Chapter 1

“Arsalan Yuliandi”

The man's accent is thick with sour annoyance. Understandable given the dense smoke curling up from a horrific crater of the volcano and the sweaty men swearing at brutal heat. 

“You caught me... here!” I say. A simple, but quite effective use of words trying at an attempt to lighten the air a bit.

A few chuckles arise from sick lips to conjoin with the smoke. 

The man, atop a stubby but ridged rock, does not laugh, or even slip a grin. He just forms his lips into a snarl, aimed straight at me. I choose to ignore the sign, and slowly merge again, into silence.

“And…” he hesitates, probably fearing for the newly enlisted boy on the list. “Pak Yuliandi.”

Whispers and grunts erupt from the crowd. Little Pak looks at me, fearful eyes piercing into mine. I smile with fake courage and pat his innocent shoulders gingerly, apologetically. 

The man then gives a “move along” signal, pointing towards the ledge. The group huddles towards looped ropes and nails, carrying they’re makeshift pickaxes, and hunching over, nailing them in until secure.

I grab one myself, having to drop my pickaxe, and start striking the battered nail hurriedly, and hard. My boy follows my every move curiously peeling every detail, and putting them together again. I stop, satisfied with the work I’ve finished. I turn and reach out for Pak’s hand, soft fingers striking my tired rough ones. I tug him towards the ledge and finally let go when he stands only inches away from it, gripping a wooden handle tightly.

Men start to descend from their sites, urging me to get a move on. I take the rope and double knot it around Pak’s skinny waist, then I pull out two balls of ripped fabric from my worn cargo pants. I glide over to the water hose and let it wet the fabric until they’re moist to the touch. I carry them back to my site, where my little boy is standing, about to become a hard-head soldier for the gunung berapi. 

I turn him towards me, seeing his disheartened face, and realizing what a fool I am for allowing a young boy, my son, to enter a tomb that brings death.

“You’ll be fine Pak.” His eyes tear up. I choke. “For Allah watches over you.” His expression turns kinder, less frightened. He nods, and I nod back. Then I say “Come come!” and tie myself to the rope, and pray to Allah that this rope will not fail to hold my weight yet again, as I descend over the ledge with Pak.