After the Ashes (3 page)

When I popped my head into the study, I didn't see my aunt. Instead, our housekeeper, Indah, was there, dusting the bookshelves and humming some Javanese tune.

“Indah, have you seen Tante Greet?” I asked.

“Pantry,” she said in her thick accent.

Tante Greet stood inside the small room muttering numbers. She appeared to be counting jars of jam. A pointless exercise. Who cares how much jam is in the pantry? I almost spoke the question aloud, and caught myself just in time. No need to give Tante Greet an excuse to teach me yet another lesson. “You will need to know this when you run your own home, Katrien,” she would say.

No, I would not need to know that. I had no intention of running my own home. Especially if it involved counting jam jars.

I cleared my throat. “Mrs. Brinckerhoff is here.”

“Johanna?” Tante Greet shifted a bag of flour, rice or sugar—not sure which, they all looked alike to me—on the shelf.

“Ja,”
I said, wondering if she knew another Mrs. Brinckerhoff. I slunk out of the pantry.

“Katrien,” my aunt called.

I poked my head back in the doorway.

She handed me a handkerchief. “Clean your face, please. You have ink by your mouth.”

My cheeks burned hot enough to melt the ink right off. I rubbed my face. “Is that better?”

She touched my cheek. “I think you're going to need soap and water.”

“Mrs. Brinckerhoff saw.”

I expected her to be disappointed, but she surprised me and smiled. “She has children of her own. I daresay she's seen ink where it doesn't belong.”

Stiffening, I said, “I'm not a child. I'm thirteen.”

“Go clean your face, Katrien.”

I groaned but did as I was told. When I returned to the parlor, Mrs. Brinckerhoff had not moved a muscle. She sat rigid, like a wooden post being held erect by an invisible string. I longed to poke her. Instead I said, “My aunt will be right with you.”

She nodded, staring out the open doors at the Ousterhoudts' across the street. The flowers in their front yard caught everyone's attention. Deep reds, vibrant purples, golden yellows, bright oranges—they grew with wild abandon stretching from the ground up to and above the porch roof as if they were trying to impress God. Tante Greet seethed every time she saw them. Her own flower beds had more weeds than blooms.

I was trying to think of something to say that sounded polite and grown-up when a short screech erupted from the kitchen. I jumped, and Mrs. Brinckerhoff, I was pleased to notice, clutched her chest.

“Katrien!” My aunt's voice carried down the hall.

I rushed out of the room. “What?”

Tante Greet, pale and shocked, stood in the kitchen pointing at the stove. “You forgot something.”

“Oh, no.” My stag beetle! I peered into the pot of water, now at a full boil. The beetle dipped and dived like a ship in a storm-tossed sea. Pieces of the mandible had broken off, and its legs floated and bobbed beside it. He looked mushy, too. I rubbed my eyes and groaned.

“Get rid of that thing, Katrien. Next time you do this, you do
not
leave the kitchen. And make sure you always use
that
pot!”

“
Ja
, Tante.” I grabbed some cloths and hauled the pot of water off the burner.

She shuddered. “I can't abide the idea of a boiled bug.”

“Insect,” I corrected.

My poor stag beetle. Mutilated beyond repair.

“When you've finished in here, please join Johanna and me in the parlor for some civilized conversation.”

Wonderful. Trapped in a room with Tante Greet and Mrs. Brinckerhoff talking about dress patterns. What could be better?

I looked up and saw that Indah had appeared at my aunt's side. Tante Greet shook her head as she left the room and muttered, “Never realized she used our kitchen pots for her bugs.” Indah followed her with a tea tray.

Once the water settled, I hauled the pot outside and tossed the water—beetle and all—then joined the ladies in the parlor as I was told. The two women chattered like birds, but I still had labels to complete. I sat at the desk and waited for Tante to object. She merely said, “Sit up straight, Katrien,” before returning her attention to her friend. “I have to admit I am surprised to see you, Johanna. I thought you would not be in Anjer until next month.”

I adjusted my posture and returned to my labels. Trying to look on the bright side, I reasoned that one less beetle meant one less label, but that still meant I had work to do. Once the new beetles sat under glass, I would place the little identification labels below them and they would officially be part of my collection. I already had twenty-five cases filled with twelve stag beetles in each. I hoped to collect thousands of these insects to see natural selection at work, to see the process Mr. Charles Darwin described in beautiful detail in his book:

“For during many successive generations each individual beetle which flew least, either from its wings having been ever so little less perfectly developed or from indolent habit, will have had the best chance of surviving from not being blown out to sea; and, on the other hand, those beetles which most readily took to flight would oftenest have been blown to sea, and thus destroyed.”

Mrs. Brinckerhoff's haughty voice floated across the room and interrupted Mr. Darwin's words. “I told my husband to go over to the island and see for himself what was happening. I mean, the natives just had to be wrong. A beach does not blow up!” Her hands moved in imitation of an explosion. Then, with a sniff, she pulled herself even straighter. “I imagined it was some simple phenomenon that had merely overwhelmed their smaller brains.”

I jerked at the insult and the movement made my pen slide across the paper. Another label was ruined. “Homo sapiens,” I muttered.

Tante Greet, who had the ears of a leopard, heard me. “Language, Katrien.”

Even though I had said the Latin name for human, I meant it as a curse, and my aunt knew it. “Apologies, Tante.”

Mrs. Brinckerhoff ignored me. Or maybe she didn't hear. She blabbered on about commanding her husband to go to the island and investigate, which he did. It was probably a wise decision, or he would have had to listen to her constant nagging.

“And what did he see on Krakatau?” my aunt asked, taking a sip of her tea.

“Why, he said the beach had split open, just as the natives reported!” Mrs. Brinckerhoff gave the side of her cup a firm tap with her spoon.

The beach had
what
? I pushed my spectacles up, suddenly eager to join the conversation. “Was that about two weeks ago?” I asked.

“
Ja
,” Mrs. Brinckerhoff said, surprised. “On the twentieth of May.”

Tante Greet asked, “Do you remember, Katrien? We felt those tremors that morning?”

I nodded, remembering Slamet's story about ash falling. So the two events were connected.

But Batavia was more than a hundred kilometers from Krakatau. An earthquake on that small island should have barely registered in the capital. And it certainly shouldn't have caused tremors for an hour.

But Mrs. Brinckerhoff hadn't said it was an earthquake. She said the beach exploded.

What could have caused this? An eruption? From an extinct volcano?

“My husband hopes we can all go to Batavia in July,” said Mrs. Brinckerhoff, changing the subject. “He said the circus will be there, and the children would love to see the animals.”

“If the circus is in town, I can guarantee that Maarten will attend,” Tante Greet said. “You've heard me talk about him. He might even have more fun than your children.”

The two of them laughed, but I missed what was so funny. I wanted to hear more about Krakatau and growled in frustration.

Tante Greet turned to me. “You may be excused, Katrien.”

“Dank u!”
I fled the room, leaving my labels for later. Right now, I had to tell Slamet what I had learned.

I thought I would find Slamet in the kitchen, but instead Indah was there now, scrubbing the table with strong, steady movements.

“Indah, do you know where Slamet is?”

She paused her scrubbing and said something in Javanese.

“What?” I understood some of the natives' language, but not much.

Indah sighed. “He is boy.”

“I know.”

“You are girl.”

“Ja . . .”
I drew the word out, unsure what Indah meant.

“I want . . .” She hesitated and stared out the window, muttering under her breath in Javanese.

“Indah, what's the matter?”

“He is”—She struggled with the next words—“at water.” She nodded in the direction of the beach.

“Perfect.
Terima kasih
, Indah.”

She indicated a plate of sugar-covered doughnuts resting on a table by the oven.

“You made
oliebollen
?” I could sometimes get such treats when we ate at the Hotel Anjer, but they were rare and quite a delicacy.

“First time.” Indah held her head high. She excelled at making local dishes like rice and seafood but had trouble with Dutch food.
Tante Greet helped, since she didn't care for spicy Javanese food. My aunt would be thrilled that Indah had made something Dutch without any assistance.

I snatched an
oliebol
off the plate and popped it into my mouth. Still warm. “Mmm. These are delicious,” I said around a mouthful of the sugary goodness.
“Dank u!”
Indah grinned, and I grabbed another one before running out the door.

Outside, the humid air slammed into me so hard that I took a step back. Thankfully, though, a gentle breeze sprang up and helped keep me comfortable as I walked. Squinting against the bright afternoon sun, I slowly inhaled the scent of coffee and tea, flowers and fruits, and the sweet smell of my
oliebol
. I took another bite and brushed sugar from my face and skirts.

Anjer songbirds trilled, greeting me with their cheerful chirps. Their chattering reminded me of something. I hadn't heard any birds on May twentieth. During those long tremors in Batavia, there was no birdsong at all.

I always noticed birds and animals, so I knew I wasn't mistaken. I paid strict attention to the sights and sounds of nature. It was how Mr. Charles Darwin made his great discoveries: by observing the lives of those creatures he saw every day.

Since I wanted to be a naturalist, I followed his lead. And I was in the perfect place to do just that, for interesting and unusual and amazing and beautiful creatures covered the entire west coast of Java. “
The Malay Archipelago is one of the richest regions in organic beings
.” Mr. Charles Darwin's words spoke to my very soul.

I loved my town of Anjer. I loved the coastline at high tide with its pristine beaches. I loved the coastline at low tide with its exposed corals. I loved the jungle that awaited me less than a kilometer away. It was my temple. My sanctuary.

And the insects there! So many fascinating insects lived in the forest. I don't know what drew me to collect beetles; their appearance really was a bit terrifying. Brigitta wasn't the only person I had seen scream and run away from a stag beetle. Not only girls, but boys, too. Even men.

But somehow I loved them most of all. They were everywhere—clinging to leaves and plants, climbing walls and trees. Easy to catch and collect.

Tante Greet didn't understand my obsession with the beetles, but my father did. He encouraged me. Whenever I had questions concerning my beetles, or any other scientific matter, he would say, “Think, Katrien.” Tante Greet may have wanted me to run a home, but Vader wanted me to learn, to use logic, to solve problems.

I strolled past stucco houses and weaved around kampongs while I pondered the silent birds and rumbling tremors of the twentieth of May. They were caused by an eruption, not an earthquake—at least, according to Mrs. Brinckerhoff's husband. I had only met him two or three times, but he seemed like an intelligent man. No reason to doubt his story.

Eating the last of the
oliebol
, I decided my next stop, after I found Slamet, would be to visit Vader. He could answer all the questions rattling around my head. Especially the most urgent one: How was it possible that a beach could explode?

I was still mulling over the details of Mr. Brinckerhoff's story when I turned the corner by old Mrs. Schoonhoven's tiny cottage and came face-to-face with the open-air market. It was all that stood between me and the beach. The sharp scents of spices, fish, tangy fruits, pepper and tea wafted my way. Vendors yelled. Customers bartered. Babies cried. Underneath all the commotion, the ocean's waves pulsed their steady rhythm, adding a low roar to the market's sounds.

The first booth I passed belonged to our neighbor, Mr. Vandermark, who stood hawking his vegetables. He waved at me. Ever since he painted the doors of his home red, Tante Greet refused to talk to him.

“Brothels have red doors, Katrien,” she had said.

“How do you know that?” I had asked.

“I don't, really, but red doors are immoral. Don't ever think of painting something red.”

Not only had Tante Greet not spoken to Mr. Vandermark since, she refused to buy any of his vegetables.

Farther inside the market, the crush of people grew stronger. Bodies pressed against me, leaving traces of sweat on my skin. Even though the market had no walls, the sheer volume of people under
the pavilion kept any breeze from blowing. I fanned my hand in front of my face, trying to find some sort of relief from the sweltering heat, and shoved my way through the masses.

I should have gone the long way past the Hotel Anjer to get to the beach. But now that I was practically trapped here, it occurred to me that one of the Stuyvesants' oranges would be delicious. Their grove on the edge of town was well known for producing the most delectable citrus fruit on the west coast of Java. Unfortunately, a throng of people swarmed around their stall like winged termites. It would take too much time to wait.