LONTAR issue #1 Read online

  women in sarongs with their breasts bare—

  my faithful queen and family, pre-rehearsed

  slashed and thrust and fell upon their blades.

  From highest elders to my smallest son

  all achieved through the discipline of art

  an honorable death to consecrate this rite.

  Our attendants, chosen for the after-tasks

  stood in awe beside our fallen bodies

  and helped those failing slowly reach their end

  inside this torrid Theatre of the Dead.

  Swimming the richer river of our blood,

  we achieved apotheosis upon this earth

  and left with pride and moral elevation.

  10. Epilogue

  My lineage has passed, yet we live on

  upon the bedrock outcropping of the lookout

  of Pelangi Mountain. We've been in stasis

  since we spurned our bodies. Now, tourists come

  to point out my pink fortress, once a palace,

  the cairn of rocks inside the bamboo grove.

  Though old art we tweak the light and stroke

  each face with the breeze. We marshal gulls

  as deer mince on the beach below the cliff

  where the Guardian snarls upright, still fierce and strong

  from dawn to dusk. Yes, we've ascended

  to a higher role, managing Nature's

  primal playhouse from our plane. While guides

  retell my tale, we ripen pineapples

  on shirts, alight the yellow butterflies

  from ladies' frocks, (if they would choose to see.)

  Some are moved. Most have no art now,

  or sense of history, yet salutation

  is still our way today: we are old souls

  who bore it all and did not choose to run.

  Yes, we have joined our awful Guardian.

  Our home is tranquil, green—a double Heaven.

  History binds me to this higher haunt

  built upon a dragon's back of bones.

  A suicided king can never leave, yet

  Pelangi Peak stands tall and still means rainbow.

  Sometimes, in the droplets on hibiscus

  or mountain bells, you catch a glimpse of us.

  Our presence breathes in pine and rock and moss.

  We scrape inside the wind along the cliff,

  we grow like nutmegs on the tree of life.

  In the kitchen, grate our grams of sweetness,

  blend pleasure in the finest gourmet dish.

  Sprinkle grace with daintiness and enjoy

  the middle brown that mixes in with all.

  The Immortal Pharmacist

  Ang Si Min

  Ang Si Min (Singapore) is easily identifiable as the tall one, sometimes mistaken to be male. Dabbles in linguistics, history, physics and archaeology. Terribly geeky, and frequently distracted by the conversations in her head. Dreams of traveling in a blue box. Amateur writer, long-time cross-stitcher. Intently learning human social interactions, though maybe not quite there yet.

  For H—who heard my first Rabbit-on-the-Moon story

  The rabbit on the moon toils—

  pounding pestle against mortar

  grinding herbs and mixing medicine—

  eye drops for Er Lang Shen,

  anti-flea shampoo for Sun Wu Kong,

  heat stroke lotion for Houyi,

  burn salve for Yen Luo Wang,

  high blood pressure pills for the Eastern Sea Dragon King.

  The prescription does not end.

  Chang-e helps sometimes,

  gathering and processing herbs—

  lingzhi, luo han guo, danggui

  cinnamon, licorice, wolfberry,

  mahuang, dihuang, dahuang,

  ginseng, chrysanthemum, peony . . .

  Yü-tu turns all of them to

  pills, powders, potions.

  (Mostly) alone out there on the moon,

  Yü-tu wonders:

  Maybe, it's time for a holiday.

  Maybe, it's time to find a mate.

  Yü-tu shakes his head.

  Such wishful thinking.

  But the thoughts do not go away.

  Notes (in order of appearance)

  Er Lang Shen—immortal, has a magical third eye on his forehead

  Sun Wu Kong—the legendary Monkey King

  Houyi—famous archer who shot down nine suns

  Yen Luo Wang—King of the Underworld

  Eastern Sea Dragon King—Dragon King of the Eastern Sea

  Chang-e—Houyi's wife who floated to the moon after an incident involving an immortality pill

  Yü-tu—means "Jade Rabbit" (the name of the rabbit on the moon)

  Stainless Steel Nak

  Bryan Thao Worra

  An award-winning speculative poet, Bryan Thao Worra (Laos/USA) holds a Fellowship in Literature from the National Endowment for the Arts. A professional member of the Horror Writers Association and the Science Fiction Poetry Association, his work is taught internationally. He serves as the Creative Works Editor for the Journal of Southeast Asian American Education and Advancement. His books include On the Other Side of the Eye, BARROW, and The Tuk Tuk Diaries: My Dinner With Cluster Bombs. He is currently editing a forthcoming anthology of Laotian American speculative art. You can visit him online at thaoworra.blogspot.com.

  Like a young monk we call "Ai,"

  More slippery than a rat or some diamond dog of war

  Watching bunnies clobber tigers who ate the sweet ox,

  Full of havoc meant for Albuquerque or ambitious Betelgeuse,

  Will you shrink into some chrome cobra, an analog anaconda

  Or a steady horse boxed in on some Neo-Napoleonic animal farm

  Dreaming of dynamite and tasty electric sheep black as busty Kali?

  Maybe it's true people are made of monkey minds or

  Aimless pig heads scowling like Beelzebub among his flies,

  Watching a floating green world of cock crows and denials

  Yearning for a bit of heaven, the honey of angels but not the bills,

  A world that cannot be translated as we sing the blues

  Well met, remembering lone and level sands, the mighty works,

  A raven laughing like Prometheus, David unrepentant

  Yelling for Lilith more than Rachel, more than glittering Eve

  Among all of the painted pillars of wisdom in the rain

  Coated in the cobwebs of a tiny orange spider with her perfect recall

  Of former lives worth stealing between sanitized salutations.

  In memory of Harry Harrison (1925-2012), et al.

  The Yellow River

  Elka Ray Nguyen

  Elka Ray Nguyen (Canada/Vietnam) is the author of one novel (Hanoi Jane, Marshall Cavendish, 2011) and the writer and illustrator for three picture books for children (Vietnam A to Z, 1,2,3 Vietnam!, and The Gecko Who Grew and Grew...). Born in England and raised in Africa and Canada, Elka has spent the past 16 years in Southeast Asia. She lives in Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam, and has an author's site at elkaray.com.

  Three months ago, just after I turned eighteen, I began my mandatory military service. While guys attending university are exempt, and my grades were good, I lacked the cash for a higher education. I figured that the army wouldn't be so bad. At least it'd get me away from my dad and his new wife, who has a voice like a chainsaw.

  I was posted to Kon Tum province near the Laotian border, in an area so remote that it made the village where I grew up seem urban by comparison. Along with three other guys I am charged with patrolling the Yellow River by boat, our route taking about six days up and four days back, all of them through thick, gloomy jungle.

  Supposedly, we are on the lookout for smugglers and poachers, although why any criminals would choose to navigate such a torturous route when there are plenty of easier unmonitored options, I have no idea. Naturally, I am in no position to ask. Even my superior, a
twenty-six-year-old named Loc, has no clue. We are just following orders.

  Besides me and Loc there are Binh and Chau, both of whom, like me, are greenhorns. Chau is short and fat and Binh is tall and skinny. Binh's parents own a pho shop in Binh Duong, which means that he's practically a city boy. Chau's folks grow coconuts near Ben Tre. He spends most of his free time looking at nude photos of his supposed girlfriend on his mobile phone. I doubt that he's ever met the girl. Both Binh and Chau are scared of the jungle.

  "More fucking rain," says Chau, pushing his wet hair from his eyes. "We can't leave in this weather."

  It has rained steadily since we left our base two days ago. Normally, I wouldn't care, but yesterday Binh and I came down with chills and fevers.

  "Better tie those down," says Loc, pointing to our duffel bags. Last trip out, a bag of supplies had snagged on an overhanging branch and fallen into the river. I'd managed to retrieve it, but all of our rice had turned moldy.

  Chau does as he's told but continues to bitch. Loc and I ignore him. Even when the weather is decent and things are going fine, Chau complains constantly. The only time he stops whining is when he's eating.

  Standing knee-deep in the river, I hoist a jug of gasoline into the boat. This village is too small and poor to have a dock. I turn back to look at it: about two dozen temporary-looking stilt huts scattered across a hillside with the taller communal house in the center. A half-dozen half-naked kids are standing on the bank watching us. Two women, one of whom is pretty, are washing clothes upriver. I hoist another jug aboard. Compared to the villages that we'll pass in the coming days this dump counts as civilization.

  "Can you check on Binh?" says Loc. He's wearing his army-issued cap tilted to one side, which looks slightly subversive. Even though Loc's my boss, I like him better than the other two. He enjoys reading, so we share books. And like me, he knows how to use a computer. Both of us miss going to Internet cafes. Out here we're back in the Stone Age.

  I wade out of the river and head towards the hut where Binh is staying, which is about fifty meters away. The woman who owns this hut is the closest thing that the village has to a doctor. She's around sixty-five but looks about twice that. Last night, she'd applied some foul-smelling medicinal paste to both mine and Binh's chests. The stink of it had kept me awake for hours.

  Seeing me, the old lady nods. Binh is lying on the floor with his eyes shut. His skin has a grey tinge that I don't like. He looks even thinner than usual.

  I take the thermometer out of my pants and maneuver it under Binh's armpit. He murmurs but doesn't wake. The old lady watches me intently. Binh seems to be breathing too quickly.

  While the old woman's foul paste—or plain luck—seems to have helped me, it hasn't done a thing for Binh. My temperature is down to thirty-eight-point-five today. His is over forty.

  "You should not go," says the woman. She fingers the tassels of her scarf. Her hands are misshapen from arthritis.

  I wipe the thermometer on my pants and slide it back into my pocket. Last night, the old woman hadn't said a word. I'm actually surprised to learn that she speaks Vietnamese. I'd assumed that she could only speak her dan toc language.

  I nod towards Binh. "Because of him?"

  The old lady shakes her head. Through her sparse hair I can see her scalp, which is paler than her face is. "No," she says. "That way is not safe."

  "Why not?" I say. I wonder if the rain will cause the river to race. About half a day up there are treacherous rapids. But we've made the trip before in heavier rain. I figure that the old woman's never been further than the next valley. These mountain people have all sorts of weird superstitions.

  She runs her tongue over her teeth, or rather what's left of them. "Bad place," she says. She leans out of the doorway and spits. A large spotted sow shuffles over to sniff at the wet patch. "Bad luck place. Haunted. If you go that way, don't stop. Not till Buon Ra village at least. Especially not at night." She spits again. Binh moans in his sleep. There's a film of sweat on his face.

  "Haunted by what?" I say. We always travel straight through to Buon Ra. It's rough enough spending the night there, since there's no electricity and the place reeks of pig shit. There's no reason to make it worse for ourselves and camp in the jungle.

  She says a word that I don't recognize, a word that I guess is a name. The Jarai bogeyman, I guess. Ong Ke. I remember how my dad used to threaten me with him as a kid, if I failed to sweep the yard well enough or dropped an egg when I was collecting them.

  "Who's that?" I say. I know that I should get back to the boat. We should get a move on.

  "Girl," says the woman. "Beautiful girl." A thin blanket is covering Binh's lower body. She tugs it over his chest. He moans again, his legs thrashing. The old woman leans back. "A witch," she says. In a soft voice, she tells me the story.

  I want to say that I don't believe in such things. But I keep quiet. She is old. And the truth is that I find her scary.

  "You boys be careful," she says.

  "Thank you," I say. I have the strange and unreasonable feeling that she knows what I'm thinking. I try to look as sincere as possible.

  When I get back to the boat, both Loc and Chau look irritated. "Where were you?" says Loc. We're all soaked. I've started to shiver again.

  "I was with Binh," I say. "He's worse. Fever over forty. Breathing too fast."

  "Shit," says Loc. "Should we take him back?"

  I don't say anything. It's not my decision.

  I think that we should take him back, although it'll take a day and a half to reach our base and another five hours' drive to the provincial hospital. But I doubt that Loc will turn back. For one thing, our last trip had to be aborted when our motor broke down. For another, Loc's got a Jarai girl waiting for him in the last village on our route, a plump, black-eyed beauty who for some unfathomable reason has taken a shine to Loc. While I like the guy well enough I can't see what this luscious girl sees in him. He's scrawny, buck-toothed and has ears that stick out as though someone had used them to carry him around back when he was a baby.

  Loc squints up the river. "I better go see him," he says glumly. I watch him walk off in the direction of the old lady's hut. With his clothes stuck to his skin Loc looks even scrawnier than usual. I can't believe that that cute dan toc girl has the hots for him. But then, I don't understand women. Along with this ethnic girl, Loc has a fiancée back home. Apparently, she's a real catch, since her dad is the vice director of a State-owned construction company.

  Chau is sitting in the boat's cramped cabin, smoking a cigarette. I climb in and sit beside him but he doesn't offer me one. When Loc gets back, neither of us says anything. I know that we're both hoping that Loc has chosen to turn back. This rain sucks. If anything, it seems to be getting stronger.

  "The old lady says he's doing better," says Loc. "We're going to leave him here to recover."

  Chau flicks his cigarette butt overboard. I pick at one of the dozen or so mosquito bites that dot my left foot. For some reason the bloodsuckers have turned my left leg into an all-you-can-eat buffet but avoided my right leg. I see one circling my left foot and try but fail to squish it.

  "Let's go," says Loc. Without being told, Chau heads towards the front and I take my position at the back. Loc pushes us off, then scrambles aboard. The parts of his legs that have been in the river aren't any wetter than the rest of him. It takes me three pulls to get the motor started. I seem to have better luck with it than the other guys but I still don't trust it. I suspect that the mechanic who fixed it back at base put some shoddy Chinese parts into it.

  While Loc and Chau hate the jungle, I don't mind it so much. It is gloomy but it can also be beautiful. And it's full of surprises. Chau thinks that it's boring out here but if you keep your eyes open, you can see some unbelievable stuff. Between our morning snack and our cold rice lunch I spot a kingfisher, a yellow spider the size of my outstretched hand, an orange caterpillar covered in vicious blue spikes, and a mushroom that look
s like an oversized purple penis. Only the last sighting interests Chau, who makes some crude remark about it.

  We often pull up after lunch and have a nap, but today we keep going. We're all wet and uncomfortable and our progress is slow. The river is running faster than it usually does. Bits of vegetation and small branches are starting to appear, so somewhere up ahead there must be flooding.

  Chau's at the front so he should have seen it first, but maybe he was napping. Whether he was or he wasn't, he somehow misses it, so it's Loc who yells: "Log! Straight ahead!"

  I turn but am too late, or else I turn us into a rock, because all of a sudden there is a great bang and a sickening scraping sound and the boat is shuddering. We are lucky to make it to the shallows without tipping over or sinking. The gash is about the size and shape of my forearm. God only knows how we're going to patch it.

  Of course I've heard Loc swear before, but never with such creativity. I feel too sick to swear. My left shin is raw from where I scraped it jumping out of the boat and my heart is racing. Chau is sitting in the shallows with his head in his hands. For once he's not complaining. The rain seems to have stopped, although huge drops of water continue to break loose from the overhanging vegetation.

  In jungle this thick it gets dark early. The trees lean out over the river on both sides, almost forming a tunnel, so that even if the sun were out we'd be shaded. The bushes are so thick that there's no place to pitch a tent. Luckily we have two machetes. It takes Loc and me twenty minutes of hardcore hacking to clear a space big enough for us to set down a tarp and build a fire-pit. If we're really lucky we'll manage to start a fire and cook a hot meal before the rain starts up again.

  My first attempt at fire-lighting goes nowhere. Loc fans a small flame to life only to lose it to some damp kindling. Chau refuses to help. Either his face is still wet from the rain or he's been crying.