Tuyul

By Dewi Anggraeni

Trevor pushes the door open and walks in, leaving the key dangling. Usually he would call his wife's name at this stage. But this time he deflects. The house is quiet. Why is it different today? Isn't he used to that, knowing that it isn't Maryati's habit to listen to the radio? He flares his nostrils.

He smells something strange, something foreign. It isn't the usual welcoming cooking smell. Trevor takes several steps toward the bedrooms, his hand still clasping the handle of his briefcase.

"Maryati," he calls softly.

Suddenly he stops. Not far from the spare bedroom, the smell intensifies. He approaches the door cautiously. It's ajar. No noise from inside. He starts to panic. He pushes the door forcefully as if expecting resistance, his whole body stiff from tension.

What he sees freezes him on the spot. Mystified, his mouth gapes, his eyes nearly pop. Before him, on a small coffee table covered with a batik cloth, a small urn is emanating a thin smoke, and an overpowering smell fills the whole room. In front of the urn, on a small tray, are flower petals and some sweets. What shocks him most what he sees on the floor near the table, his wife lying, seemingly unconscious.

Trevor drops his briefcase, it falls with a thud on the floor. He then pulls a handkerchief from his pocket. Covering his nose with the handkerchief, Trevor falls on his knees beside his wife's body. But before he touches her, Maryati has opened her eyes. She looks startled.

"Shit, Yati!" he cries, relieved, his muffled voice thin and shaky.

"Ahh, Trevor," Maryati looks displeased. "You give me fright! What you doing, cover face like that?"

When his fear has passed, Trevor begins to feel annoyed as if Maryati were mocking him.

"What was I doing, you asked?" he exclaims, withdrawing the handkerchief, "You gave me one hell of a fright yourself. What's all this about?" He is coughing from the sudden fluctuation of emotions, but blames the incense. He fans the handkerchief demonstratively.

Maryati quickly looks around then pulls Trevor out of the room. He doesn't resist, his throat still raspy.

In the lounge, Maryati pushes him on to the sofa. Then, sitting beside him, she says sweetly but seriously.

"Trev, I tell you already, no? I tell you the day before yesterday, I see tuyul in this house!"

"Yes! Tuyul! Huh, I know! You forget, no? You never listen, real listen, when I tell you."

Despite being unable to recall what she told him, Trevor feels a shiver in the back of his neck. For some reason, the whole situation spooks him. Maybe the sound of the word itself, tuyul, has a disturbing suggestion, or perhaps the way Maryati puts it makes him feel there is something mysterious behind it. Suddenly, he realizes what disturbs him. His wife's eyes. There is suffering in them. Whatever that tuyul is, it's made his wife suffer.

"Sorry darling, what's this tuyul thing?" he asks candidly. His anger has left him.

Maryati sighs and looks away.

"Yati?" Trevor prompts, after waiting for a few seconds.

"Tuyul," Maryati turns to him again, "a kid ghost. Kid who die before he know the world the big people." Her eyes are moist, but she quickly controls her emotion.

"Ghost? Spirit?" Trevor is momentarily incredulous, then tries to conceal his mirth. "You saw a child's ghost in this house? Where?"

"Few place. First I see in tree in backyard. I cooking and happen look out the window. Then .. I see kid," Maryati stops there.

"A kid. You saw a kid."

"Yes, I got fright."

"Why'd you get a fright? There are neighborhood kids in this area."

"That kid not from neighborhood. I know all kid here!"

"So you do. And then?"

"Then I run to door, I run out. But I see no kid, kid gone. Then I know, I just see tuyul." This time Maryati doesn't hide the tears welling in her eyes.

Puzzled, Trevor takes her in his arms, hugging her tightly. Why is she so affected by what she saw? Even if it were true she saw the spirit of a child, why does she appear so suffer so?

"Well, then you made that thing, whatever's it called?" Trevor tries to discover more.

"Sesajen, offering. I don't make offering straight away, Trev. First I not sure. But yesterday I see three time. Two time in backyard, play and run, one time in house."

"In the house? Where?" asks Trevor.

"In spare room. He looks sleep in corner. That why I make offering in that room. That his room, Trev. One day, we buy him little bed."

Trevor isn't sure he's dreaming, or awake, hearing things. Maryati, his wife, saw the spirit of a child. Several times. All right. If she believes that, if that makes her happy let her. The spirit moved into their spare room. Okay. A bit far fetched, but harmless. But buying a small bed for it?

"Yati," Trevor releases his hug, then pulls her away to look at her face. Again, fear creeps up on him. There's something hidden behind those eyes. Trevor quickly hugs her again, hoping the impression will go when out of sight.

He then sighs with relief when Maryati pulls herself away and begins to giggle.

"Well, I not yet cook, Trev. I fall sleep just now."

"Don't fuss, Yati. Let's go out for dinner."

"Really? If so, I want to shower first," Maryati looks cheerful.

While waiting, Trevor tries to read the newspaper. No use. He can't concentrate. Finally he gets up and walks to the kitchen to make coffee.

His mind is preoccupied with his wife's bizarre behavior. What's happened to her, for goodness sake? Is she showing symptoms of a nervous disorder? Is she unhappy? Haven't I met all her needs? Didn't I buy this house for her? All the furniture in this house is her choice. Trevor looks at the lounge. That lounge suite. I had to order it from Yogya for her. No, she can't be unhappy.

In the car, Maryati speaks very little. Every now and again Trevor looks at her out of the corner of his eye. Her face looks as pale as marble, as if she were losing physical substance. Eventually Trevor stops talking too.

Trevor has been encouraged to chat more with his wife, now that she's able to communicate in English with him. Her English is far from perfect, but much more fluent. She can even write her own name and address, though her reading and writing are still very unreliable. However, considering that she's illiterate in Indonesian, her achievement in English is nothing short of marvelous.

At the Chinese restaurant, Maryati's mood brightens. She listens to Trevor's stories about his day in the office. She even comments how delicious the roast chicken is in the restaurant.

What eludes Trevor's observation is how swiftly she looks away when some guests come with a child of three of four years old. Lucky for her they're ushered upstairs.

Trevor hasn't forgotten about the event earlier in the evening. The impression has changed, though. He no longer regards it as a big problem. The warmth of the moment has pushed the event to the far corner of his consciousness, where he puts away all disturbing occasions with fading first impressions.

Trevor isn't a thinker. He doesn't like dwelling on certain things. He sees it as unproductive, a waste of mental energy. He believes everybody is equipped with intuition to judge a situation. His intuition tells him that his wife's happy now. So he's happy to stop there.

Parking his car in the carport, Trevor's still feeling high. He whistles some ill-defined tune even as he walks up the path to the front door, his arm around Maryati's shoulders.

As soon as the front door is opened, the smell of incense pulls them back to earth. Maryati's face quickly turns solemn. Trevor frowns, but only for a moment. He doesn't want to spoil the good mood. Without much ado he takes off his jacket and hangs it in the hall cabinet, then quietly walks to the spare room to close the door.

All that doesn't elude Maryati. She doesn't say anything.

In bed, Trevor finds his wife asleep quickly, so he turns over and slips his hand under his pillow seeking some vague comfort, the way he always did in childhood.

To Trevor's relief, no incense is burned, nor is there any talk of tuyul during the following two days.

On the third day, a Thursday evening, which in Indonesian is often called malam Jum'at or Friday's eve, Trevor looks forward to entering his driveway. At work, everything went wrong. Two of their reliable clients had gone bankrupt, reneging on their payments. Another most revered client rang to complain about some of the goods he'd received. They were imperfect and this client asked Trevor to replace them immediately. Then when Trevor contacted his tradesman, instead of support, he received threats of industrial action. Among all this, his boss requested a monthly report on sales.

Trevor has visions of Maryati welcoming him cheerfully, telling him what's in the saucepans on the hot plate. Nothing else is on his mind but this simple pleasure as he steps out of the car. He pushes open the door, steps in and is going to call, but his nose is quicker.

"Oooh," Trevor sighs audibly. He hesitates for a second, looking back at the door. His fingers are still clasping the handle of his briefcase. Then he hears his wife's footsteps from the kitchen.

"Trevor," she calls cheerfully.

Trevor is tossed off balance. Maryati walks up to him, takes the briefcase from him, and as usual, helps him take off his jacket.

"Why so quiet? You not feeling well?" asks Maryati, when all the routine has been completed.

"Oh, that. Yes, tonight is Friday eve. I make offering every Tuesday and Friday eve. I not yet tell you?"

"Every Tuesday's and Friday's eve?" Trevor almost shouts.

He pictures his parents and brothers' reactions, when they happened to drop in on those nights. What would he tell them? That his wife saw a tuyul? That the tuyul's moved in? That they're going to buy a small bed for it? God Almighty, what'll they think?

"Wait a minute, Yati," Trevor suppresses his worry and tries to smile. Twitching slightly, he says, "Yati, did you say you'd burn incense every Tuesday's and Friday's eve? Is that really necessary? If it, or he, has moved in here, d'you still have to do that?"

Maryati looks searchingly at her husband. "Of course I have to do that. Trev, imagine we have kid. We have to feed, look after the kid, no?" she asks simply.

Trevor wipes his forehead with the back of his hand.

"Yati, but this is not a real kind. This is your imagination."

Maryati's face falls. "You not understand. You not believe..."

"All right, all right, it's real. And the tuyul needs food and everything, just like us," Trevor agrees, exasperated.

"Of course not like us. But we have to make him feel good you know, like a kid. Why you so trouble? I make offering and burn incense, not you. And not expensive the cost."

"But Yati, I feel uncomfortable with all this smell. Imagine if people found out about what you did. They'd definitely think you were a witch or a Satan worshiper."

When Maryati looks at him uncomprehendingly, Trevor explains what a witch and a Satan worshiper are. She then appears surprised. That never occurred to her.

"You see, Yati? This can cause a problem. What if you do this offerings bit once ... once a... once a month?"

Maryati falls silent. Slowly she walks to the lounge, then drops herself into the nearest chair.

"Once a month," she mutters. "Once a month. How he feel happy? Only look after once a month?"

"Look, sweetheart. Twice a week, imagine. Within a fortnight it'd be all over the neighborhood. While once a month, well, I think you could get away with it."

She sits supporting her face with her palms, while Trevor sits down in the chair opposite, his eyes glued to her face.

At last, Maryati looks up. There are tears in her eyes.

"All right, Trev. Once a month." Then, silently, she gets up and returns to the kitchen.

Trevor is left feeling as if he'd just kicked out his own son. He's determined, however, not to weaken. Picking up a newspaper, he begins to read. When Maryati comes with a cup of coffee, he pulls one corner down and thanks her with a stiff smile.

Maryati becomes quiet after that. Though she still answers when asked and smiles when Trevor tries to joke, she appears to have lost her soul. Everything she does, she does mechanically. Trevor watches, somewhat bewildered and extremely worried.

After several days, Trevor rings up Dr. Barrow from work. He has been the family physician since Trevor was a baby. Dr. Barrow is the only person he trusts with his problem.

After listening attentively to Trevor's story, Dr. Barrow asks, "Can you bring your wife to see me, Trev?"

"I'll try doc. This evening?"

Convincing Maryati to see a doctor is much easier than he thought it would be, Maryati only nods when Trevor explains that wants her to see a doctor, because she hasn't seemed well lately.

At the doctor's surgery she's also cooperative when Trevor suggests she go on alone.

He waits for half and hour, continuously changing the magazines he's reading. When Maryati comes out, he can't read her expression. Her face is like a clean sheet of paper. Empty.

"Well? How was it?" Trevor asks in the car, "What'd he say?"

Maryati shrugs. "He asks many question."

"Like what?"

"Like I eat regular, my period regular, and other question. Then he look my eye, take my pressure blood, he say. But he not tell many thing."

That night they're both restless, but conversation still won't flow.

Trevor's on the phone to Dr. Barrow the following morning.

"Trev," says Barrow, "When did you last take your leave?"

"About fourteen months ago. Why?"

"Why so long ago? Can't you take any leave this year?"

"Doc, we've just bought a house. It had to be furnished. We're up to our ears in down payment. Taking leave means I'll miss out on the bonus I get for every sale I make."

"Which is more important, your bonuses or your wife's health?"

Trevor heart misses a beat. "Is it that serious?"

"Yes, it is." Barrow's voice is grave. "She's not pregnant, I've verified that. But your wife shows symptoms of mild depression. Take your leave now, Trev, before it's too late."

"All right, doc. Thanks."

Trevor doesn't discuss his plans with Maryati. He wants to give her a surprise. He's been imagining her reaction when he shows her the tickets to the Gold Coast, and the voucher for a luxurious villa, which will be theirs for ten days. He winces each time he thinks of the cost, but keeps telling himself that the cost is nothing compared to Maryati's happiness.

To Trevor's dismay, Maryati looks shocked when he tells her about the trip to the Gold Coast, two days before they're due to leave. She's shocked and disappointed. There's even and accusation of betrayal in her eyes.

Misunderstanding her action, Trevor shows her the tickets.

"What you doing to me, Trev? What I done wrong? Why so cruel to me?" she cries.

Trevor is perplexed. He collapses into a chair. Good grief. Barrow was right, it's too late!"

"Yati," he tries nonetheless, "It's all for you."

"For me? I never ask this. I only ask you let me look after my tuyul. First you stop me give him offering two time a week. Now you want take me away. If we go, when we come back, he gone."

Maryati leans against the doorjamb, crying bitterly. And when Trevor tries to calm her, she pushes him away with all her force.

"Don't touch me. I don't want to live here. I want go back to Java!" she shrieks.

When everything he does to comfort his wife backfires, Trevor quickly rings Dr. Barrow.

He sits in the doorway, crying into his hands, as the ambulance drives away, carrying his drugged wife.

The house is sad and empty. Trevor paces up and down the lounge, wringing his hands. Finally he's overcome by exhaustion and drops himself on the sofa, propping his head with three cushions. His eyes are heavy.

He's floating between sleep and wakefulness, yet there's a distinct feeling he's in his lounge. In the opposite corner, below the window, he sees a small child, naked, playing on the floor. Though he can only see its back, Trevor knows it's a boy. There's no sensation of shock or tenderness. He just wants to know what the child's doing in his house, with no clothes on.

Then he's jolted by sudden wakefulness. God Almighty, did I really see it? Am I going mad?

Trevor scans his telephone notebook. No, I won't ring Eni. I won't ring anyone who knows us. He looks at his watch, then picks up the telephone directory.

"Professor Richards? My name is Trevor. You see, I'm studying Javanese culture... no, no privately. Yes, from books and things, you know ... Yes, hahaha. Well, a friend told me about tuyul, said he saw one. But he wasn't every clear about what it is. I couldn't find it in the literature I've got. Maybe you could tell me, Professor, what is tuyul?"

A very careful and measured voice answers, "I'm not really an expert on tuyul, Trevor, I'm an historian specializing in Javanese cultural history. But err... I know a little about the subject. I must explain here that I've never seen one. A pity? Quite, quite. Now Tuyul, I gather, is the ghost of a child, some say that of an aborted fetus, or a stillborn child. How does it look? Well, like a small child usually hairless and naked ... Pardon? Oh sure, some might say it has hair. What it is after? Hmm, for Westerners like you and me, this might be a bit hard to swallow ... According to my sources, a tuyul is often kept by someone for certain purposes, such as to steal from someone else, or, for a gambler, to bring inspiration."

Trevor's voice shakes a little. "Is there anyone who keeps a tuyul just because he likes children?"

"A bit strange, don't you think? But anything is possible. Yes, yes. I wouldn't be surprised, especially in this field. The concept is so fluid, you see. If you like, I can give you the titles of some very useful books on the topic. Got a pen and paper handy?"

"Thank you, Professor. Oh, another thing. Surely there's mention of how to dispel a tuyul."

"Yes, of course. In those books I mentioned you'll find various methods. However, I can quote a source on it. It sounds ridiculous."

That night, at eight o'clock, Trevor opens his back door. The full moon in the eastern sky immediately shrouds him with a film of blue light. The still chilly September air penetrates his thin jumper. After looking around the steps cautiously out, carrying a small table and a brown paper bag.

In the middle of the backyard he stops. He's the only moving part of this still painting he's just entered. Putting the table on the grass, he opens his paper bag. One by one he arranges the contents on the table: a red chili, a brown onion, a piece of ginger, a piece of incense which he puts on a saucer, and a box of matches. Muttering the sentences he's learned by heart, he begins to burn the incense.

Trevor's really absorbed in what he's doing, when suddenly he hears a twig break behind him. He whips around, his eyes nearly pop from terror. He wants to scream, but his throat seems to close.

"Good god, Trev. What the hell are you doing?" his brother, Douglas, asks from several feet away.

"Shit Doug! What d'you think you're doing? Sneaking up on me like that?"

"Me? Sneaking. Hell Trevor. Have you gone mad?"

Trevor slowly straightens himself up. "Come on in. I'll explain."

Douglas looks hesitant. Shifting his glance from the small table to his brother, he says, "Mum and Dad are waiting in the car."

Trevor holds his head, wishing his brother to go away.

Dewi Anggraeni was born in Jakarta. She lives in Melbourne with her husband and two children. She was the Australian correspondent for Tempo weekly, and now writes for The Jakarta Post, Forum Keadilan and other publications in Indonesia and Australia. Combining her skills as a journalist and novelist, her stories have been published in both languages in Australia and Indonesia. She has three books published in Australia: the novels The Root of All Evil (1987) and Parallel Forces (1988), and a trilogy of novellas called Stories of Indian Pacific (1993).