The Last Dance of Jessie Peel

The following definitions are for those of you who do not speak Indonesian, to help you understand what's going on in the story.

Anak – Bahasa for child

Belanda – Indonesian racial slur for the Dutch, also relevant to the Proboscis Monkey.

Bule’ – literally “Albino”, Indonesian racial slur for a white person.

Losari - An actual village located just south of Cirebon, along the Java Sea coast.

Isteri – Indonesian for Wife.

Warung – A small roadside stall, usually for selling quick-fried foods.

Kuku Mactan – “Tiger Claw” a medium sized machete that has been curved into a crescent, with the blade on the inside.

Kerambit – A small hook-dagger with a ring at the top used in Indonesian martial arts

Golok – Small Indonesian jungle chopper

Pencak Silat – The primary martial art of Indonesia

Padepokan – A Pencak Silat training hall

Pedang – Indonesian straight machete

The Last Dance of Jessie Peel

The early afternoon sun was already stifling on the small village of Losari at the edge of the Java sea, and the air was thick with gulls. A softly blowing wind played with the loose white sands on the dunes. The waves were slowly receding out to sea with the morning tide, lapping at the surf as they washed the sand clean of debris. And there was plenty of debris.

In fact, the sounds were the only thing that was peaceful about this location. The beach was nothing but carnage.

A broken wagon wheel was smashed into a small seaside warung, and the gulls were feasting on strewn foodstuffs lying on the sand. The remnants of a fire were smoldering nearby, and the air was acrid with the stench of burnt flesh. Various weaponry was strew around the area, some handles protruding from the sand and others broken across the rocks, or rolling out in the tide.

For so much obvious violence there was a surprising absence of blood. There was, however, no lack of bodies. Four men lay in scattered disarray across the sand, one twitching facedown in the surf, two stacked on top of each other as if to be made easier for transport and a fourth sitting upright against a jetty of rocks nearby, holding his head with both hands and moaning softly.

Brama arrived on horseback, his honor guard flanking him on foot. All carried machetes, but Brama carried the only firearm among them. The war wasn’t that far behind them, and there was no telling who among the ranks was a Dutch sympathizer, or worse, a spy. Also, guns were rather expensive and the military wasn’t rich, so while everybody carried a pedang only high ranking commanders carried pistols.

“Aep Surahmen, I give you a simple task and you bungle it like a monkey with no tail. Clearly my trust in you was misplaced. Did you not deliver the message to the white giant to surrender his person to you?”

Aep raised his head and looked at Brama with aged eyes that had seen too much recently. There was a hollow look on his face, and his hands were trembling. “I did tell him, commander, and it was clear. So clear, in fact, that he killed everyone.”

“Apparently you didn’t make it clear enough. He didn’t take you seriously”.

“How can you say that?!” Aep replied “Look what he did to us!”

“I can say that, Aep, because you still breathe. Had he thought you a serious threat I believe you would already be at Allah’s side with a most puzzled look on your face.” Aep just stared at Brama, and sank his face in his hands. “Come, Aep, get in line. We will visit the bule’ at his village and you can avenge your men.”

“No.”

Brama was startled. He didn’t think he had heard him right. No one refused him, he was the commander! “What did you just say, Aep?”

“I said no. I won’t step another foot in the bule’s direction.”

Brama couldn’t afford to lose face in front of his men. You didn’t hold power in Indonesia by being benevolent, and Brama’s savagery was legendary. “You are trying my patience, Aep. Gather the rest of your men-“

“My men are dead! All of them! That isn’t some bule’ Djinn you sent us after, it’s Shaytan in human form! No, I cannot. This is a fool’s errand, and I may be a soldier but I am no fool. I have a family, and I will live to see them, Inshallah. He left me alive, for what reason I cannot say, but I will not tempt God twice! This is over!

As Aep turned and began walking away from the beach, Brama calmly pulled his revolver and shot him in the back of the head. Aep’s frontal lobe hit the rocks several seconds before his body dropped convulsing to the ground. The rest of Brama’s party stood and gazed at the scene with shocked silence as Brama holstered his weapon and calmly swung his horse for Losari village in the distance.

Jessie Peel saw them coming from a distance. He stood on the porch of his small beach house, modestly built to weather the frequent storms, and watched their approach. The village was deserted, and the only sounds were of the waves lapping against the shores. Just like last night thought Jessie. He had warned the villagers of the coming raiders, and they had fled in various directions for the safety of their relatives and friends in nearby villages.

Jessie was leaning against one of the support beams that lifted his house above the surf, drinking coffee. His white hair ruffled in the wind, and his sarong was cinched at his waist with a Balinese sash. Tucked into the sash was his fearsome Kuku Mactan, a sharply curved machete that resembled a gargantuan tiger claw. Tucked into the sash at the small of his back was a kerambit, an identical weapon to the Kuku Mactan, only it was a third size smaller, with a ring at the top of the handle.

Jessie stood a full seven feet six inches, towering over most Indonesians. His arms and legs were a map of scars from old fights, training Pencak Silat, and of course pulling the nets with the rest of the village. A sigh escaped his lips, and he thought back to years past. He had known this was coming, and had taken steps to insure that he and his family would be safe. Now, seeing the approaching scout party, he knew he should have done more but he had thought they were off the radar out here in this secluded outpost. Damn it, didn’t the Indonesian government have its hands full already? When would there be enough blood? Jessie shook his head slowly and finished the last of his coffee. No sense in doing this on an empty stomach.

Brama led the group to the rear of the village, and halted his mount just a few yards away from the house to regard the man they had ridden for so long to find. Brama didn’t know what the white giant had done to offend the Major General, but Jessie Peel had been on his short list ever since the expellation of the hated Belanda five years ago and Brama had been given specific orders from Suharto himself.

Brama addressed Jessie as his men gathered on either side of him: “I have come with a message from the Major General himself to give you an opportunity to die like a man. Truly it is a gift from Allah, for if I were not under orders you would just be strangled like a worthless Belanda.”

“Now that’s interesting. I happen to know Bang Suharto, and I don’t recall crossing him up enough to warrant this. What am I charged with?”

“Your kind was ordered to leave. You did not. I don’t have to charge you with anything Bule’, because there you stand in defiance of the law! Your existence is disgraceful and I am here to remove that!”

“The disgrace or my existence?”

The four men on foot approached Jessie from his left and right sides in a slow moving flanking maneuver. Clearly, they had been given orders to act on their own accord while their commander watched from horseback. You better time this one right, kid. These guy’s aren’t fucking around anymore.

“And what about my life here? My work for the village?”

“It will does not matter, for Allah has already decreed your death!”

Jessie was losing his patience. Tolerance was one thing, but Brama’s mouth needed a good shutting. Jessie changed tactics. “Allah must be pretty hard up for messengers if the best he could send out were you clowns. Are you positive it was Allah you were speaking to, and not that idiot Imam I see in the village spouting nonsense?”

Brama’s eyes turned into silver dollars, and his jaw momentarily went slack. No one spoke of Allah or an Imam of Islam in such a way, certainly not a White infidel dog. Perhaps it was the onset of aging sickness.

You’re almost ready.

“Your false bravado is admirable, but you are trying my patience Bule’. I was ordered to give you a man’s death, but I can always say someone else got to you first. Perhaps I will make it look like I had no choice, since you killed everyone from the previous night and were desperate from the guilt of your crimes.”

“I didn’t kill everyone, only those that tried to kill me.”

“Well, let’s just say everyone is dead, eh? Three bodies, four bodies, no one will know the difference after you are gone. Besides, who would believe a bule’ anyway?”

Jessie’s eyes narrowed, and he slowed his breathing. “You killed him?”

“Yes, I finished your sloppy job. Another sign of your unworthiness to walk among us. Go live in a tree, you Dutch baboon!” Jessie could see the men getting ready to make a concerted charge to overwhelm him, their tension thick in the space between himself and them.

“Okay, how about this: You call off your dogs and I promise not to defile your mother while she’s relieving herself with the pigs. Of course, from what I hear in the village, I’d have a long line to wait in. Did you ever find out who your real father was, by the way? Word in the kampong was he resembled a Bule’ himself. Should I call you Anak, d’ya think?”

Brama’s hands were visibly shaking, and he tightened his grip on the bridle. Blood rose to his eyes and he spat his words out at Jessie. “You will die like the dog you are, and I will see to it that your line dies with you! Kill him!”

Gotcha!

Jessie had been slowly angling himself closer to the nearest of his stalkers, and judged he was close enough to get the ball rolling. They had all been listening to this exchange, and were expecting him to be cowed. Perhaps beg a little before they killed him. If your enemy thinks you are going to do one thing, do something else, no matter how drastic. Catch him by surprise and use the momentum against the others. The men surrounding him were stunned by his words. Perfect.

Before Brama had finished his threat, Jessie had reverse-drawn his Kuku Mactan with uncanny speed for a man his age, and simultaneously beheaded the man nearest him in one stroke. Grabbing the twitching corpse while it was still upright, he endured a shower of gore while spinning the body into a shield between himself and the second attacker. He needn’t have bothered, the other three were still agog at their companion’s sudden demise, and had yet to take a breath. Jessie capitalized on this by throwing the dead but still animate body towards his nearest target (which he couldn’t help but instinctively grab – it was his friend after all) and closed the gap with long strides between himself and the other two near the water. One of them had the presence of mind to grab the hilt of his Golok and try to pull it clear of its sheath: Jessie’s curved blade snaked out and lopped off the man’s weapon hand at the wrist. A quick foot sweep in the passing and it was business as usual. Two down, three to go.

As Jessie left the man lying on the ground clutching his hand and screaming, the other two attackers came at him simultaneously with their weapons drawn. Peel was at a slight disadvantage; His weapon was made for one-on-one, and it was designed to draw the attacker in at a closer range then the standard Indonesian straight line machete.

Like the ones Groucho and Harpo here carried.

There was no other way. He was going to have to wing it.

Meeting the first soldiers’ chop blade-to-blade, Jessie crouched low and passed his attacker’s weapon arm over his head with his free hand. As the man passed by him Jessie spun his body into a 180 degree turn and seated himself behind him as he slashed through the soldier’s Achilles tendon. Before he could fall the other rushed in and tried to capitalize on Jessie’s lack of mobility, throwing his machete arm back for a decapitating chop while leaning far forward to counterbalance his body and momentum in the charge. Which left his head exposed like a ripe watermelon in a dry field. Instead of blocking the incoming swing Jessie spread his legs apart and leaned into the arc of the incoming attack, hooking his badly nicked blade into the man’s head, the point curving into his eardrum and stopping the charge like a locomotive running out of track.

Goon #3 had regained his senses, and was approaching Jessie from the rear with the beach on his left, as Brama nudged his mount around to the other side in a flanking maneuver. Brama had seen three of his men die or be crippled within the space of two minutes, he wasn’t going to underestimate the giant bule’ again. Jessie knew he couldn’t wait for the attack, so he charged the remaining soldier in an attempt to put some distance between himself and Brama. The soldier stood his ground, and Jessie dropped to one knee to attack the man’s lower legs. Instead of backing up, the soldier’s knee-jerk response was to push his butt backwards and pull the immediate strike zone out of danger. Which both brought his head in lower and left him off balance. Amateur. Jessie reached up with his free hand and flipped the man onto his back. A swift cut across the throat ended his career as a military man.

Jessie turned to assess the situation with Brama, and it didn’t look good. There was at least 35 yards between the two of them, and Brama was trying to clear his weapon from it’s holster. Jessie would never reach him in time.

“Your sister is a parakee- aw, goddammit!” Peel realized midway through the speech trick that although Brama could hear him, he wasn’t registering. It only worked on people who were at least halfway paying attention to what you said, and Peel’s earlier taunts had far exceeded his expectations. Brama was seeing red, hearing nothing and he was still cross-reaching for his revolver. If he clears that holster, I’m hoist and this was all for nothing. Move it old man! In the space of a millisecond his subconscious processed that even if he could hit Brama with his Kuku Macan from here, the odds against the curved blade actually sticking and really penetrating were astronomical.

So he threw it at Brama’s horse. Right for the eyes.

As the revolver cleared the holster the horse jinked it’s head sharply away from the incoming projectile, but not fast enough; It bounced off the side of the horses head, causing it to rear up on two legs in an effort to push backward, away from the offending weapon, and tossing Brama onto the ground like so much refuse. The gun was lost.

Brama staggered to his feet and barely had time to draw his own machete before Jessie bore down on him a furious haymaker to the temple that Brama barely avoided by staggering backwards a full five feet. Just enough room for Peel to regain his weapon, sidestep an attack from Brama and respond with a murderous swing in an attempt to decapitate him as he had the soldier earlier. Brama found his footing and an animal like clash of steel and flesh ensued, both fighters hacking and slashing the other, both adept at close range combat and both unwilling to back down, or even maneuver to a safer position. Blood sprayed into their faces from a connecting slice somewhere, but it was impossible to tell who had cut who since both fighters were now dripping blood from several wounds. Jessie managed to find purchase on Brama’s weapon hand and torqued it into a lock whilst simultaneously slicing for his neck. Brama bent his knees and rolled his head under Jessie’s swing and landed a cannonball punch to his gut, whooshing the air out of Jessie’s lungs and forcing him to release the lock on his arm. As soon as it was freed Brama whirled around and whipped his machete towards Jessie in an unfocused attack. Jessie bounced the incoming machete off the convex of his own blade and swung laterally for Brama’s neck. Brama sensed the danger he was in from his overcommitted attack and tilted his head away from the Kuku Macan that was coming for his throat, but he was already too late. Jessie angled the blade at a sharp incline so it bit into Brama’s flesh at the base of his neck at traveled up the left parietal of his head, taking a wide strip of flesh and tissue with it.

Along with Brama’s right ear.

Jessie reversed the flow and dropped his body weight to pick up speed for a second downward stroke. He sacrificed some speed for power, and the wicked looking curved machete hissed past Brama’s face going for a rebound slice, but missed his neck altogether before burying it in his shoulder.

It took Jessie a couple of seconds to wrench the Kuku Mactan free, and in that time Brama swung his own Pedang upwards in an attempt to slice into his neck. Unfortunately, he was still unbalanced by the loss of his ear and miscalculated the swing by almost a foot, buying Jessie much needed time to recover his weapon. When they had cleared each other’s cutting proximity they paused momentarily to size up the damage. Brama had several medium sized puncture wounds, a missing ear and a gash deep into his shoulder. Jessie had a few slices himself, and was bleeding heavily from the deep gash on his leg. His age worked against him now, as his precious lifeblood ran down his legs onto the sand. His shoulders heaved from the strain of battle, and he knew if he didn’t wrap this up soon Brama wouldn’t need to fight him to win, he would just have to stay conscious longer.

Jessie reached behind him and drew the kerambit he had hidden in his sarong with his left hand. This was a dangerous move since the kerambit was a small hook knife meant for close range fighting, and Jessie would have both hands occupied. He would only get one shot with it against a machete. He spread his legs out and pointed his feet outward in the difficult Syahbahndar style of Silat, which required more upper body movement and torque. It was a style created for close range weapon play, and Jessie was counting on it’s solid defenses to give him an advantage. Brama saw the kerambit and smiled. He had no intention of letting the bule’ get close enough to use it. He began to swing his machete through the air, arcing it in unpatterned circles and slashes, all the while closing with Jessie. He feinted a thrust, hoping to catch Jessie with a vicious reverse slash to the neck, and brought all of his body weight behind the attack to add power to the swing.

Jessie countered his attack with one of his own, arcing the backbone of the Kuku Mactan upward in an attempt to glance the incoming machete off at a sharp angle. It worked well enough although it disarmed Jessie, and as the razor-sharp blade went whistling close to his ear Jessie hooked his Kerambit into Brama’s left eye, gouged the socket and pierced the thin skull wall. As Brama screeched in pain and reached for his eyes Jessie spun 180 degrees in the sand and dropped to his knees, hiking the muscular Indonesian over his hip and bringing him crashing onto the ground with and audible grunt. Something cracked in Brama’s shoulders as he landed, the report loud enough to be heard over 40 yards away by Jessie’s wife. He smiled as he slowly rose to his feet, and leisurely crouched over the half blind Brama, who was now in a semi-conscious daze. “That would be your rotator cuff, just above the ball and socket joint of your shoulder, in conjunction with your clavicle. That inability to move your left arm? It ain’t coming back this year, that’s for sure.” Jessie paused and a tiny cruel smirk passed his face. “Your peripheral vision is, like the Dutch rule on this island, a thing of history. Get used to the idea of missing your mouth with food for awhile. Might have to lap it up. Like a dog.” Brama was unable to move his body much, and it took a Herculean effort just to roll over so he could face Jessie. His arms wouldn’t respond to his thoughts, and he had a concussion from the fall off the horse. His wounds were leaking blood, and he felt dizzy. I am dying. Allah, forgive me.

As Brama rolled his one good eye toward Peel, Jessie could see the malice and hatred in it quite clearly. Fighting back the rage at all the needless suffering that had just occurred, he tried to calm himself. His hands were shaking after the adrenaline dump, and he felt like vomiting. He thought of his life here in the village, and the people who had accepted him among them, treated him as an equal. He thought of his wife Sera, gravid with their third child, who loved him unconditionally. He thought of Aep, the simple man from the country who had gotten in over his head, and had begged Jessie to spare his life just the night before. He looked at the inert body of Brama, shivering but still alive, and came to a realization, a crystallized thought forming in his head. There would be others coming. Jessie would have to send them a message. Walking back to where the fight had taken place, he retrieved his Kuku Mactan from the sand and approached Brama’s body. With deft slices and thrusts, he began stripping the clothes from him in long slashes. A whimper escaped Brama’s lips as he realized what Jessie intended, and he tried to raise his arms. Jessie swatted them back down

“Please”

“Sorry. Showing some mercy might’a earned you some. As it is, I’m fresh out.”

And then the screaming started.

When Jessie returned to his land, he was covered in blood and gore. His wounds were flayed open, and flies were gathering at them. He headed for the well, and doused himself in several bucketfuls of the cool water.

His wife was at the door of their pondok holding little Jessica, young Stevan peering out from behind her legs. She spoke to him in Sundanese, the language of her race. /What are we going to do? They will send more men./

Jessie looked into her eyes, seeing the fear and apprehension there. He hung his head, feeling despair overwhelm him. He had to get her and the kids away from here. This much death didn’t go unpunished, even in postwar Indonesia. Somebody’s head was gonna be on the chop, and what better prize than a white one? A bule’ trophy to be hung on some despot’s wall. There had to be something more. There had to be a sanctuary for them. Jessie raised his head and met his wife’s gaze.

/Pack some food and a few clothes. We’re leaving./

/Where can we go? The baby is due in a few weeks, and I cannot make a long journey./

/I have an idea. Trust me, I won’t let them find us./

Seeing the confidence in his eyes, Sera turned to obey him. Little Stevan looked up at his father with his large blue eyes. “Apa mau ke mana Pa?” /Father, where are we going?/

“Kita jalan-jalan saja.” /We’re just going to take a little trip./

Jessie had been stationed in Guam at the onset of World War II as a hangar mechanic. When the Japanese had hit the island he had lost most of his crew in a bombing attack on the airstrip, save one close friend who was also from another country: Bang Raja, the little Indonesian man who could fix anything with wings and couldn’t speak a word of English. After the Japanese attack on the island he and Bang had hidden in the jungle with the native Chamorro people, who helped them steal a small boat to sneak away in. Bang had steered them straight for Indonesia, and hid Jessie among his friends and family in the village of his birth. Jessie had figured to lay low in the Archipelago until he could reconnect with his country’s military, or find another way home to America. Ultimately, Jessie decided he had seen enough of war and bloodshed, and stayed in Indonesia for 15 years and cultivated his lifestyle to Indonesian standards. He loved it here. He had married an Indonesian woman, had children with her. He settled in a small fishing village off the coast of the Java sea, and lived a full life rich with simple rewards of happiness until these troubled times had found him.

And he had a place to go. The village he went to when he had arrived in Indonesia, fleeing both the Japanese and the American military. The village where he was first induced to Indonesian culture and life, where he was accepted as one of them. The village of his old friend, and first Pencak Silat teacher, Bang Raja.

The village of the mystical Badui tribe. Those people whom no outsider was allowed to see, nobody who wasn’t from the village was allowed past the barrier at the bottom of the mountain their village was located on. For over 200 years no outsider had ever seen or set foot on Badui lands. Except Jessie Peel, the adopted son of the Badui tribe. It was a fair travel from Kampong Losari to the outer reaches of Bogor, but he knew these roads and trails. He knew where they would look, and what routes he would be expected to take. They were men of the city, he was a Southern country boy in a jungle he had known for over a decade. They would be watching, waiting for that critical mistake. They would be waiting a long time.

Major General Suharto studied the scene. He felt like vomiting, and after two decades of fighting both the Dutch and the Japanese it took a lot to get him to that point. He fought to keep it from showing on his face in front of the men. The Major General had arrived the morning following Jessie’s fight with a small party of 30 soldiers, scouring the countryside for Dutch sympathizers. Since he was granted a wide range of powers as President Soekarno’s top aid he could indulge in a small side trip outside the regiment’s current scope.

He had a score to settle with an old enemy, and the time was upon him to do it.

Upon arrival at Losari village Suharto was greeted by several bad omens. The first had been bodies strewn across the beach, gulls and crabs feasting on their remains. From the contortion of some of the corpses Suharto could tell that they had encountered a master Silat player. Jessie had been here all right. The man with his head splattered on the rocks had been a mystery, though. Guns were near impossible to get, and after so much work done barehanded it didn’t seem to fit. The position of the body indicated that the man was shot from behind. That would mean that his killer was firing at him as he tried to flee the area. As much as Suharto hated Jessie Peel, he had to admit: This didn’t sound like him.

Moving through the huts and homes, Suharto noticed a plume of smoke rising to the sky, visible for miles. A fire, then. Black smoke. Another bad omen.

As they approached the southernmost edge of the village several of the soldiers were stunned into momentary silence at the scene in front of them. The hut Jessie had lived in had been burned to the ground, as well as the small field of crops. The goat pen had been torched, and all the goats inside had either died of smoke inhalation or just burned to death. The smell of rot coupled with the stench of burning flesh was overpowering, and several of the men gagged and turned away, trying to regain their composure. But the worst was in the shade just on the outer edge of the nearby woods.

Jessie had hung the commander of the first scouting party, Brama, upside-down and naked on a large wooden gate from the goat pen. There were layers of skin sliced away, organs hanging from his distended belly, and his purple, swollen tongue was protruding from his mouth, the surrounding lips cracked and parched. His eyes were still wide open, and there was every indication that he had died of fright.

His genitals were missing.

The thighs had convex slices on the inside, and several of the wounds were indicative of a curved blade. The surrounding wounds were very familiar to Suharto, he had seen them many times before while fighting the Dutch and the Japanese. He had inflicted many of them himself.

These cuts were administered by a Pencak Silat adept with a Kuku Mactan.

Suharto’s own Kuku Mactan was strapped to his side, the twin of Jessie Peel’s. They had been given to both of them upon graduation of the Pencak Silat Padepokan that both had attended over as decade ago. Where they had trained together and grown together. Where they had shared meals, chores and dreams of grandeur. And ultimately where they had shared enmity. Jessie wasn’t trapped by the surrounding culture, and his mind could assimilate the physical knowledge quicker than most of the other students. Soon, only the Maha Guru could best him. Suharto had trained twice as hard and long into the night after class was over to gain an advantage, but Jessie’s longer reach had given a slight advantage over the smaller Indonesians, and allowed him to keep Suharto at a distance while he could hit and counter him at ease. Blasting through Jessie’s guard at the entry was no good because Jessie wasn’t unskilled at close range tactics either, those elbows and knees coming around Suharto’s defenses and utilized like punches and kicks until he set you up for a sweep or body drop. Although Jessie had meant no malice towards his fellow students and always tried to get along with everybody, that easy smile and light chuckle he always gave made him a target for Suharto.

The only American in the school, Jessie was frequently mistaken for a Dutchman, and was given much preferential treatment among their society while the Dutch were in power. Suharto always had to use the rear door to public buildings, as well as defer to Jessie in class as a senior in his own art. Suharto was enraged when they had been given identical weapons, and the ultimate slap had come when Peel had vied for the daughter of the Maha Guru, and he had been given consent to marry her.

Major General Suharto could never bring himself to accept that. An Indonesian wanita, married to that… white thing. Suharto was disgusted. This could not be the will of Allah. It must be a test.

Throughout the war with the Dutch Suharto had never forgotten his hated American nemesis, and as soon as independence from Dutch rule was declared, decided to pull this thorn from his honor before continuing with his own plans for advancement. This was a score he intended to settle, and it had festered in him for years until he had a holocaust burning in his heart.

Looking over the still-smoking remains of the hut, he knew that Jessie Peel’s long reach had saved him once again. “Bismallah, I had forgotten how good you were. I was blinded by my hatred of you and your kind. Hubris is not a luxury I can afford right now.” Suharto’s eyes fell on the hasty, yet rudely sincere message scrawled in Arabic script on the dirt: “Leave me alone”.

A lieutenant approached him and saluted. “I will begin a mounted search of the surrounding areas. If he travels with his Isteri, then he couldn’t have gotten far. Probably, he is still within 10 miles of here.”

“No, let it alone. It ended here, and that’s what we will say.”

“Forgive my impertinence Bapak, but is that wise? The bule’ has committed the sin of murder, is it not the will of Allah that this infidel be punished? He must be weakened after that fight, and cannot travel fast. Surely we have borne his kind of filth long enough. We must pursue now or we risk losing him the density of the jungle!”

Suharto closed his eyes. Some people just couldn’t learn without losing a vital body part, and even then the odds were just too great that they would still die screaming something like, “I didn’t know that would happen!” Apparently, he had been cursed to command a whole regiment of them. Allah, why was he punished so? It must be a last insult from Jessie Peel.

“No, we will not pursue nor shall we seek punishment, for if it were the will of Allah then Allah would have willed it to the two groups we sent in the first place! Do you think me so stupid as to cover one bad mistake with an even greater one? Have you no eyes with which to see the evidence of destruction that we now stand in the middle of? If you chase him, men will die. If you find him, men will die. If you corner him, men will die.” The lieutenant’s jaw was hanging open, and there was a shocked look on his face. He had never seen the Major General so…unraveled. Suharto realized he was screeching, and paused to regain his composure. “And if you harm his family in any way, MANY men will certainly die. You will be among them. More importantly, so will I. No, he’s gone. Gather your men, this is done.”

As the scouting party regrouped and resumed their mission, Suharto scanned the tree line from horseback. Yes, Jessie was gone. He could bury it here. There were other things that were demanding of his attention now, and a path he would walk as well.

Jessie Peel was never heard from again, nor was there ever any evidence to convince Major General Suharto (who would later stage a military coup and usurp the Indonesian presidency from Soekarno) Jessie even lived for long after fleeing his home in Losari village. But from time to time he would take down his old weathered Kuku Mactan, now on a display rack in his study, and remember the one person who had continually eluded his grasp. He would think of how close he might have come to either his revenge or his destruction, and wonder if he would have achieved both simultaneously at the hands of Jessie Peel.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY STEVE!!!