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The tour guide was boring. He led a group of seventeen people – twelve grownups, five kids – towards the rocky hill in the distance, ignorant of the huffs and puffs of aunties and uncles who just wanted to take nice pictures at a UNESCO World Heritage Site.

Putri had thankfully worn comfortable shoes. They were dusty from her travels through the archipelago, but the silver stars on the outsides still glittered brilliantly in the waning light. She had heard her older sister saying something about it being golden hour, and if she was more like Puspita, maybe she would care. At nine years old though, she just wanted to get there already.

Their family had been in and out of fancy hotels, tiny airports, and cramped buses for two weeks. Putri missed Jakarta, her maids and drivers and spacious back seats. Her father had decided to take the whole group on a tour of the country they called home, and if it meant skipping school, she would plaster a smile on her face for the rest of the trip.

Besides, the food was really, really good. There had been babi guling in Bali, ayam penyet in Surabaya, and recently, guleg in Yogyakarta. The endless mosquito bites were worth her satisfied belly.

They rounded a corner on the cement path. Both her aunties gasped and pulled out their phones from thin air, snapping photos with a feverishness that bordered on insanity.

“No, Mama, I don’t want a picture,” her six-year-old cousin, Rama whined. “It’s so hot! Can we get some ice cream?”

“We’ll get ice cream after we visit the site, okay?” Uncle Andi cajoled, miming to his baby daughter to make her laugh. “Just another hour.”

“An hour?” Rama exclaimed.

Putri was already several metres away, motivated by the sight of Borobudur Temple.

Her vocabulary wasn’t very big, but she had recently learned the meaning of the word majestic. Borobudur was that. And more.

A towering thirty-five meters above ground, with nine levels and a gigantic dome at the very top, the temple beckoned to all who visited its sacred grounds. The tour guide had mentioned rows of perforated stupas, whatever those were, and thousands of reliefs, whatever those were.

To Putri, Borobudur was, in simple words: beautiful. She had seen Tanah Lot in Bali and Prambanan just yesterday, but this place…

Voices carried in the wind from the temple heights. Of love, family, laughter. Putri’s eye’s were drawn to the walls, the carved drawings – the reliefs – she was beginning to discern. There was a tug on her heart that wanted her to step closer, closer, and closer still.

“Putri!” her mother called out. “Don’t go too far!”

“Just let her go, Saras,” she heard her dad say. “We can still see her.”

“Can I go with you?” Rama said at her shoulder.

“Gross. No,” Putri snapped. “What happens if you fall?”

“I won’t fall, I promise!” Rama insisted just as he tripped on a loose stone.

Putri raised her eyebrows, crossing her arms and marching straight for the first set of ash-grey steps. That feeling was stronger here, like she was within the clutches of a warm, unrelenting embrace.

Come close, she heard.

Her eyes darted around, searching for the source of that voice, but there were only tourists. Some local visitors like her and her family, some from far away. She thought she understood the little bit of Japanese echoing through the temple. Where she was, nobody was around.

“Putri? Putri, where are you?” her dad called out. They were all taking family photos on the first landing, and no doubt they wanted her mischievous smirk to be commemorated for all time.

“I’m here,” she answered, but she was far too distracted to be loud enough. Her fingers traced the grooves between the first stone relief she came upon.

It was of a large animal, like a buffalo, and it had… It was a monkey hugging a buffalo! Why would a monkey be hugging a buffalo? she wondered.

Come closer, she heard again.

Whether entirely willingly or not, Putri took that step toward the stone.

The whole world shifted on its axis. Sounds faded into a whirlpool of emptiness. From the grey emerged vivid colours of blues and greens and coarse fur and she was falling, falling into the stone, falling into –

Water. She was sitting in a puddle.

Eyes wandering, fear collected in her throat. Where stone walls had been were now overarching leaves larger than she was. Bunched together at the roots, they imitated a rooster’s tail, but more vivid a green than she had ever seen. Pillars of rainbow eucalyptus strained to touch the sky. The grass under her palms was soft, dewy to the touch, and she scented only fertile earth. No smoke, no pollution – just raw nature at its prime.

Where was her family? Where was she?

“Hello?” she whispered. She sensed she was not safe, so she stayed close to the ground as she rose on her feet. Water dripped down her backside, but the tropical heat would take care of that.

Unfamiliar noises caused her to sink down on her haunches. It sounded like mooing, but not quite, coupled with staccato hums she recalled from the zoo.

Peeking through the leafy peacock tail, she spied a monkey and a buffalo conversing.

“I don’t know what I’m going to do,” the monkey was saying, perched on a boulder.

I must be dreaming, she rationalized. I don’t speak Monkey.

“Cheer up, San,” the buffalo was humming eyes forlorn. “You don’t have to listen to the giant. I’ll let him eat me instead of you. I’m bigger! His meal will last longer.”

The monkey placed its paws on the buffalo’s face. “No, Dede, you can’t! I won’t let you.”

“It’s all right, San,” the buffalo reassured. “Just tell my family what happened here today.”

Tail flicking, San told Dede, “I won’t let you face him alone.”

Dede bowed his head, and San climbed up on his back. The buffalo slowly meandered toward the hill in the distance.

Putri didn’t know what else to do, so she followed them. Her sneakers squelched in Dede’s wet footprints, but she didn’t care.

Wildflowers lined her path as the two animals walked to Dede’s death. It was a beautiful goodbye for the buffalo. There were the faint hisses of snakes in the grass, little critters working to build a nest, birdsong echoing from the nearby jungle.

Putri bit her bottom lip as they crossed a narrow stream, weighing the grip on her sneakers against the slick stones.

You can do it, she told herself. Hopping, she almost slipped once, but she made it to the other side.

The buffalo stopped at the entrance to a cave. San jumped off his back, fretful noises escaping his mouth.

Putri hid behind a tree trunk, peeking through gaps in the bushes.

“Do we need to summon him?” San asked. His paws shuffled together. “Should we call out his name?”

“He’ll come,” Dede said, nodding.

Indeed, before long, heavy footsteps boom-boom-boomed out of the cave.

A giant emerged. Putri stifled a shrill scream at the sight of its face.

Ugly, so ugly it was worse than her worst nightmare. The giant had two enormous fangs protruding from its lower jaw, red balls for eyes, and a tangled mane of black hair. In its fist was a club, forged from another giant’s femur. Muscles rippled as the creature swung its weapon, swampy-green skin speckled with brown veins.

“Who goes here?” the giant growled.

The buffalo stepped forward. “Great Raksa, it is I, Dede. I have come to offer myself up in place of San.”

Leaning down, the giant peered at the monkey instead. “I told you I wanted to eat you, and you find someone else to throw at me?”

“R-Raksa, I tried telling Dede, but he – he wouldn’t let me!” San stammered out.

“Hmm,” the giant said. He turned his fangs toward the buffalo. “You would give your life for your friend?”

Serenely, Dede said, “Of course.”

The giant stood up to its full height, loincloth swaying with the movement. “I am touched by your kindness, Dede. It is very rare to find someone so kind. As a favour, I will not eat either of you.”

San’s eyes widened. “Really?”

Raksa growled, the sound rumbling through Putri’s trembling bones. “Do I need to repeat myself?”

“No, O Great One,” Dede said, bowing low, his horn gently nudging San back with him. “Thank you for your generosity.”

As the giant retreated into its cave, San leapt up and embraced the buffalo tightly. “You save my life, Dede. You saved our lives!”

Putri sighed in relief. She didn’t have to watch a monster eat an animal, after all. She leaned against the tree, staring up at the sky. The sun was moving – too fast.

How can –

A rush of colour swirled in her vision, and Putri felt like she was falling for the second time that day.

When she felt the ground beneath her feet, she wasn’t in the jungle with the buffalo and the monkey anymore.

Vines contorted around unfamiliar trees, fog blanketing the area. There were birds that flashes blue as they flew around. Squirrels with five stripes pitter-pattered their way up, food in their fat cheeks.

It didn’t feel like she was in the same country – the same continent anymore.

She heard singing some distance away. Human voices.

Wiping her hands on her pants, she hurried through the knotted trees and slipped behind a trunk just as a large group of people came into view. They were in gorgeous formal wear, shades of gold and red and pink passing by in an array that dazzled the senses. The people in front held weapons, faces stern. Putri thought they might be guards. But what – or who – were they guarding?

She got her answer a few seconds later as a grand carriage rolled past. Inside, she saw a beautiful woman wearing an elaborate headdress, resplendent in gold jewelry that reflected brilliant sunlight. Beneath an intricate necklace that draped below her collarbone was a very pregnant belly.

Putri didn’t know who this woman was, but she thought she looked like a queen.

Just as she took a step forward, that rush tore through her.

Not again, she thought, clutching the tree trunk as an anchor.

Mind swaying with her body, she sunk to her knees to catch her breath.

Her inhale forced a choke to escape her lungs. “What -”

It was smoke. So much smoke that her vision was limited to a sea of black. Instinct urged her to leave, to exit, but her eyes caught on a glimmer of metal. Her body sensed the source of the inescapabale heat. She heard clanking.

Just a few days ago, she had watched The Return of the King with her family. She knew what the sound and smoke meant.

A forge. She was in a forge.

She tucked her nose under her shirt collar, inhaling deeply to adjust to the smell. The door wasn’t visible from where she squatted, so she stuck close to the wall behind a pile of crates. Eyes still a little watery, she saw the blacksmith pull something out of the coal-burning fire.

Squinting, she marvelled at the red-hot blade. Its edges were wavy instead of the straight lines she was accustomed to, and the name of the historical dagger popped into mind: keris. Yes, the blacksmith was forging a keris.

Her foot knocked over a piece of coal. It slammed into a metal can of some sort, creating a rattle that caught the blacksmith’s ear.

“Who’s there?” he rasped. He didn’t speak in Bahasa. It was older, closer to the native dialects of the villagers she had encountered during her travels.

Putri withdrew deeper into her hiding spot. Wherever she was, getting captured wasn’t a choice. She had to get home eventually. Right?

The blacksmith prowled closer. “Who’s there?”

Come on. Get me out of here.

Expecting to find the stone reliefs of Borobudur, Putri slapped a hand over her mouth when she came face to face with a wall of water.

She leaned backwards and found a strong wooden column to support her as the wave crashed against the side of the ship.

Colossal mountains of water buried the deck as the captain shouted orders for the crew to tighten the sails or something like that. Putri had never sailed before; she had no idea what the captain was saying.

She huddled against the main mast, trying to hide her silver-starred shoes as much as she could. Now was not the time for her to be thrown overboard as a stowaway. Men ran to and fro, their dark skin flush with cold.

“Please,” she cried out. “I just want to go home! Let me go home.”

Rain pelted her face in droplets as big as her thumb, soaking through her clothes in a matter of seconds.

“Please!” she said again. She tucked her knees to her chest. “I don’t like this one! Just take me home!”

When she opened her eyes, the storm was gone. She was outside a wooden hut on a beach somewhere, the waves lapping at the shore. Sand crusted her shins, her elbows, so fine that it was easily brushed off. Her hair was matted with seawater, reverberations of thunder skittering down her spine in aftershocks.

I’m safe, she reminded herself. I’m safe now.

Slowing her breaths, Putri listened to the warm voice emanating from inside the hut. A woman was singing to her child, of calm days at sea with a bountiful harvest. She sang of love, and loss, and in the face of it all, unbreakable joy.

She snuck a peek into the hut. Rattan mats spanned the length of the floor, a cot and some personal belongings neatly lined against the wall. The baby was nestled in a swathe of fabric against his mother’s breast, happily observing his surroundings.

The woman was grinding together herbs in a stone mortar and pestle. Turmeric, tamarind, aromatic ginger, and palm sugar. An ancient recipe for modern maladies.

Putri smiled at the smell of home. Every time she had a bad day, her mom would make the same jamu for her. It didn’t taste as good as martabak, but there was comfort in its familiarity.

She leaned against the hut wall, studying the horizon for a sign of whatever had brought her to these places.

“I’m ready to go home,” she said aloud. “Take me back.”

The tug in her gut intensified, and she was pulled away.

Putri didn’t dare open her eyes. Where was she now? A lion’s den? In an underwater palace? On a desert island with only a palm tree for company?

“Putri! There you are,” she heard. Calloused hands grasped her shoulders. “We’ve been looking everywhere for you. Where have you been?”

She blinked to see her father’s frown. The beach had been replaced by the walls of Borobudur, her fingers locked in the grooves of a relief depicting a ship on tumultuous waves.

“Why are you wet? Is that ash on your shirt?” he went on, oblivious to the truth. Her dad met her gaze squarely. “Putri, where were you?”

There were no words to explain what had happened. She was old enough to know that nobody would believe her even if she told them. Still, her senses were tingling with adventure.

With a smile on her face, she answered, “History.”