attack, simply by arming his nation with the technology offered by his new allies, Iran, Iraq and Osama bin Ladam.
* * * *
As Muis sat pondering the future, his thoughts were interrupted by the distant cry of a bird as it winged its way across his field of vision. He looked up, surprised, and identified the fierce, black shape, then stood, waving his arms and shouting as the crow balked and changed direction.
Although devoutly religious, Muis’ childhood had been peppered with village superstition. The despised crow not only wreaked havoc during harvest, and terrified children with their deep-throated cries, their presence was associated with evil and peasant folklore warned that these black couriers carried messages from the damned.
Unhappy with the ominous sign, Muis frowned, undertaking to have the local dukun conduct a selamatan to cleanse his property of any evil spirits before the first stone to his retreat had been laid. With that , Haji Abdul Muis strolled back to the waiting car and returned to the splendid mansion that was his in Surabaya.
Chapter Two
New York – April 1996
Mary Jo Hunter
‘Where ya goin, Lady?’ the cabby asked, stretching to catch a better glimpse of Mary Jo’s long, fine legs as she climbed into the back of the vehicle, her nostrils immediately offended by the stale, lingering odors of those who had gone before. Her baggage had been flung carelessly into the trunk, the sloppily dressed driver’s smirk already annoying Mary Jo from the moment he had arrived to take her to the airport.
‘Hong Kong,’ she answered, checking her carry-on case again for reassurance. Her hand settled on the document folder containing her passport and she relaxed slightly.
‘First time?’ he tried, his eyes glancing into the rear vision mirror admiringly.
‘Yes,’ Mary Jo responded, hoping the conversation would stop there.
‘Traveling alone?’ he inquired, impertinently, but she took no offense, half-expecting the driver to make small talk. Having lived and worked in New York’s aggressive environment for several years, Mary Jo had soon fallen into step with other residents, her smooth, well-mannered, small-town response a thing of the past.
‘Maybe,’ she said, the driver’s eyes darting to the mirror again, wisely accepting the hint. Mary Jo leaned back as the taxi jerked its way through the Midtown traffic, contemplating what lay ahead. She was on her way to JFK and her posting to the S.E. Asia bureau. She thought about the long haul, eager to get under way, in no way daunted by the twenty-four hour flight on United to Hong Kong.
Mary Jo’s thoughts were distracted by the occupant of a car traveling alongside and she smiled, observing a young woman sitting confidently 23
Kerry B. Collison
alone in the rear, her appearance reminding Mary Jo of when she had first left home in pursuit of her dreams. Then, she frowned as the image of her mother waving goodbye intruded and she recalled with some sadness that there had been no tears, only excitement and relief that she had finally managed to escape her suffocating surrounds.
This brief recollection triggered other memories sending Mary Jo back to early childhood and, as the cabby fell into silence, her mind wandered back in time.
* * * *
Mary Jo had been an only child. The exhilaration of the Sixties and her mother’s determination to maintain her liberated status, had resulted in her parents separating before her sixth birthday. She had remained with her mother in Ohio, the memory of her father’s departure deeply affecting her mind.
Mary Jo had been thoroughly confused by the absence of her father, her mother refusing to acknowledge any questions as to where he had gone.
She missed him greatly, the void in her life immeasurable after he had left.
The memory of him sitting on her bed at night, holding her hand, reading stories of faraway places and filling her mind with wonders as she drifted off to sleep, filled her eyes with tears. Mary Jo yearned for the warmth of his strong, comforting arms she remembered so well and his deep, but soft, reassuring voice.
For months after his departure, Mary Jo had cried herself to sleep at night, brokenhearted that he could have abandoned her so. Alone with her strong-willed mother, she had done little else but cry. Then, after what seemed to have been an eternity, he returned.
On that day, Mary Jo had arrived home early from school to find her father sitting in their kitchen. Her heart had skipped a beat, and she had run across the small room banging her knee painfully against the door of an open cupboard. She remembered throwing herself up into his strong open arms and burying her head deep into his chest, his reassuring words comforting the pain of her bruised limb.
But he had not returned to stay. When Mary Jo overheard her parents argue, she had feared the worst. Suddenly he was gone again, the overwhelming, fearful emptiness which followed even greater than before.
Another year passed, and Mary Jo had come to believe that her father had deserted them forever when, unannounced, he amazingly reappeared.
Against her mother’s vitriolic protestations, he had carried Mary Jo off to the movies, his unforgivable absences immediately forgotten as she hugged him close, in a moment filled with joy.
That night, her father had tucked her into bed and read as he had done so many times before. With his hand gently stroking her head, his voice carried Mary Jo away on a familiar journey, the story of the Great Wall amongst her favorites. She remembered how she had visualized herself as part of the scene, walking hand in hand with her father along the forever-winding, man-made miracle through the mountains, the familiar resonance of his voice a delight, the images of Genghis and Kublai Khan no longer of frightening concern. She recalled begging him to promise to stay, his response, another hollow commitment to return. When she awoke the following morning, he was gone.
Two more years passed before Mary Jo saw his face again; this time, as he was passing through. She found the painful infrequency of her father’s visits bewildering, recollections of how he looked slowly fading in her mind, until his face eventually resembled nothing more than a blur in an occasional dream. Finally, her father disappeared from their lives forever.
Her mother refused all mention of his name, and with time, Mary Jo learned not to care, and accepted that he would never return.
* * * *
At first, Mary Jo had not really excelled at school, lacking motivation and the necessary concentration. Often, as the teacher’s lulling, monotonous tones would cast their spell, her mind would wander, day-dreams carrying her away to distant lands and peoples, whose faces she had seen captured in still-life photographs. Her favorites were those found amongst their neighbor’s National Geographic magazines, the reason she spent more time there than in her own home. Mary Jo would often sit for hours examining their collection, her hands moving across the amazing photographs, touching mountains and valleys as she imagined herself part of the wondrous scenes.
At fourteen, when their neighbors moved to California, Mary Jo joined the local library to satisfy her inquisitive mind. There she discovered an even greater world, the science of photography, her interest in still-art forms leading her to an inevitable conclusion. Having pestered
