ROB FINLAYSON

The hole in the road was so big and so deep that some said faeries, fay, fata, dryads, imps, leprechauns, goblins, hobgoblins, gremlins, sirens, enchanters, nymphs, pucks, elves, brownies, pixies, genies, peri, sprites, bogies, nisses, what’s in a name, a rose by any other would smell as sweet, these being but spirits of the air, thin air, watery water, the fulsome earth, the burning flame, the shrieking lightning, the furry, feathered, scaled and skinned creatures, large and small, the animalcules, microbes, the spaces between atoms, particles of indeterminate existence, form, name, busy enabling the forest in the hole’s most abundant thrivingness, that some had said these elemental spirits were refugees of the removal of the once-vast expanse of forest now growing cassava, maize, houses, sheds, a factory making shirts, several motorcycle repair shops, many food stalls, government offices, that they had adopted human form, built a village in which daily lives were lived like mortals, that is to say, they say, drinking coffee, smoking, eating fried cassava and gossiping under and between the leafy fronds of Arenga pinnata (Wurmb) Merr., Dialium indum L., Helicia serrata (R. Br.) Blume, Magnolia macklottii (Korth) Dandy, Pterospermum javanicum Jungh., Sloanea sigun (Blume) K. Schum., Ficus punctata Thunberg, Agalmyla tuberosa (L.) Rendle, Pericampylus glaucus Merr., Anadendrum microstachyum (Miq.) Backer & Aldrew, Melothria maderaspatana (L.) Cogn. and Coffea canephora with many others too numerous to mention lest this report never end, in the hole.

In the branches of a Morinda citrifolia L., orange ants (Oecophylla smaragdina) in a line were making their way from their silken, leafy nest down along the greyish trunk on the march in search of beetles, flies and hymenopterans toward a jumping spider (Cosmophasis cypria), that was biding its time, and two fairies (Fata spp.) in the process of assuming human form (Homo sapiens), thus, first, a grave bubbling of wet earth reminiscent to some of that which heralded the last great eruption of the nearby fire
mountain rose up shimmering dirt and leaves centipedes and gnats falling away as a form formed of twin mountainous rotundities, a greater rotundity neighbourllyly nearby, dense bush of refulgently steaming black in the valley, o vast bursts of simulacra of
meat bones blood, reclining, abraxas!, from the fleshful massifs takes form a dark-red-brown housefrock of swirling indeterminate pattern, leaving au naturel calves and shins verdantly hairy, arms akimbo, hands under hair blacker than a publisher’s heart,
bunned, flowing lava, onto into the succulent soil, armpits a forest of moonless night, a glowing cigarette between fabulous lips streaming smoke languorously from nostrils and corners of that undulant mouth, it being a fine thing to see, as, look over there!, the air sparks millionly, trillionly, merging into shimmer, opaque, thickening, first, feet, flat, wide, then skinny shins, thighs, hips, incandescent rod of light blooding dark reddish, light forming bones of a chest, sinewy neck, the head and hair on end long frizzing still sparking, settling, a battered t-shirt manifesting faded faces of aspiring district heads of long long ago, shapeless pants of no known colour, we will leave the feet unshod as peace settles once more after all these rumblings, roarings, moanings, groanings, sparkings, shimmerings, settlings with accompanying dramatic deafening blasts of orchestra, in the pit.

Read too, Belajar Menyeduh di Rumah Tahanan.

– I could do with a coffee after that. I’m feeling wired, fry-ed, said the skinniest, hands trembling ever so slightly, standing, an excited carrot face, scrawny neck swivelling 180, turning, turning, where’s the warung?

Rumbling out of the corpulent lips, a long low sound creeps among the fallen leaves, bubbles up echoes to flapping ears, hearing

– Minyak putih, Mas.

A puff of smoke punctuates the advice.

– Mamma, I ain’t got no masuk angin, I need a calming coffee!, sparks His Skinniness, He of the Flashing Eyes.

– Cherries, red, rumbles Mamma, a fat finger pointing to a Coffea canephora waiting patiently at Skinny’s ragged back.

– Cherries? He wonders.

– Berries, advises Mamma, red, pick ’em.

Lines of sparks fly forth. The tree’s stripped like it’s halfway through a bath, just done its hair. Pile of cherries at Skinny’s feet.

– Now what?
– Cook ’em.

A single flash strikes the pile. Ffff! Vapourized. Cherries to ashes, dust.
A long, tall column of smoke rises fast from Mamma’s fabulous lips, a rumble rumbles forth

– Like this, Mas.

A tree sprouts in Mamma’s valley, shoots forth leaves, flowers of the forest, cherries, they fall, roll upwards to Mamma’s mouth, her sensational lips a curved dish into which they huddle, obedient children, a coconut falls, rolls to Mamma, cracks open, a piece breaks off, slides up and in, a handful of hard rice in soft air materializes, dull white rain amid the blackening cherries, the lips undulate, turning, turning, stop, spit into an opened fallen branch, uprises Mamma, the planet shakes, hair loose, breasts swinging, pounding, pounding with a mighty log, pulverising to dust, fairy dust, rising in a cloud, falling into a cup hovering in space, time, the music of the spheres lusciously creaking.

– Cook this, Mas.

Rivers of sweet sweat gush in mellifluous torrents from the wide-hearted generosity of the pores of Mamma’s rich chocolate skin streaming, the Nine Great Waterfalls of the Realm of the Gods, falling in a plaiting river through the iridescent air, Si Skinny’s
bony forefinger transluces, sparkles, microwave of modernity frizzling amidst the H 2 O, which falls, boiling, filling, the cup, almost to the brim, almost.

– Ahhhhhhh! And raises it to his attractively thin, blueish lips beneath a grey Milky Way of moustache.

– Four minutes, Mas. Let it brew.

– Eeeeeeeeewwwwww! It descends.

Peace, somewhat strained, also descends, in cup’s company, a long low snore bassing inside Mamma’s once-again-reclining form.

– Lot of work for a cup of coffee, Missus, opines The Slender One, his outline frizzing and sparking, the air, at once, tense and tender.

A snort cuts off a descending note of snore, breasts heave, a gentle fart trots juicily into distant corners of worlds, a rumble tumbles forth.

– Someone’s gotta do it, Mas.

Read too, The Hand Behind The Brew.

 

ROBERT FINLAYSON drinks 5-7 large cups of kopi tubruk a day, preferably from his ibu mertua in Jawa Tengah, which she hand picks, drys in the sun, then roasts with kelapa and beras.