Chapter 1

            Tono knew before he let his arrow fly that it would miss its mark. Sure enough, as the scrawny hare he had tracked through the jungle sprang from its alcove under the thick brush, Tono released his arrow and watched miserably as it arced through the air and buried its head in the soft earth where the hare had been but a second ago.

            “Too late that time.” Tono glanced over his shoulder at his father, Amir, who stood coolly a few feet behind him, sun-bronzed arms crossed over his broad chest. Tono fixed his eyes on the red flame tattoo on his father’s chest, the sign of an accomplished warrior. “You need to be quicker,” he continued in his deep, rumbling voice. “A true hunter is swift to react.”
            Tono groaned inwardly. It was the same every time. He’d done the best of his ability. He’d focused on the rabbit and its movements through the whole hunt, filling his mind with his concentration until all else was pushed below him. As he did on every hunt, he’d watched the hare’s every motion and stood ready with his arrow knocked to the bowstring. He strove to step as quietly as his father did, his muscles knotting in an effort to keep from coming down too quickly. He stored away every word his father said and remembered them on each hunt. He was sure he’d followed his father’s ever instruction and was nearly as sure that he’d done everything correct.

            And yet he still couldn’t get it right.

            “Here,” Amir said forbearingly. He stepped through the foliage, retrieved the arrow, and picked his way back to where Tono stood. Wearily Tono took the arrow back and thanked his father halfheartedly.

            “Come,” his father encouraged. “Let us try again. There will always be another hare in these forests.”

            Tono watched his father glide silently through the forest, as swiftly and noiselessly as the panthers that haunted the jungle. He tried to mimic Amir’s steps, but could only do so slowly, and quickly fell behind.

            “Come, son,” his father called. Tono quickened his pace �" but then winced as a twig fractured piercingly beneath his bare feet. He was lighter and slimmer than his father; why wouldn’t his legs work as silently?

            Soon they came to a thicket of tightly tangled ferns and vines. Amir gestured for Tono to take up his position, and slipped off into the underbrush, leaving Tono alone.

            What to do?

            Tono knocked an arrow to his bowstring. Holding it ready, he crept behind a low-growing bush. Much to his delight, he hardly made any sound. From this angle, he could just barely see a fat hare foraging in the thicket. The vines would obstruct his arrow from finding its mark, but it was so close and entirely unaware of his presence… With a surge of hope, Tono crouched, positioned his bow, and set his sights on the glossy hide behind the screen of brambles.

            But the seconds ticked away silently, and the hare did not emerge. Tono struggled to maintain his concentration. There was a chattering overhead �" a bowerbird, by the sound of it. He resisted the urge to glance up and admire its glossy golden plumage through the tree canopy. Tono’s shoulder began to ache from holding the bowstring taut. The aching soon turned to agony as another minute passed, and another. Tono lowered the bow, rubbed his shoulder to loosen the muscle, and raised it again. He tried to keep his eyes trained on the tawny pelt of the hare through the curtain of brambles. A mosquito flitted before his eyes. Distractedly, he swatted it away with his bow. It persisted in buzzing around his head, threatening to sting. Tono swung his bow back and forth at it.

            The mosquito danced away with a mocking hum. Tono reached out with his bow to give it a final swat, hoping to kill it for good �" and lost his balance. He tottered off his feet and landed heavily on one elbow. A twig snapped deafeningly under his weight. The sound hammered in his head as Tono despairingly scrambled to position his arrow.

            But it was too late. The hare, startled, had fled from his view almost before he had raised his bow. Vainly he let it fly in the general direction that the hare had gone. But of course, naturally, he missed by a mile.

            Oh, how hated hunting.

            Amir emerged soundlessly from the trees. Tono knew he was disappointed, although Amir certainly did his best to hide it. He hoped Amir wouldn’t decide to go after yet another hare. Tono was sick of hunting. His constant failures were both demeaning to his own dignity and to the pride of his father. He hated to disappoint him so often, but he couldn’t help it. He hadn’t inherited his father’s talents.

            Aching with remorse and guilt, Tono stared at his bare feet. He studied the moist soil beneath his feet, afraid to meet his father’s eyes and see the discontent in them.

            “The sun is setting,” Amir stated almost nonchalantly. Tono glanced up at the sky, gratified to see it fading into fiery golden hues above the leafy canopy overhead. “We must head home.”

            Tono was greatly relieved. He didn’t think he would have been able to stand one more hunt. But he was awash with guilt. He had failed his father again, like every other day for the last year. His father was a warrior, a man of courage and strength, to be respected and honored. He could kill so effortlessly that often his speed and ease frightened Tono. He could pull down the largest panther with a quiver full of arrows, or defeat a foe within a minute with a single, well-placed spear. And yet his son, Tono, could not even hunt.

            Tono didn’t speak through the whole hour-long trek back home.

            As soon as the pair entered the village, Tono’s heart sank even lower. As a child, he had loved his village. He’d been frightened by the creatures of the tropical Indonesian jungle in which he lived. Every time he ventured into the deeper parts of the forest, the slightest sound would send him fleeing back to the village. It was a sanctuary of warmth, friends, and boundless joys. The village was occupied by his entire tribe, a hundred warriors strong. It stood in a small clearing surrounded on one side by the jungle and on the other with a forest of bamboo. Several bamboo huts were clustered around a main campfire where the tribe members, men and women and children alike, spent evenings sharing stories.

            But the village wasn’t his haven anymore.

            At age fourteen, he should have been able to hunt as well as his father long ago. He felt his cheeks grow hot with disgrace, felt their loathsome eyes trained on him, the hopeless boy who came home empty-handed each day. The other boys were already bringing down game every day, helping supply their families with food. They stared at Tono with cold, sneering eyes, whispering and pointing. They passed a boy merely ten seasons old, proudly showing his gratifying mother the hare he’d shot. Amir placed his arm protectively around Tono’s shoulders and kept walking unaffectedly straight on. Tono shunned their mocking faces and hastily made his way into his hut.

            Inside the sturdy bamboo hut, Tono found a bit of comfort. His mother, Ani, sat near a small pot that was stewing away above a small flame, stirring its contents with a stick. Upon his entrance, she looked up and gave him one of her light, warm smiles that had always made Tono think of the radiant sun. He managed a crooked smile back.

            A little hand tugged at his finger. He squatted and grinned at his younger sister, Siti. At the naive, innocent age of six, she adored him as if he was a god of some sort.

            “Tono go hunt?” she asked sweetly. Tono scrambled for something to say.

            “Yes, I went hunting,” he replied carefully, deliberately omitting the rather important fact that he hadn’t caught anything.

            Siti giggled and raised her arms, asking to be lifted. Tono hoisted her up onto his shoulders and paraded around the hut, making his mother laugh and Siti scream with delight. After a few more circles, Amir gently reminded them not to be so loud. Tono abruptly got the message and lowered Siti to the ground.

            Tono peered over Amir’s shoulder at the little angelic child that lay swathed in cloths in the bed at the corner of the hut. Sri, the baby of the family. Tono was relieved to find that she’d slept through their racket.

            A few minutes later, the four of them �" Amir, Ani, Siti, and Tono �" sat down on the level dirt ground. They always ate together, sharing the day’s news and discussing tribe issues. Ani’s stew was delicious, but the tender, tantalizing chunks of venison in it only seemed to remind Tono of his inability to hunt. He couldn’t swallow.

            Tono sighed and saw with a start that Amir was staring at him. His eyes were filled with sympathy, but he said sternly, “Eat, son. You need to keep your strength up.”

            Obediently, Tono tried to gulp down some stew, but it stuck in his throat. He forced it down.
            Seeing his distressed face, Amir sighed. “Never mind, son. You can finish later.”

            Tono gratefully set his bowl down and wiped his mouth with his arm. Ani had collected Sri and held her in her arms with Siti at her side, both waiting at the door to go to the evening campfire. Amir stood and beckoned for Tono to follow. Then he slipped outside. Reluctantly, Tono followed them to the heart of the village, trailing behind. His feet dragged in the dust. The other boys avoided his dust cloud, glaring and coughing when he came too near. Good. Let them stay away. It wasn’t as if they had any appreciation for him at all.

            People were already congregating in a wide circle around the crackling bonfire. They mulled about, exchanging tidbits of news and stories. Ani slipped away with some other mothers to chat, and Siti ran off with her friends in a game of chase. Tono stood awkwardly, surrounded by people talking. Fortunately, they ignored him for the most part. As the sun sank below the horizon and the sky grew dark, the people quieted and sat down. Tono found Amir and sat down beside him.

            One man rose. He was old and gnarled, but stood as straight and tall as Tono’s father. He was adorned with deeply colored robes and dazzling trinkets and necklaces and bracelets. His chest displayed dozens of tattoos and battle scars. The tribe hushed in reverence and honor of their chief.

            The chief moved to the center of the circle, behind the fire. The necklaces and jewelry tinkled and swished as he walked, but his footsteps made no sound.

            “Brothers and sisters and children,” he proclaimed in his deep, booming voice that commanded authority. “We have come together this night with great joy, for the dawn that brings tomorrow will bring a great honor to our tribe. Each boy of fourteen years will undergo a test promoting him from boy to man. And we will be honored with a great many more warriors to protect us and our families.”

            Tono’s heart sank. How had he forgotten about the ceremony?

            The tribe cheered gloriously, especially the young boys. Every boy dreamt of the man-boy ceremony for years. To become a man meant being capable, being strong, being grown.

            The roars of the tribe throbbed in Tono’s ears. He wished the night would never end, that tomorrow would never come.

            The chief was speaking again, calling forth the priests and priestesses of the tribe. The sacred priests and priestesses, dressed in blazing colors and wearing wooden masks, leapt up and danced about the fire, chanting and singing an eerie song. A piper took up his flute and began a slow, eerie song. Soon the whole tribe had taken up the rhythm of the dance and chanted along with them. To Tono, the music was only noise, mocking him.

            “For the blessing of all our men and boys!” cried a priestess, sprinkling a powder into the fire. The flames burst upwards in a bright flash of fire, and then receded to their normal height.

            “For the blessing of all our men and boys!” the tribe echoed.

            “For the courage of our warriors!” a priest called. He was over the fire in a mighty leap and slid a log of the darkest wood Tono had ever seen into the bonfire. Instantly smoke filled the circle and coiled upwards into the sky.

            “For the courage of our warriors!” the tribe echoed.

            The fire blazed on. The priests and priestesses raced around the fire in an ever-tightening circle. The flutist played faster and faster. When they were near enough, they locked hands and circled the fire with increasing speed. At intervals in the music, a priest would scatter herbs and powders into the fire, and the crowd would cheer.

            “The gods have heard us!” the priests shouted.

            “The gods will guard our men and boys!” the priestesses shouted.

            The crowd roared.

            The priests danced and sang in a circle, rattling gourds and leaping about the flickering fire. A priestess seized a stick off the ground and began drawing symbols in the earth with it, swaying and moaning with the music.

            Tono, sickened, turned his head away. The eerie masks of the priests and priestesses, and the horrifying noises that they were making, didn’t seem holy to him at all. But it was the will of the gods, he supposed. And so when the tribe rose to their feet to circle the fire, he stood with them and moved with the flow of excited people.

            It was quite dark and very late when at last an exhausted but relieved Tono followed his father back into his hut. Once Sri and Siti had been put to bed, Tono crawled into his sleeping skin and closed his eyes.

            But sleep wouldn’t come to him. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the fire burning behind his eyelids, saw himself lining up for the manhood ceremony. He tossed and turned inside his sleeping sack. Tomorrow he would have to prove himself.

            But I’ve got nothing to prove, he thought. There’s nothing that will prove to anyone that I’m a man.

            Tono’s mind swirled with thoughts �" thoughts of fear and disgrace and guilt and anticipation. He hoped beyond hope that luck would tip in his favor and he might, by chance, pull down a stag in the jungle to show everyone that he was mature enough to be considered a man. But what if he didn’t? What if he returned empty-handed to the village after a day of hunting, like he did every day? He’d never even killed a rabbit before, and even if he did tomorrow, a dead hare would hardly promote him to a man. What to do, what to do? He had to think of something. Amir had planned to teach him how to build a boat, but Tono had kept putting it off, for fear that he would fail miserably at building, too. Now he wished he had at least tried it. Then he wouldn’t be so clueless now. If he wasn’t promoted to manhood, what would be thought of him then? What would be thought of his father? His father, the honorable warrior whose son couldn’t hunt? The disgrace was unbearable. He couldn’t fail.

            Oh, how could he have forgotten the ceremony of manhood?

            At some point in Tono’s ponderings, fatigue must have gotten the better of him and he must have fallen asleep, because the next thing he knew, he was waking up.