The Flame Tree (17 page)

“Quite a bit of bleeding,” the Imam said conversationally. “A boy his age, I would have expected some more looseness there, less attachment.”

“Maybe he hasn’t masturbated enough,” Udin said, to another round of laughter.

Imam Ali stretched out the incandescently painful foreskin. Isaac moaned in agony. “That’s better,” the Imam said. He put a hand inside a small bag that he carried over his shoulder and
withdrew an object that he pressed onto the glans of Isaac’s penis. “I’m almost tempted not to use the shield and try a little freehand cutting,” he said. “Maybe on my next infidel child.” He next withdrew a razor knife.

“Let go of his mouth,” Udin told Tanto. “I want to hear him scream this time.”

Tanto did not release his hand.

“Let go,” Udin said.

Tanto let go.

Imam Ali pinched Isaac’s foreskin with his fingers. Holding the razor in his right hand, he sliced the foreskin along the edge of the shield.

What had been excruciating before was now beyond all adjectives of pain. Isaac’s scream was instinctive and primal. His muscles seized so violently that his left leg shook off its holder, and the Imam had to cease his cutting to put his weight on the flailing limb until the man got his hold back again.

Tanto quickly clamped down hard on Isaac’s mouth to silence him.

“Allah, I’ve never heard it hurt so bad. Even a stuck pig doesn’t squeal that loud,” Udin said, shaken by the intensity of Isaac’s pain. He regained his composure. “I guess bulés can’t take pain the way we can.”

Tanto growled, “We’re not using any antiseptic cream. I tell you, this is not a good idea. The Tuan Guru has said nothing about—”

“I said I’ll take the responsibility,” Imam Ali said, cutting again as Isaac swooned. “Didn’t you hear me?”

Another cut and the Imam was done. He stuffed toilet tissue over the raw and bleeding glans and placed over that a bamboo codpiece, which he strapped in place with nylon string. Isaac barely noticed. His eyes fluttered, Imam Ali’s face unsteady in their view. The foul monster that had been chasing him all these nights was no figment of his imagination, a summoned illusion, but was as real as the pain he was feeling and had taken bodily shape in the form of this crow-eyed, beak-faced, thin-lipped man whose breath smelled like scalded chicken feathers. This was no Imam.

This was the Lord of the Crows himself, in human guise.

“The next step,” the Imam said, “is for you to recite the confession of faith in the presence of two pious Muslims. Now, we would do, of course, but we shall give you an even more grand and glorious occasion in which to become a Muslim. Why, thousands of Muslims shall witness this, and the whole world will watch. Rejoice, little Isak, that you have been granted this glorious opportunity to become a Muslim in front of the whole world.”

Isaac summoned all the residue of his evaporated faith and hissed something through teeth gritted against the pain.

“What’s that?”

“I don’t want to become a Muslim.”

The Imam patted his cheek. “Of course you do. You haven’t gone through all this pain for nothing, have you?”

Ibu Halimah bustled into the room. “What outrage is this?” she boomed. “Get away from that boy!” She shoved the two men holding Isaac’s feet away from the cot. With hands on her hips, she stared angrily at Imam Ali.

He stiffened. “Don’t you know who I am?”

“I know poisonous mushrooms from good. Get away from him.” She pushed the Imam to the side and caught sight of Isaac’s groin.
“Iyallah!
What have you done!”

“Be calm, woman,” the Imam said. “It is only a circumcision.”

“Does the Tuan Guru know of this? No, I think not. You men with your overblown egos and stiff-necked pride, taking it out on a little boy. Shame on you. Now go.”

The Imam said to Tanto, “Brother, who rules in your house?”

Tanto did not answer. He trailed out after the others, his head bent under the weight of his wife’s anger.

Alone with Isaac, Ibu Halimah became brusque and efficient. She removed the codpiece. She clucked at what she saw. “Butcher,” she muttered under her breath, not intending for Isaac to overhear. “Let me go get my medicine bag,” she said. “I’ll be back in a minute. Don’t move.”

Isaac lay still. The searing flames of pain were receding to a steady glow.

When she came back, she had a cup of jamu in her hands. “Drink this, it’ll help the pain, calm you down.”

Isaac feebly waved away the cup. “Thank you, but I don’t need it.”

“But, Isak—”

“I don’t need it. My dream came true at dawn, and so now I don’t need it.”

She considered Isaac. “As you wish,” she finally said. “But I must clean and treat your wound.” She started with an anesthetic that bit fiercely before it took effect, reducing the pain of Isaac’s
penis to a sting, tolerable if he thought of other things. What he thought of was a Hutu beheading a Tutsi.

“Aiyah
, this is a shame,” she said as she worked. “A circumcision should be a time of joy and celebration. A little bit of hurt, but then singing and feasting. A circumcision to a boy should be what a wedding night is to a maiden. But this, what sort of circumcision has this been?”

Isaac said nothing.

The Hutu’s blade still glistened shiny smooth even after passing through the Tutsi’s neck.

When Ibu Halimah was finished, she said, speaking more gently than she ever had, like a mother would, “You don’t have to be brave. You can cry.”

Isaac blinked once, twice. “I’ve no more tears,” he said. “No more tears.”

A
FEW HOURS LATER
Mr. Suherman studied the bloodstains on the cot. His face hardened but his voice remained soft as he said, “Listen to me, Isaac. This has nothing to do with Islam.”

Isaac said nothing. He sat on the chair with his legs carefully splayed, staring at the crack in the shutter.

Mr. Suherman sighed. “Allah will hold Imam Ali accountable for all he has done. And,
in sha’a allah
, so will I. But what he has done cannot be changed. It is time to go. Follow me.”

Isaac did so, his throbbing penis protected by the codpiece from the weight and shift of the sarong he’d been given to wear, along with a white tunic. Mr. Suherman left the door to the cell standing wide open. “We are not returning,” he said.

Mas Bengkok’s cot was gone. A bucket of clean water stood next to the wall. Mr. Suherman performed wudu and then asked that Isaac do the same. “I know you are wounded in your heart as well as body,” he said gently. “Do it as best you can.”

Isaac went through the motions. When he was done, Mr. Suherman said, “I’m going to blindfold you. There are some men standing outside the door. They will not hurt you. They will put you in a car.” Mr. Suherman took the black sash that was around
his shoulders and tied it around Isaac’s eyes. He knocked on the door at the end of hall. It whisked open. Brusque but kind hands gathered up Isaac and took him down the stairs. The men joked good-naturedly at his bent, spread-knee shuffle. He was guided onto the comfortable rear seat of a sedan. Two minders sat on either side of him.

As the car descended into the familiar lowland heat, public bus conductors chanted out the names of their destinations. Isaac’s current minders did not realize just how well he knew the province. His mind made a map, traced out a route, and circled the town where they had started.

Dogs and boys have an uncanny ability to scent home. Isaac scratched his nose, bumping up the lower edge of his blindfold for a peek. The sky was at last a scintillating blue. Isaac saw on his right the charcoaled ruins of a two-story storefront. Pedestrians hurried past without giving it a glance.

Gideon Wira’s shop.

There fell into Isaac’s heart the absolute certainty that Mr. Wira was dead, killed by the mindless, murderous mob.

Isaac let the blindfold drop.

A few minutes later the car’s tires crunched on gravel and then stopped. The doors flung open. His keepers got him out and hustled him along. Isaac grimaced from the pain of his jostled penis. He stumbled up a short flight of four steps. A door opened. “Take off your sandals,” one of his guardians said. Isaac kicked them off his feet, and he was pushed through the door, which closed behind him. None of the men followed him.

Isaac stood there not knowing what to do.

A resonant voice said, “Remove your blindfold.”

Isaac obeyed, squinting against bright light flooding in from a window. He was in a small room painted pure white. Turkish rugs covered most of the marble floor. Across from him was another door. Beside it was a low dais; on that dais rested a thin red cushion; and on that cushion sat an old man with sunken cheeks, bushy white eyebrows, and a tuft of a beard. He was swaddled in white and wore a white turban. He looked at Isaac with a gaze that burned.

Isaac’s mouth went dry. His vision grew dim at the edges.

The old man lifted his right arm, and a hand appeared out of the voluminous sleeve of his blouse. A scrawny finger with a cracked, yellowed nail beckoned him closer.

Even seated on the dais, the Tuan Guru was still a head shorter than Isaac. With a vigorous movement, he hoisted Isaac’s sarong with both hands, exposing the codpiece. He lifted the codpiece without unstrapping it. He cricked his head left and right, inspecting the wound. His expression changed not at all. Letting the sarong drop, he motioned impatiently for Isaac to step back and then appeared to lose all interest in him. His gaze turned inward with the self-assurance of a man accustomed to himself as he sat in judgment of others.

Mr. Suherman entered the room. He handed Isaac a rolled prayer rug. He said, “We will go out in a few moments. Sit where I put you, on that rug, in the Islamic manner. Sit quietly. You will be told what to do, so listen carefully at all times and obey what
you are told. Your ordeal is nearly finished; there is only the one more step to take.”

The words echoed in Isaac’s brain.
Only the one more step, one more step, one more step
.

Mr. Suherman opened the other door. He motioned Isaac to go through first. Before Isaac was a vast, soaring chamber, with an immense congregation of men, women, and children sitting on its floor.

He was, as he already knew, in the Grand Mosque of Wonobo. Thousands of Wonobo’s faithful had gathered together for Friday’s noon worship, row after row after row of worshippers lined up in ranks spaced by the length of a prostrate body, the symmetry of their ranks broken only by the marble-faced columns that towered from the floor to a distant ceiling. The majority were men, dressed in somber-colored sarongs and blouses. The women were segregated to the left side, separated by a low white screen. They were garbed in white from head to toe, leaving only their brown faces exposed.

At Isaac’s appearance the worshippers’ whispered praying ceased. Mr. Suherman put his hand on the small of Isaac’s back. He kept applying a slight pressure, guiding Isaac across the floor into the silence.

In the center of the front row sat Imam Ali with his crow face. He looked upon Isaac with a beneficent smile. Udin sat beside him. His smile was much more hungry.

Just outside the prayer hall on the northern colonnade, Isaac glimpsed a discreetly placed video camera on a metal tripod. The
cameraman, a headset clamped to his ears, wore prayer dress. From far beyond the mosque’s grand entrance came the faint yet unmistakable braying of a press mob being held at bay from their news.

“Eyes down,” Mr. Suherman whispered.

Isaac lowered his gaze. His ribs were slick with sweat. The kiai indicated for him to put down his prayer rug at the right end of the first row, in two spaces clearly reserved for them. Mr. Suherman put his rug down beside Isaac’s.

Isaac sat down carefully, nursing his groin. Once seated, he took a deep breath. He felt very far away from his own body. The only thing that seemed to connect him to his flesh was the twinge of pain beneath the codpiece.

In the center of the front row Imam Ali resumed his murmurs of Scripture.

The muezzin of the Grand Mosque approached the microphone that stood in front. With his back to the congregation, he lifted his hands to the sides of his head, palms outward, and began reciting the call to prayer.

As the last echoes swirled and died Tuan Guru Haji Abdullah Abubakar strode out the door Isaac had just used. He paused and surveyed the hall. In that brief sweep of his penetrating and all-seeing eyes, it seemed that he not only knew and recognized each person present, but also read the words of their minds and the writings on their hearts. Some of the congregants shifted uncomfortably on their rugs. Others, like Imam Ali, glowed with the Tuan Guru’s unspoken blessing.

The Tuan Guru’s gaze rested on Isaac. Again Isaac felt pierced by that hot, merciless, knowing stare.

“
As-salamu alaikum
,” the Tuan Guru said in a strong voice, wishing peace upon the assembled worshippers.

No peace fell upon Isaac.

The Tuan Guru ascended the three short steps to the pulpit, which was a marvel of workmanship in rosewood with enamel and mother-of-pearl inlay. He sat down cross-legged on its small, rug-covered platform. He began his sermon with the familiar Arabic words,
“Bismillah Ar-Rahman Ar-Rahim!
In the name of God the Compassionate, the Merciful. Praise be to Allah Almighty to whom none can be compared. His being transcends all of space and all of time. He is Ruler of Worlds. The Lord of Might. The Master of Destiny. The Owner of All Praise. He lifts up the lowly whom He will and reduces the mighty whom He will. Praise be to the hearer of our prayers, to the All-Seeing and All-Knowing. There is none like Allah. He guides whom He will, and His path is straight and complete to perfection.
Ashhadu anna la illaha ilia allah wa ashhadu anna muhammadan rasul allah!
May Allah have mercy upon the Prophet’s descendants and upon his companions. May Allah grant them peace.

“Today I wish to speak of the completeness of Islam, the indivisible oneness of the straight path within which there is no crookedness. There are some who say, I am of the party of this Imam, or I follow the teaching of that
alim
. And there are some that say, I am a follower of Tuan Guru Haji Abdullah Abubakar. There are some of you who are confident they know what I am
going to say. Therefore, it seems to me that one of you who knows this should take my place on this
minbar
and speak to the others who do not know. Is there anyone willing to do so? To grant this tired tongue some rest?”

The Tuan Guru fell silent as he searched the large and quiet hall for this volunteer who might replace him. His gaze lingered upon Imam Ali. No one moved, least of all the Imam.

“Very well. I shall speak myself, then, of the completeness and indivisibility of Islam. And let me start with the obvious, which is plain for all of us to see: the presence in our midst of a child of the unbelievers.”

The Tuan Guru pointedly looked to his left at Isaac. The congregation was galvanized by these last words. The air became charged with electricity. A surge of heat suffused Isaac. He began sweating again. He stole a glance at Imam Ali and then at Mr. Suherman. Imam Ali had an eager, expectant look on his beaklike face; Mr. Suherman’s was impassive.

The Tuan Guru said, “Praise be to Allah, who ordains as He pleases! He in His Wisdom delivered this boy into our hands, He has placed him there according to His purpose. And what is His desire in this regard?”

Isaac concentrated on the pain radiating from his penis. He did not want to hear the fate that the Tuan Guru had decided for him. The Tuan Guru spoke with great emotion and with bristling of his eyebrows. At last one sentence cut through the barrier of pain that Isaac had erected around himself.

“Isak, would you please stand before me.”

The Tuan Guru’s command was softly spoken but had the terrible clarity of a suddenly drawn sword. The congregation stirred and then hushed with anticipation.

Isaac felt faint. His mutilated groin throbbed. Mr. Suherman took his elbow. Isaac was so light that Mr. Suherman’s mere touch seemed to lift him to his feet. They moved forward, with a thousand pairs of eyes once more upon them. The silence clung to Isaac, making his steps difficult.

He came to the foot of the pulpit. Isaac stared at the finely veined marble underneath his bare feet.
I am a Christian. I must not reject my faith. Dear God, help me
.

But God was silent, and in his fear and pain Isaac knew the awful truth: He did not want to die, not even for his faith.

The Tuan Guru leaned forward and said, “Child, look at me.” His command had such power that Isaac could not resist. The Tuan Guru caught and held Isaac’s helpless gaze. The burning heat was there as before, but Isaac was suddenly confused, because he saw something else that he could not name until the Tuan Guru did so himself, crying out, “
Bismillah Ar-Rahman Ar-Rahim!
”

Compassion. Mercy.

“We humbly beg you, young Isak, to come to common terms with us, to accept Islam and become part of our family.”

Isaac stood there as dumb as a calf before the slaughter.
God, help me
. God’s silence became even more profound. In Isaac’s fright blossomed a pricking of anger. He no longer wanted to be a pawn in either earthly or heavenly games, pushed this way and that. He forced sounds to his lips. “
Ndak isa
.” I cannot.

The Tuan Guru said nothing. Isaac quailed. Then the Tuan Guru smiled, an astonishing smile of warmth and humanity, and said clear enough for all in the mosque and those beyond to hear, “Allah calls whomsoever He wills, and there is no denying His call. Who is to say when He shall call you, young Isak? Until then, the Qur’an is clear in teaching that there is no compulsion in Islam. Looking upon you, I am reminded of a verse that is addressed to captives.” He sang the Arabic and then said in ringing Indonesian, “O Prophet! Say to those captives who are in your hands: If Allah knows any good in your hearts, He will give you better than that which has been taken from you and will forgive you. For Allah is forgiving, merciful.”

The Tuan Guru raised his gaze to the congregation and said, “Truly, the straight path is of an indivisible oneness. The very plain wording of this
ayah
is also echoed by Abu Musa, who said that the Prophet said, ‘Free the captives, feed the hungry, and pay a visit to the sick.’ Who among you can deny that the purpose of Allah regarding this child Isak is not this very clear and plain commandment, to release him whom fate has placed as a captive in our hands and to say to the world that is watching us even this moment: Islam gifts you all with the great and priceless pearl that is peace, if only you will accept it.”

A murmur of agreement swept the packed mosque like an ocean wave running along the sand. The Tuan Guru let the silence linger before he spoke again to Isaac.

“Isak, you are a child of the Book, a creature of Almighty God. You have in your heart the goodness for which Allah searches.” He
paused and then murmured, “May you receive from Allah that which is better than what was taken.” He let his compassionate gaze linger on Isaac. “I will shortly release you to your parents with my blessing, but first, Imam Ali, will you please come forward. Yes, I mean you, Imam Ali.”

The Tuan Guru descended from the pulpit. Imam Ali approached, his yeasty smell raising the hair on Isaac’s nape. He came into Isaac’s peripheral view. Isaac adjusted his stance to lose sight of the man.

The Tuan Guru said to both Mr. Suherman and Imam Ali, in a voice strong enough to carry to the most distant person of the stunned congregation, “I wish for you to salam this boy with me, for he is Allah’s creation.”