Feeling no different from other women, Maimunah walked upright, back straight and chest out. Her long, curly hair danced to the swaying of her hips. She never held back her opinions. Toha began to fret because his daughter feared nothing. With her provocative walk, she could be raped by goons on her way home from bathing in the river. Now, in this peaceful village none of the lads were hooligans. But chaos could arrive with transients, like the gangs of criminals who wandered from forest to forest stealing, violating innocent girls and then vanishing. The sight of Maimunah’s wet tresses would surely make them lick their chops. And it was the end of the story for a girl if she lost her virginity.

At seventeen, Maimunah grew tired of being the centre of attention. She welcomed her admirers but soon grew bored with them in turn. They didn’t want to know anything about a woman beyond what was to be found inside her bra. Maimunah preferred to spend her time at the house of Aunt Icih. In her eyes, Aunt Icih possessed extraordinary knowledge. Every day she grappled with spread legs, the darkness of the womb, and clots of blood beneath women’s sarongs. Women living; women dying. From the shaman, Maimunah came to know how her mother had looked before death snatched her away.

‘Your mother said you’re beautiful like a firefly.’

‘Where can I see a firefly?’

‘I’ve never seen one myself, but your mother said a firefly dances in the graveyard.’

History repeated itself. Like Epon, Maimunah went to seek that sparkling creature. However, it was not a firefly that she met but Jaja, the cemetery watchman. He rarely showed himself as he was often mocked. He was a dwarf, only reaching Maimunah’s waist, dark-skinned and bald with a bristly moustache. Hair covered his stubby hands. The movements of his tiny body were so nimble that the village children dubbed him a giant rat. King Rat. The adults forbade their children to make fun of others because that was not the nature of the people of Cibeurit, but none of them were eager to linger with the watchman.

The first time he encountered Maimunah, Jaja simply looked up for a moment from the grave he was digging. He enjoyed his work so much that saliva would collect at the edges of his perpetually open mouth.

‘If you become a corpse, you will be just as ugly as me,’ Jaja said, wiping the spittle at the corner of his lips.

Perhaps because radiance didn’t dazzle Jaja, in the eyes of Maimunah he was more interesting than the youths of Cibeurit. Rotting meat fascinated the man more than fresh meat. While Aunt Icih held the secret of life behind the stained red of women’s sarongs, Jaja knew of all that was destroyed, decayed and porous. He possessed the key to the world of the dead.