Excerpt from The Flame Tree by Richard Lewis, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

Reverend Biggs normally would have taken the guest bungalow, but it was currently occupied by a missionary from Kalimantan, hugely pregnant with twins refusing to be born. The reverend was going to be sleeping in Isaac's bedroom because it had a big bed. Isaac was moving into his sister's old room with its small four-poster, and he wasn't happy about it.

Reverend Biggs was pink and plump. His thick silver hair rested on his head like a helmet. It didn't move, not even when he got all wound up during his Sunday-morning sermon at the Maranatha Church of Wonobo. The thought of that head on his pillow unnerved Isaac.

The sonorous "amen" of the reverend's final benediction was still rolling toward the gates of heaven as Isaac quickly slipped out to the foyer. He halted in surprise. Out of the sanctuary's other side strode Mr. Suherman. He waved a greeting at Isaac, who blurted, "I thought you were a Muslim."

"I am, but that does not mean I cannot attend church," Mr. Suherman said. He bent close, humor rising in his clear black eyes, and said, "Are you praying with the others for my salvation?"

Actually, Isaac wasn't, even though he knew he should be. This was one of many things that had been bothering him at night as he tried to sleep. "All my prayers get used up for myself," Isaac said, surprised he would admit such a thing.

"Including a prayer for an A in Esperanto?" Mr. Suherman said, laughing. "Remember to study for the lesson tomorrow. Adiau, mia bona studanto."

After Sunday lunch Isaac used the secret gate to sneak out of the compound to meet Ismail for the show in town. He stopped by Pak Heru's fruit stand for a slice of chilled melon. A soft-faced Javanese trying to cultivate a full beard and wearing a black turban and cream-colored robe stood behind the counter.

"Where's Pak Heru?" Isaac asked.

"He's moved to Surabaya. I own this shop now." The man gave Isaac that ultrapolite Javanese smile that said something was seriously wrong. Isaac saw too late the picture of Tuan Guru Haji Abdullah Abubakar hanging on the wall. The man said, "I know who you are. Who you all are. After three days guests and fish begin to stink. You Americans should leave Java. Let Muslim doctors treat the Muslim sick."

Isaac felt embarrassed for the man, that a Javanese would descend to such discourtesy. He left the shop without a word. Something was indeed fishy. Wouldn't Pak Heru have told Isaac he was moving?

Isaac scurried down the avenue. As usual, the legless beggar slumped against the wall of the bus stop's security post, his eyes closed and his mouth moving sporadically as he mumbled in his sleep. His begging cup, out by the sidewalk, had toppled over. Isaac set it upright. He hesitated, thinking of the money in his pocket. But he didn't know how much he would need at the square.

And besides, he thought, with a flare of anger that surprised him, let the Muslims take care of their own poor.

He passed the cemetery and the Pertamina gasoline station and came to the town's chaotic bus terminal, perpetually screened by the black smoke of diesel exhaust fumes.

A trio of heavily made-up women in tight satin gowns stepped down from a grimy bus into Isaac's path. One of them waved her extraordinarily big fingers at him.

"What a cute bulé boy," the second said in a deep male voice, speaking Javanese and clearly not expecting Isaac to understand.

Oh, boy, Isaac thought. Bencongs.

The third bencong, the most petite and prettiest of the three, said, "I wonder if he's going to have blond hair all over when he's older."

"His balls are probably as blue as his eyes," the first bencong said. "And being an infidel, he's probably got an uncircumcised snake between them."

Copyright © 2004 by Richard Lewis