Chapter One

      May 1989

       The False Prophet

      Shimmering, layered-mirages accompanied the windless, cloudless sky as the land below surrendered to the heat of the day, the once-fertile, but now cracked and spoiled paddy-fields silent evidence of the pestilence which had overtaken the scorched countryside. Rodents, grasshoppers, snakes and other unpleasant residents occupied their temporary haven, revelling in the absence of their natural enemy, man, content to feed in the shadows of his disaster.

      Blistering sun burned its way through the dry, volcanic soil, leaving fields of desperation, barren because of nature’s irreversible effects. The land had become desolate; the farmers feared the one responsible they had come to know as El Nino as they struggled to preserve their beliefs, praying that this unwelcome stranger would soon depart their land, and permit their lesser gods to return. It was as if some angry stranger had cast a giant, unyielding, suffocating net across the nation. It would seem certain that they would all perish.

      The seasons had become confused. Without warning, persistent, dry, equatorial skies tormented when there should have been rain. Evening storms, which once signaled the Pancaroba, mysteriously vanished, taking with them their thunderous cries which heralded the fall of life-giving rain. These ominous signs cast doubt, then fear, as the fertile valleys of Java became dry, and the descendants of those who had migrated to the tropical paradise millenniums before, suddenly became afraid as their beliefs failed, and their gods deserted them.

      As the winds of change swept through remnants of these ancient Javanese kingdoms once known as Nusantara, there were those who were reminded of the Twelfth Century prophecies of Joyoboyo, and his predictions of the five kings.

      “The kingdom of Java would be subjected to claim by a fair-skinned race. The first of two kings would rise and lead his people from their four centuries of serfdom. Another would be born at that time to release the people from their spiritual bondage. A third would appear from the shadows, as a thief in the night, and feed his family from the fat of the land. Then, in chaos, a weak prince, not of their blood, would be anointed by others to stand in their place.

      As the kingdom languished in its abyss of darkness, a fifth king would emerge, demanding his rightful place to lead his people through their troubled times. And with his presence, Nusantara would suffer great pestilence and sorrow, and the people would flee, the skies behind filled with a light so blinding, none but those who were evil would even consider remaining behind, in the once promised land.”

      * * * *

       Haji Abdul Muis

       In contemplative mood, Haji Abdul Muis examined the withered stalk, the half-formed husk evidence of another failed harvest. The Moslem leader cast his eyes slowly across the neglected fields, the midday heat distorting the scene with false promises of water, as a broken-layered mirage danced tantalizingly above the land. His land.

      He remained sitting on the dry, cracked mound, the pile of overgrown earth designating the boundary to his property. In the distance, settled half-hidden amongst a copse of coconut trees, sun-bleached, clay roofing-tiles indicated the presence of a house. His house.

      Surrounding hills, in days past covered with tall, majestic stands of teak timber, now stood denuded of their former glory, casting shadows of despair across the desolate farmland, and those who had stubbornly remained. Once, on the other side of the spur, a tranquil lake had nestled, filled with flocks of pelicans, visitors on their annual pilgrimage from distant lands. There wildlife had thrived amongst the wetland, fed by rivers filled by abundant rain. Then, when the population had finally reached unsustainable levels, and the effects of El Nino had burned, the water disappeared, lost to the sun and dry earth.

      * * * *

      Somewhere behind an engine came to life and Haji Abdul Muis instinctively glanced over his shoulder in the direction of the waiting Mercedes, aware that his driver would have engaged the air-conditioner in readiness for his return. He ignored the engine’s low, mechanical hum, turning back to savor this special moment in his life, observing the fields of promise spread out subserviently before him. He removed the deeds from inside his safari jacket, and read the contents aloud to his absent audience, his ears filled with the silent drum pounding heavily in his hate-filled chest.

      Abdul