Where the Gods Live

By M. E. Proctor

Mark hated mass tourism. My boyfriend was a zealous backpacker. He preferred the French word routard, because it implied roads less traveled and adventure under the soles of his hiking boots. We’d been in Indonesia ten days, traveling by bus and train, sleeping in modest guest houses, eating street food, and avoiding selfie snappers. That was fine by me, I didn’t need plush comfort. I wanted to see the historical sites, though. We were in Yogyakarta—Jogja—an hour away from the temple of Borobudur, and I planned to visit, even if it meant rubbing shoulders with hordes of tourists.

“Is it worth it, Lisa?” Mark made a face.

“Trust me. It’s not to be missed.”

I booked us on the smallest bus tour I could find. Ten passengers, a guide, and the driver. Even Mark wouldn’t call that a crowd. We left early and arrived at the temple at daybreak before visitors swarmed. We had the wide terraces pretty much to ourselves. I had seen pictures and thought I knew what to expect. The bell-shaped stupas and the hundreds of statues of Buddha blew me away. Mark was equally impressed.

“I’m glad we came,” he said. “The light is amazing at sunrise. And with the mist…” For once, he was speechless.

Our tour’s next stop was the Dieng Plateau and its Hindu temples built in a volcano caldera. I’d gotten used to the tropical heat and humidity, but this was a different world. High up and biting cold. Gray, brown, and desolate. A handful of lakes like brightly colored jewels added to the eerie feel. I covered my nose, but there was no escaping the stench of rotten eggs in the air. The visit to Borobudur had filled me with joy and peace; the temple sang of beauty under the calm smile of Buddha. Here, an undertone of disquiet, a vague sense of menace tugged at my nerves. The silence was ominous.

Mark went exploring on his own, and I was glad to be left alone. I watched the clouds scratch the peaks of the surrounding volcanoes, saw their tendrils meet the vapor coming from the lakes and the cracks in the ground. I ran my fingers over the blood-red lichen that pockmarked the temple walls, and thought of the people who used to worship here.

The deep rumble of an engine broke my contemplation. A big tour bus pulled up behind our tiny one, and a large group flooded out. I walked around the main temple where the tourists were likely to gather, and went to look for Mark. I almost bumped into another visitor.

“Are you lost?” The man half-smiled.

His eyes were the bluest I’d ever seen. His long dark hair was gathered in a ponytail. I couldn’t picture him stepping off that bus with the gaggle of middle-aged sightseers now clustered around a guide armed with a green flag.

“Why would I be lost?”

“The mist, the vapors … They do strange things to people. They make them forget where they are.”

I pointed at the tourists standing next to the Arjuna temple. “Maybe that’s why they stick close to the guide.”

He chuckled. “It may not save them. Poisonous gas killed a bunch of people here in the late seventies. Shiva is not always benevolent.”

I remembered reading something in my travel guide, about an eruption and toxic emissions. “The volcanoes aren’t rumbling today. We’re safe.”

“Who is ever safe?”

“Now, that’s a reassuring thought.” The pervasive smell made me cough. I extended my hand. “I’m Lisa.”

“Hara.”

“Nice meeting you, Harry. I hope you enjoy your visit.” I checked my phone. Ten minutes before our bus was scheduled to depart. “I have to go. Gotta find my boyfriend before he tumbles into the lake.”

As if I had summoned him, Mark appeared behind a ruin. I waved. “There he is.”

The man gave me a little bow and flashed a quick smile. “It’s been a pleasure. Safe travels, Lisa. Goodbye.”

A part of me regretted the conversation was over so soon.

“Who’s the dude in the ponytail?” Mark asked.

“He’s from the big bus. We were talking about the gas from the volcanic activity. There’s a lot of stuff brewing and bubbling under our feet.”

“Tell me about it. When I climbed that hill over there, I thought I’d need an oxygen boost.”

“You wish we’d stayed in Jogja?”

He made a sweeping gesture at the caldera. “There’s magic around here.” He wrapped an arm around my waist. “If you want to show me more ruins, I’m game.”

“These ones are hard to top. Do you know that Dieng means place of the gods?”

He wrinkled his nose. “They must not mind the stink.”

The next morning, we hopped on a plane to Sulawesi for the final week of our trip. The island was everything Mark dreamed of. Remote villages, hikes in the rainforest, and too much palm wine, especially on our last night in Makassar.

I was packing for our flight home when Mark flipped on the TV in our hotel room.

“Lisa. Look at that.” He pointed at the screen.

The CNN news ticker. Poisonous gas kills 58 on Dieng Plateau.

The accident happened seven days ago. The day we were there. I remembered the tourists from the big bus and the guide with the green flag.

And Harry… His blue eyes and our conversation.

“Man,” Mark said, “if we’d booked a later tour…”

I wasn’t listening to him. I was searching online for a victims’ list.

There was one, on The Straits Times website.

No Harry, Harold, or Henry among the victims. I sat on the bed, relieved.

Mark slept in the seat next to me on the long flight from Singapore. The inflight magazine crossword puzzle was open in my lap.

Four letters. Sanskrit for Shiva the Destroyer.

I had to look it up.

Hara.

His name wasn’t Harry.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

M. E. Proctor is currently writing a series of contemporary detective novels. The first book Street Song comes out from TouchPoint Press in 2023. Her short stories have been published in Vautrin, Bristol Noir, Pulp Modern, Mystery Tribune, Reckon Review, Shotgun Honey and others. She lives in Livingston, Texas

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