Click here for:

The Curse

Yuni Utami Asih has loved poetry, short stories, and novels since elementary school. She stepped into the world of translation after hosting the launch of Footprints/Tapak Tilas (Dalang Publishing, 2023), a bilingual short story compilation in celebration of Dalang’s tenth anniversary. The first novel she translated was Pasola (Dalang Publishing 2024), by Maria Matildis Banda. Her most recent work was translating the 2025 series of six short stories to be published in installments on Dalang’s website.

Apart from teaching at the English Language Education Study Program, Faculty of Teacher Training and Education, Mulawaran University, Asih is involved in educational workshops for teachers in Samarinda, East Kalimantan, Indonesia, and surrounding areas.

Yuni Utami Asih: yuniutamiasih@fkip.unmul.ac.id.

***

 

The Curse

 

Early in the morning, the electricity was out, so I could not see anything. Relying on instinct, I groped for my loga-loga, a stringed piece of reed I used as my fishing rod. I then walked to the shore of Seram Island, the largest island of Maluku province, Indonesia, where I pushed my small boat into the sea.

We lived close to the Nusa Ina beach. The ocean supplied us with fresh fish for every meal. I spent my early mornings at sea from before dawn until the sun broke the eastern horizon. Then I would pull my boat on the shore and return home.

Mother didn’t approve of my engagement to Elis. During the last three years of her life, Mother could only lie in bed, barely able to speak or move. But two days before her death, Mother suddenly became stronger and told me our family history. She told me the story of my forefathers, from the first descendants up to the time that our family and Elis’s settled on the island known as The Land of Kings. The story she told me held the reason she disapproved of our engagement!

Rowing my boat, I thought about Mother telling me how Elis was a part of my pela, my bloodline, and that Elis’s grandfather and mine had been brothers. “It’s not appropriate for you to fall in love with Elis, let alone marry her,” Mother had said. “Even though you don’t live in the same village, you are still blood relatives.”

***

Back when Mother was still healthy, she told me a story about an old kingdom called Nunusaku. It existed during the third and fourth centuries B.C. and was believed to be the source of all indigenous people in Maluku. The discovery of iron machetes and spears from the era proved its existence. Banyan trees grew abundantly in the kingdom and were considered to be protectors. Therefore, an old banyan tree was used as the royal symbol of Nunusaku.

Life in the kingdom was tranquil and serene because families lived by loving and helping each other. Thus, neither the wailing of sadness nor the gnashing of anger was heard anywhere.

The king of Nunusaku always determined when the annual maro-maro traditional dance would take place, after the harvest of sago, rice, cassava, yams, corn, and other crops.

The people in the kingdom believed that the celebration should take place in the sixth month, before the full moon. They took food to the baileo, courtyard, of the royal palace as an offering to their king. Afterward, they danced the maro-maro in the traditional house of the Moluccan people for a day and night to thank Mother Nature for her blessings.

As soon as the king of Nunusaku decided on the celebration date, he ordered each kapitan to relay that information. After each head of household imparted the news to his relatives, the people marched to the baileo. The kapitans of each mata rumah did not only attend the event, but also danced the maro-maro.

One year, during a maro-maro celebration, Princess Haniwele, the king’s only daughter, also took part. The sky and the moon seemed to join in with the beautiful princess, as she enjoyed the festivities and danced the maro-maro with the kapitans and the rest of the kingdom.

The crowd swirled around Princess Haniwele. Delighted, the king watched his people.  “They must be very happy tonight,” he said to his escort kapitan. As the night grew late, the dancers became more frenzied, and more people joined in. They pranced around the princess and the king became worried as he watched the growing crowd.

Dancing in the center of the circle, surrounded by so many revelers, Princess Haniwele became hot and had a hard time breathing. She stumbled and losing her conscience, she fell. The dancers, not realizing the princess had fallen underfoot, continued their merrymaking.

From his stage in the baileo, the king saw his only daughter being trampled. “Stop dancing!” he thundered.

Astonished, the agitated dancers turned to look at the king.

The king ran into the crowd and picked up the lifeless body of his beloved daughter. “By the universe!” he screamed. “I swear that whoever killed my only daughter will die!”

The king’s fury and rage sent the crowd into chaos. People began to accuse each other, but no one confessed to killing the princess. Therefore, the king ordered his kapitan to kill everyone who had danced the maro-maro that night.

***

As I cast my line, I thought hard about my mother’s story about King Nunusaku and Princess Haniwele. Many of the kingdom’s people escaped and fled Seram Island. They scattered to Saparua, Ambon Island, Haruku, even to Masohi in the north, and beyond. They resettled on different islands and inhabit the islands of Maluku even now.

As the years went by, refugees began to realize that their forebearers had been close relatives living in the same kingdom before it was ruined. Their awareness of pela relationships became stronger. They started to understand that they were not supposed to harbor mutual hostility or kill one another over conflicts such as who controlled the farming, hunting, or fishing areas ⸺ issues they had inherited from their ancestors.

This awareness led them to create a mutual promise to teach their descendants to forgive each other for the mistakes they made. This oath became the essence of pela gandong, the law of brotherhood. To this day, the Moluccan people strictly adhere to that law and are very afraid to break it, because anyone caught disobeying the ancestral vow would suffer great calamity.

As the waves lapped at my boat, I thought more about my mother’s words. “Around 1966,” she told me, “in the early days of the New Order government, people lived in the Takukulah mountains, where Elis’s village is. Before our village moved to the coastal area, we hunted and farmed there. A long time ago, our ancestors lived in the same area as Elis’s.”

I thought about my mother’s story. She was gone now, but her words still pricked my mind and heart. I had planned to tell my mother about Elis’s pregnancy a week after I found out. But after Elis’s brother confirmed that Elis and I were blood relatives, I became even more nervous and decided not to. What would Mother do if she found out? In the end, I kept the pregnancy a tight secret, hoping she would not discover it.

Before my mother’s death, Elis’s brother emphasized the importance of not violating our ancestors’ commandments. He warned that the life of a couple who violated the oath would be cursed ⸺ their descendants would mysteriously disappear, and no one would be left to inherit their property. He asked me to allow Elis to live with him in his house, as the first step of Elis’s and my separation.

I started to think about eloping with Elis. Indeed, there was no other way but to take her away from her brother’s house in Takukulah. After the forty-day mourning period of my mother’s death, her soul would no longer wander on earth and witness my relationship with Elis. Mother’s soul would already be at peace in heaven.

As the mourning period for my mother neared its end, I wrote to Elis. My love, I hope you’re doing well. Right now, I’m restless not knowing what else to say about how to deal with the situation we’re facing. I hope you understand and agree with my crazy decision. After this mourning period, I will ride my motorcycle to your village. Pack a few clothes. If you hear three knocks on your bedroom window at dawn, open it and look for me. We will be going far away. I hope you understand that and will follow my directions. Loving greetings from Lois, your sweetheart.

Finally, the last day of mourning ended, and the moment of executing our escape had arrived. Chickens flew up into the trees growing around the yard, looking for a cozy bed for the night. I folded a few shirts and pants into my bag and brought along some menthol balm. I would rub it on my chest and lower back to keep me warm if a strong wind hit me on my way to Takukulah. No one at home noticed what I was doing.

Quietly, I pushed my old motorcycle about thirty meters from the house before I turned the ignition key. I had to kick the starter pedal a few times before the engine finally turned over.

Recklessly, I rode the motorcycle through the dense Sapalewa Forest. Banyan trees, cloves, and locally-owned coconut plantations filled the forest. I did not have any hint of fear, indecision, or worry about this journey. For eight hours, a strong love pulled me and my motorcycle along the rocky road in and out of forests. That night, I could only think about eloping with Elis.

It was three o’clock in the morning when I cautiously knocked three times on Elis’s bedroom window. I heard a nervous gasp and Elis’s voice. “Lois?”

“Please, open the window, quickly,” I whispered anxiously.

Elis caught my tone. She opened the window.

I scrambled into her room, grabbed her packed belongings, and tossed them through the window. Then the two of us quickly climbed out before the chickens’ clucking announced the dawn of a new day and woke up everyone in the house.

“I want to take you far away from here, to the west where the sun sets,” I said before starting the motorcycle.

Elis nodded silently in agreement.

Once again, I was astride my old motorcycle, but this time, I did not feel the cold of the early morning wind. Elis warmed me with her embrace and burning love.

On the way, I told Elis we would stay in Lumoli with my best friend from school. Welem didn’t know we were coming, but I planned to explain our situation when we arrived. If he allowed us, we would stay with him until our child was born.

When we arrived at Welem’s house, he welcomed both of us, as well as the unborn baby. He allowed us to stay until Elis gave birth.

Elis and I had already agreed on a beautiful name for our baby: Pince, if it was a girl, and Ulis, if it was a boy. Both names had the same meaning: a tough, firstborn child.

While we waited for our child to be born, I felt overwhelmed by my work at sea to meet our basic daily needs. My catch was the only income we had to live on during our time as runaways.

***

The most memorable day in the history of my life finally arrived. At dawn, after Elis and I prayed as usual, she said, “My love, go to sea but don’t linger. Come back soon. I think I have started my labor. When I give birth, I hope you’ll be by my side to pray and encourage me.”

The October sea churned violently as the wind howled. Rolling waves pounded at my boat and tossed me around in the middle of the sea. I couldn’t save a single fish I had caught. I remembered Elis’s parting words before I left for the sea that dawn. As quickly as possible, I wrestled my boat back to shore and anchored it.

I ran to Welem’s house but found no one there, not even Elis. I hurried to the next-door neighbor, who told me that after I went out to sea, Elis went into full labor with unbearable contractions and pain. She had run to the neighbor for help, and some women rushed Elis to the traditional midwife.

Lumoli had neither health workers nor a hospital. I raced to the traditional midwife’s house. As I approached, I saw villagers crowding around the house. “What’s going on?” I asked.

“A woman died giving birth,” a man replied. I pushed my way through the crowd and saw Elis lying still.

Unable to speak, I slowly collapsed. Like a mountain spring breaking loose to find its way downstream, tears ran. I stared at my beloved Elis until I couldn’t bear to look at her still body any longer. As I turned away, a movement caught my eye. I then saw the baby who Elis, my beloved, had given birth to, asleep, but kicking.

***

As I went through my time of mourning at Welem’s house, I could only stare at Elis’s parents when they arrived after receiving the news of their daughter’s death. According to custom, I had to give them Ulis, my son, to replace his mother, their daughter.

In Welem’s house, I found a piece of paper with Elis’s neat handwriting tucked under the votive plate on our prayer table. She had written:

My beloved,
One day, when our child has grown into an adult, he will carry my smiles. Ask the priest in your village to pray for forgiveness and the severing of the pela relationship between our two villages. Gather the Chief and the traditional Saniri, council of elders, to officially sever this blood relationship.

Our child must live and continue your lineage. I may not be present, but, my soul will live on with you.

*****