Toni nearly choked on her coffee. In all the years she had trained and known Guru, she had never been past the closed door into her bedroom. She had conjured all kinds of fantasies as to what it must look like in there. Maybe shrunken heads dangling from the ceiling, or walls covered with Indonesian art.
It was nothing so weird. It could have been any bedroom, belonging to any old woman. There was a bed, a carved, dark wooden chest at the foot of the bed, teak or mahogany, and a tall and dark wardrobe, also of wood, with a mirror that had lost part of its silvery backing. On one wall was a painting of a nude girl standing in a pool under a waterfall. The room smelled of incense, patchouli or maybe musk.
But on the nightstand was a red pillow, and upon the pillow was a kris inside a wooden and brass sheath.
Toni knew what it was. She had done some reading about Indonesia, curious about the country that fostered the martial art she studied, and while she had never trained with a kris, she had played with plenty of knives.
She picked the weapon up. She couldn't tell from the sheath what the shape of the blade was, but the typical Javanese kris was a foot to a foot and a half long — this one looked to be maybe fifteen or sixteen inches — and had a wavy, undulating double-edged blade, made of layers of forged, hand-hammered steel. Thus, like the swords of Damascus or the samurai katana, the final knife had a grain, a pattern in the welded metal itself.
She hurried back into the living room, wanting to hear the rest of Guru's story.
Guru traded the weapon for her empty coffee cup, which Toni quickly refilled.
"My great-uncle Ba Pa had no sons, only daughters, and when it came time for my grandfather to become a man and receive his kris, this is the one he inherited. It had been in the family from my great-uncle's father's father's father's time."
With that, the old woman drew the knife from the wooden sheath and held it up.
It was an undulate blade, a ribbon of steel with six or seven curves on either side, narrowing from a wide base under a slightly curved and short pistol-like handle to a sharp point. The metal was black, it had a dull, matte look, and on one side there was a little loop of steel protruding under the inside of the guard, almost like a tiny tree branch. On the other side of the blade were tiny, jagged teeth-like points.
"In the days when spirits were still powerful in Java, this kris had much hantu—much magic." She waved the weapon. "It has thirteen luk dapor, thirteen curves, and the pamor is called udan-mas; it means ‘golden rain.' Here, you see?"
Guru pointed at the pattern in the metal, which looked like little drops of rain had spattered upon dry ground.
"This kris was supposed to bring good fortune and money for its owner.
"Some believe a good kris could kill slowly an enemy simply by stabbing his shadow — or even his footprints. If an enemy approached, a good kris would rattle in its sheath, to warn its owner of danger. The sight of the naked blade would turn a hungry tiger in its tracks. According to my great-uncle's grandfather, this kris once flew from its sheath like the garwk and cut the wrist of a thief trying to enter his house during the dark of the moon."
Guru smiled. "Of course, some of these old stories might have become embellished with the telling."
She returned the weapon to its sheath and held it in both hands on her lap, her coffee now growing cold on the doily upon the small table next to her chair.
"My grandfather gave this to my father when he became a man, and my father gave it to my only brother when he became a man." She stared into space, remembering. "My brother died in the war against the Japanese before he could begin a family. Many of our young men died in that war. My father had no sons, no nephews after that war. So the kris came to be mine."
They sat quietly for a moment.
"I bore my husband three sons and a daughter. Two of my sons live, and I have six grandsons and a great-grandson, and two granddaughters. My sons are old men, my grandsons are teachers and lawyers and businessmen, my granddaughters are a teacher and a doctor. They are a fine family, successful, scattered all over the country, and they are all good Americans. There is no wrong in this.
"But of all my family, none have studied the arts. Well, no, I do have a grandson in Arizona who plays tae kwon do, and one of my sons does tai chi to keep his joints limber, but none of them have studied silat. You are my student, the holder of my lineage, and so now, this kris now belongs to you."
The old woman held the dagger out on the palms of her hands to Toni.
Toni knew this was no small thing for Guru, and she had no thought for refusing. She knelt in front of the old woman and took the weapon in both of her hands. "Thank you, Guru. I am honored."
The old woman smiled, tobacco stains on her teeth. "Well you should say so, child, and a credit to my teaching that you should know to say so. I could not have wished for a better student. You should keep this on the red silk pillow near the head of your bed when you sleep," she said, waving at the kris. "It may make an American lover nervous, though." She giggled.
Toni looked down at the smooth wood of the sheath. Why was Guru giving this to her now? She had a sudden chill.
"Guru, you aren't… I mean, your health isn't…?"
The old woman laughed. "No, I'm not ready to leave just yet. But you have more need of the hantu than I do. I have had a full life, and you are still unmarried. A woman your age needs to think of such things. It is a magic blade, after all, kah?"
Toni smiled. "More coffee, Guru?"
"Just half a cup. And tell me more of this young man who has yet to recognize your spirit. Maybe together we can find a way to wake him."
Chapter Thirteen
Julio Fernandez went to early mass at St. Gerard's, in Alexandria. He sat in the back of the small church, listening to Father Alvarez drone on in a dull monotone broken only occasionally by a louder "Lord," which tended to rouse the sleepy congregation.
Fernandez was used to being up this early, of course, but usually he'd be moving, doing laps or running the obstacle course or otherwise keeping his blood circulating. Sitting on the hard wooden pew in a too-warm and stuffy building listening to the old priest who could preach this sermon in his sleep — and might well be doing just that — was not a good way to stay alert.
Still, if he hadn't come to mass, he might have thought about lying to his mother, and he did not want to actually do that. He was on duty and couldn't fly back for Christmas with the relatives. Well, that wasn't strictly true. He could have gotten leave because he had seniority, but there were other men with families locally who needed the time more than he did, so he had volunteered — but he didn't have to tell Mama that. He would call her later today, she would be expecting that. There would be aunts and uncles and at least half of Fernandez's six brothers and two sisters would be there in La Puente at Mama's with their broods, probably bitching about the El Nino rains forecast to pound southern California. It wasn't as if Mama was going to be rattling around in her house alone; still, she wanted to hear from her children who couldn't get there, and the first question she would ask him after how was he doing would be had he gone to mass this morning? Mama suspected that her third son was more lapsed than good Catholic, and she was right in that suspicion, but at least he could tell her he had in fact been to early mass. He could tell her how Father Alvarez, who had once been a parish priest where Mama went to church some forty years ago, looked. Old, Mama, he would say, the man must be at least five or six hundred years old. I kept expecting somebody from the Cairo museum to come in and grab him, to take him back to King Tut's pyramid where he belongs.