The Weight of Our Sky Read online

  Shooting looks left and right, I sprint across the road, keeping my body low, heading straight for the stadium. Then, wiping my damp hands on my skirt, I begin working my way slowly along the fence that hugs the back of the building, walking as quickly and quietly as I can, sticking close to the fence so I can take cover in its shadows. Behind the boards I hear the gentle slop and splash of water—the pool, I think to myself. I’m about to move on when I hear something else, something that makes me freeze.

  A muffled scream from behind the fence.

  Biting back a rising panic, I begin feeling along the fence wildly in the dim light, until my fingers hit on a gap between two boards big enough to peep through. I crouch down, getting up close, trying to make out what’s happening.

  A young girl—she looks to be about my age, in the white blouse and slightly-too-long green skirt that marks her as a student at the nearby Chinese school—is shrinking back against the opposite end of the fence, her eyes wide with fear, her arms outstretched as if to stop someone. I follow the direction of her gaze and see a man coming toward her, his back to me, dressed in full military gear. As I watch from my hiding place, he grabs her wrist roughly so that she yelps in pain, then covers her mouth with his other hand, forcing his body against hers. Her eyes close; even from where I am, I can see the tracks her tears have left on her cheeks.

  I have to do something. I have to do something.

  Barely even thinking, I grab a handful of rocks from the ground next to me, stand up, and in one smooth motion lob them with all my might over the fence. Then I crouch down again, the roaring in my ears so great at this point I can barely hear anything else at all. The Djinn screams a litany of death and doom in my ears, and I tap quietly against the fence. One, two, three, one, two, three, one, two, three . . .

  The rocks land everywhere, some clattering on the ground or on the wooden deck chairs surrounding the pool, some with a splash in the water itself. The soldier jumps back, his body tense and alert; the girl takes advantage of the opportunity to wriggle out of his grasp and run back into the safety of the hall. Swearing under his breath, the soldier hoists his pack of gear back onto his shoulder and makes his way after her.

  I sag against the wooden boards, weak with relief, my body drenched with sweat. It takes me a while to be able to get up again, and when I do, my legs are so shaky that I have to lean against the fence for support.

  Keep going, I tell myself, keep going. You need to get to Mama. Keep going.

  • • •

  A few minutes later, I’m back on Petaling Street. Bathed in moonlight, the streets are eerily silent and empty, the bodies that littered the roads and sidewalks just days before having been, I assume, carted off to the morgue by now. Okay, Melati. You made it. Where do we go from here?

  I keep my eyes open, darting glances up and down the street as I think. If Mama came here looking for me, she’d head straight for the Rex, I tell myself. So that’s where I have to go.

  Immediately, the Djinn shrieks in protest. The Rex? Don’t you remember what happened at the Rex, Melati? He conjures up images of Saf’s pale, tearstained face, that last imploring look before the doors closed. You stood back and did nothing. You didn’t protect your friend. You saved your own skin and you let her die. It was your fault. Your fault. All your fault.

  His accusations come thick and fast; the guilt floods through me, knocking me to my knees and leaving me gasping for breath. At that moment, I spot two bright lights in the distance; headlights. I need to run, I need to hide. But my limbs are heavy and I can’t move.

  The headlights are coming steadily closer, and I can just make it out: an FRU truck. Move, Melati. Move. You need to move. There is no way I can get back on my feet, so I crawl as quickly as I can from the pavement into the burned-out shophouse closest to me, wedging myself between a blackened wall and a pile of rubble. I try to stay my loud, rasping breath, but I can’t seem to stop panting. I focus on the rubble beside me and try to count the number of bricks I can see, squinting to make them out in the dim line. Three, six, nine, twelve, fifteen, eighteen, twenty-one . . . I stay here counting long after the rumble of the FRU truck has faded into the night, until my breathing is even again. I know I should leave, start making my way to the Rex, find my mother, but the Djinn has me in his bony, unyielding grasp, and I can’t make myself move, can’t do anything but count and count and count and count and count.

  I’m at 1,425 when I fall asleep, curled up on the cold concrete floor.

  • • •

  I awaken as the pale, gray light of early dawn steals into my hiding place. I unfold myself and do my best to rub some feeling back into my cold, stiff limbs. My stomach rumbles, and I try to remember when I had my last meal. Yesterday? Was it breakfast? Lunch? And I have nothing with me to eat or drink now. I lick my dry lips and sigh. You really didn’t think this through, Melati.

  Mercifully, the Djinn is silent this morning, and I work up the courage to peek outside, where a steady, light drizzle seems to strip the city of color, turning everything lifeless and gray. I feel goose bumps rising on my arms and quickly wrap them around myself to ward off the sudden chill in my bones. What do I do now?

  The quiet of the early morning is shattered. A siren blares in the distance, and in the next moment a police car comes barreling down the road, its tires screeching as it turns the corner and roars off.

  Of course! The police station! It’s a big one, just a few minutes away. I breathe a sigh of relief; I know people have been taking shelter in police stations, so my mother might be there. And if she isn’t, well, they’re policemen—they can tell me what to do.

  Feeling better than I have in a long time, I run quickly out of the shophouse and down the lanes and alleyways toward the police station. The rain trickles down my hair and pools in the hollows of my collarbones and in the bottoms of my shoes so that I make squelching sounds with each step, but I don’t care. Finally, finally, I feel like I can see an end to this whole ordeal. I’ll find my mother, and everything will be right again.

  The station looms high over the rest of Petaling Street, painted in the signature blue and white colors of the police force. I make my way inside, pushing open the heavy doors and leaving a trail of water on the tiled floor as I look around for someone to speak to. Inside, the station is full of people, but relatively calm; men, women, and children sit on benches or on the floor, talking quietly or not at all. One little girl cuddling close to her dozing mother looks up at me with frank curiosity in her eyes, her hands clutching an old rag doll with one missing eye and a frayed skirt.

  I head straight for the front desk, where an officer barely looks up as I approach, busily writing in some files before him. “Yes?” he says brusquely.

  “Hello, sir,” I say politely. “I’m looking for my mother.”

  He looks up properly then, taking me in, in all my shivering, drenched, bedraggled glory, my soaked uniform clinging to me like a second skin. His expression softens. “Child, you must be freezing!” he says, turning around and rummaging in some cupboards behind him until he emerges with a dark blue blanket. “Here, take this.” The blanket is soft and worn with multiple washings, and I wrap it around myself gratefully, luxuriating in the warmth. “Now,” he says, leaning back in his seat and smoothing his mustache, “what was that about your mother?”

  “I’m trying to find her,” I say. “She left work when all the . . . troubles . . . started, and she came to Petaling Street to look for me and bring me home. But we never found each other, and now I don’t know where she is. . . .” My voice trails off, and I suddenly feel very, very tired.

  The officer is silent, contemplating my words. Then he nods. “Right. Well, she might certainly be here,” he says, gesturing to the hallway. “Lots of people taking shelter here for a bit until everything dies down. It’s the safest place to be around here. Why don’t we go take a look? Hakim!” he barks to a younger officer in the back room, who comes running. “Yes, sir?”


  “Keep an eye on things here while I try to help this young lady.”

  “Yes, sir.” Hakim takes his place at the desk, and the officer comes around to where I stand. “Thank you, Officer . . .” “You can call me Pakcik Hassan,” he says, smiling at me paternally. “Now come, let’s see if we can find your mother.”

  He leads me down a hallway with doors on either side that open to reveal rooms filled with more people. I go through each one, combing through the faces hungrily for my mother’s familiar smile. But the more rooms we go through without finding her, the more my heart drops, and by the time we finish it’s all the way in the depths of my shoes, soaking in the dirty rainwater at my feet.

  “Well,” Pakcik Hassan says, then stops, unsure how to continue. I can’t speak; I just stare morosely at the ground and listlessly count the scuffed tiles on the floor around us.

  He clears his throat and tries again. “Well. You must be hungry. Everything always looks better with some food in your stomach. You sit here and I’ll get you something.” He points me in the direction of an empty chair, and I drag my feet over to it and sit. I’m still counting, for lack of anything better to do, but mostly I just feel numb.

  Pakcik Hassan returns bearing a bun and a cup filled with steaming black coffee. I nibble at the bun, which is soft and tasteless. I don’t normally drink coffee—I can’t stand the bitter aftertaste—but gulp it down anyway. The hot liquid burns my tongue and throat, but wakes me up, for which I’m grateful. “I’m sorry she isn’t here, child,” Pakcik Hassan says gently, watching me. “I’m sure she’s safe somewhere. We know there are people taking shelter in the temples, the churches, the mosques, in schools. She could be with a friend in someone’s house. Plenty of places. Why don’t you stay here, wait it out? Once it’s safer and we get the all clear, we can take you home.”

  I nod, and eventually he walks away, back to his post at the front desk. I sit there for what seems like an age, not thinking of anything in particular, just taking in my surroundings. On the wall across from where I sit, a little brown lizard makes its way determinedly from one side to the other, darting across in fits and starts, pausing anytime it spots some perceived, unknown danger to wait and watch before proceeding. A journey that could have taken a minute or two stretches on and on—five minutes, ten minutes, fifteen . . .

  Okay, universe. I get it.

  I wrap the half-eaten bun up carefully in my handkerchief and stuff it into my backpack, fold the blanket as best I can, and leave it on my seat, balancing the coffee cup on top of it. Then I straighten myself up, take a deep breath, and stride toward the door. I’m going to find my mother if it kills me.

  Or her, the djinn whispers.

  I’m ignoring you.

  But as soon as he sees me head for the door, Pakcik Hassan is up from his position behind the desk. “Where are you going?” he asks me pleasantly.

  “I’m going to find my mother,” I say, a little taken aback. He was watching me the whole time?

  “Can’t let you do that, child,” he says, stroking his mustache. “Too dangerous. You stay put here and we’ll take care of you.”

  “But, Pakcik—”

  He shakes his head firmly. “No, no. I have a daughter about your age and I’ll be damned if I’d ever let her be out and about at a time like this. No, you stay here, and we’ll sort everything out later, when it’s safe.”

  By later, it’ll be too late! The Djinn hisses the words, pacing restlessly in the pit of my stomach; I tap my right pointer finger against the palm of my left hand and itch to push open the doors and run out. But I know it’s no use; Pakcik Hassan will just haul me back inside. Instead, I walk away, keeping the exit within sight. The minute I spot my chance, I decide, I’m making a break for it.

  It doesn’t take long. The doors burst open, slamming hard against the walls. It’s a young Chinese man, his eyes wild with rage. “You killed my mother! You killed my mother, you useless dogs!” His hair is disheveled, his cheeks are grubby with dirt and tears, and his hands grip a short, sharp knife, which swings and stabs wildly through the air with every gesture.

  Pakcik Hassan and the young Hakim leap to their feet immediately. “Calm down, sir, please calm down.”

  “I will not calm down! All she was doing was standing in our garden! She didn’t even know there was a curfew on and you bloody fools shot her in cold blood! You and your stupid shoot-to-kill order.”

  His knees buckle and he sinks to the floor, as if bowing to the weight of his own grief. “She never even killed spiders or cockroaches,” he says quietly. “She fed every stray cat or dog or human she ever met. How could you do that to her? How could you?” He throws the knife across the room, where it lands with a clang and skids across the floor, stopping right by my feet. I stare at it; it’s a pearl-handled pocket knife, the kind with a blade that slips in, out of sight. Before I can figure out what I’m doing it, I bend over, scoop it up, flip it shut, and slip it smoothly into the pocket of my skirt in one swift movement, my heart jangling urgently inside my chest. I look around to see if anyone has noticed, but all eyes are firmly on the weeping man.

  The officers standing over him exchange glances. As they whisper urgently with each other, trying to figure out what to do next, I slip quietly out the doors and sprint down the road, the knife weighing down my skirt and bumping against my thigh. As I run, the Djinn pipes up over the pounding of my feet on the pavement. That could be you, you know.

  Shut up, I tell him, silently counting the beat of my footsteps in comforting, solid threes. I don’t want to admit that I was just thinking the exact same thing.

  • • •

  The temple is just minutes from the police station; I’ve often stopped as I passed to drink in the intricate carvings and statues that adorn its towering façade. Everywhere you look, gods and deities dance and gambol and grin and leer, all rendered in brilliant, vivid hues and studded with gems. As I step through the arch, I feel a strange sense of passing from one realm into another. It’s quiet on the streets outside, but that’s a quiet charged with a hostile undercurrent, an uneasy tension that calls for constant vigilance. In here the floor is cool, the scent of incense floats delicately in the air, and the quiet is calm and serene. Under the staring eyes of a thousand idols, even the Djinn is silent.

  Mama often tells me to seek God, to invoke His name, ask for His help. I bow my head and obey, the familiar words for Dzikr rolling off my tongue, the motions for prayer smooth and ready. God is good, they teach us. God is great. God can heal the sick and soothe the tormented. But nobody seems to be able to tell me why God gave me this torment in the first place.

  I’m sure God exists, I’m just not sure He likes me very much.

  “Can I help you?”

  The voice, deep and even, catches me off guard and I whirl around in surprise. The man has smiling eyes and a face half-hidden behind a well-tended forest of facial hair; dressed in a loose cotton shirt and pants, he looks cool, calm, and completely untouched by the chaos of the past week. I am suddenly painfully aware of how grubby I must look in my rumpled and damp clothes.

  “I’m sorry for intruding,” I say. “I’ve been trying to find my mother. We lost each other on the day . . . the day the . . . you know.” I can’t bring myself to speak of such things in this peaceful place; it almost seems sacrilegious.

  The man nods. “Yes, many people came for shelter here when it was happening,” he says. “I’m not sure why! We don’t even have any doors to shut people out. But even without doors, there are not many who would attempt to desecrate this place with violence or angry words.”

  “Was my mother here?” I ask him eagerly. “She’s a nurse. Her name is Salmah. She came to Petaling Street looking for me, but we missed each other. . . . Have you seen her?”

  He frowns, trying to remember. Then his brow clears, and he smiles. “Salmah! Yes, I do remember Nurse Salmah.”

  “You do?” I hardly dare to hope at this point—my heart has
been let down far too many times by far too many people.

  “Yes, yes, Nurse Salmah in her white uniform. She was taking the time to check everyone who walked in, to make sure they were not badly hurt, or to treat them if they were. A wonderful woman.”

  I smile. “That sounds like my mother, all right. Is she . . . is she here?”

  His smile fades, and he shakes his head. “No, she did not stay. She was intent on finding her daughter, you see. You.”

  Another wall to slam into, just when I thought there was hope. I want to cry. Shake it off, Melati, shake it off. “As long as we’re both working hard to find each other, I’m sure we will. Thank you, sir, for your time.” As I walk back through the doorway, I can feel the man’s eyes on me, and an overwhelming urge to stay awhile and let my soul, so used to noise and chaos, feed on the peace of the temple.

  No, I tell myself sternly. Mama needs you.

  And so I force myself to keep striding on down the road, never turning back to see the gods smiling down on me.

  • • •

  I concentrate, putting one foot in front of the other, determined to continue my search. The church next, I think to myself, then that mosque a little farther down the road. That’s where I should go next. But my feet seem to have minds of their own, and each step I take that propels me farther from the temple seems to take me closer to the Rex instead. This doesn’t make sense, Melati. Mama wouldn’t be waiting for you in a cinema when there are so many safer options out here. But I can’t shake the feeling that the Rex is calling to me, shining a beacon to pull me in its direction.