The Bones of the Mountain, the Blood of the Sea--The Story Tole
Tole’s first memory was sound. Not the sea’s gentle lapping on Molas beach or the coconut fronds whispering in the tinoor wind, but a sharp, percussive crack that split the humid afternoon. It was 1958, and he was four. His mother, Ma' Sartje , dropped her wooden pestle, swept him from the dirt, and ran for the shelter of their bamboo house. Another crack followed, then a low, shuddering boom that seemed to rise from the earth itself—the sound of a world breaking. His grandfather, Opa Elias, did not run. He stood on the beranda , knotted hands resting on the railing, eyes fixed on the city of Manado and the wide Celebes Sea. His sun-creased face was unreadable. “The giants are arguing again, Tole,” he said later, drawing the boy onto his lap. The familiar scents of clove tobacco and earth clung to his shirt. “They shake the mountains when they are angry.” “Giants?” Tole asked, wide-eyed. “Ee, giants,” Opa Elias nodded, lighting his pipe. Smoke curled upward like script in ...