the roots smelt hot and dark and still. It was one of those moments, which looked backward and forward so interminably, time seemed another length to be gone back and forth at will.
Her mother had been the last to leave, her grandmother before her, and so on, one by one, abandonning their places by the firepit. Their long seat had left damp spots on the stone. Their work, needles, awls, knives, card and spindle, firestone and wooden pin, beginnings and ends of things, they left behind.
The baby was wailing perserveringly in the barrel, and in bubbles of sobs because of the water. Angka threw the baby’s sister in after her.
Now was the time begun for people to forget that children did not die easily. Women are ruined with swarms of children, afraid they would die; but the thing is, they do not, they do not, and eat up everything, forests, rivers, mountains. Death was truly here.
After while, Angka came in from the rain, and tore the day from the calender, and put it between the pages of the almanac to mark the date. She could no longer read or write, and had to live, dumbly mechanically, on ancient wisdom. She would leave too, as soon as the baby cooled off, and if she could just pack a few things. Down the river, over the Sea!
The baby, quite astonished, fell into the firepit, and was burnt almost to a crisp before Angka rescued her and, clucking in vexation, threw her into the rainbarrel for the rest of the morning to cool off.
Angka stood for a while outside the door, eyes screwed up against the rain. The rain drummed the long boats of leaves. The wet brown leaves at the roots smelt hot and dark and still. It was one of those moments, which looked backward and forward so interminably, time seemed another length to be gone back and forth at will.
Her mother had been the last to leave, her grandmother before her, and so on, one by one, abandonning their places by the firepit. Their long seat had left damp spots on the stone. Their work, needles, awls, knives, card and spindle, firestone and wooden pin, beginnings and ends of things, they left behind.
The baby was wailing perserveringly in the barrel, and in bubbles of sobs because of the water. Angka threw the baby’s sister in after her.
Now was the time begun for people to forget that children did not die easily. Women are ruined with swarms of children, afraid they would die; but the thing is, they do not, they do not, and eat up everything, forests, rivers, mountains. Death was truly here.
After while, Angka came in from the rain, and tore the day from the calender, and put it between the pages of the almanac to mark the date. She could no longer read or write, and had to live, dumbly mechanically, on ancient wisdom. She would leave too, as soon as the baby cooled off, and if she could just pack a few things. Down the river, over the Sea!
