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

"A riot, a riot," Ismail shouted. He grabbed Isaac's hand. Isaac, more bewildered than frightened, didn't resist and ran with Ismail behind the stage to the throng of rock throwers, mostly young men with a few of the robed men among them, exhorting and inciting. Ismail plucked a stone from one of the garden beds and was getting ready to chuck it when a troop of helmeted policemen waded into the stone throwers, cursing and flailing with rattan whips and batons. Photographers and video cameramen ducked and wove throughout the commotion, viewfinders to their eyes. A police officer crunched his baton on Ismail's head, and Ismail crumpled to his knees.

A pair of hands grabbed Isaac from behind and yanked him away from the one-sided fighting. Isaac yelped in fear and struggled. A familiar voice said in BBC English, "Calm down, it's me."

Isaac whirled around. Mr. Suherman stood before him, dressed in the same crisply ironed slacks and sport shirt that he often wore when teaching. "Come with me behind the police lines," he said. "You'll be okay."

"But Ismail," Isaac said, "I have to get Ismail."

Mr. Suherman clutched Isaac's wrist and dragged him between two army personnel carriers and around a caged transport van into the recessed sidewalk arches of the town's movie theater. Isaac stood beside a poster of Tom Cruise with a knife slash on his cheek.

"Let's wait here until things quiet down and we can get you home," Mr. Suherman said.

A square-faced police lieutenant whose name tag read NUGROHO stood by the open rear of the van, barking instructions into a walkie-talkie. He was stuffed into a crisp brown khaki uniform. He spotted Isaac on the sidewalk and strode over. "What you bulé boy doing here?" he snapped in English.

Isaac's mind went blank.

"It's okay, he's with me," Mr. Suherman said in Indonesian.

"And who are you?"

"I'm his language teacher."

"You stay right there," the officer ordered.

"That's what we're doing," Mr. Suherman said.

Cops marched a group of handcuffed rioters to the waiting van, most of them the excitable stone throwers. A photographer followed, sidling and crouching for shots. Among the detainees was a dazed Ismail, the back of his head oozing blood. The policemen shoved the men into the van, and one put a hand on Ismail to do the same. Without thinking, Isaac darted out onto the street and tapped the arm of the burly lieutenant, who spun around with a snarl of surprise.

"That's Ismail," Isaac said, pointing. "Ismail Trisno. I know him. He's my friend. Why are you taking him? He didn't do anything. He's just a boy." The Javanese words rushed together.

"Back, back!" the lieutenant shouted, pointing a rigid finger over Isaac's shoulder, his breath garlicky.

Isaac flinched but held his ground. "He's just a boy."

The lieutenant gritted his teeth and said, "He was throwing rocks, the little bastard."

"He didn't know what he was doing."

"We'll let the judges decide that." The lieutenant's knotted face relaxed some. "He'll be all right, my Javanese-speaking white boy. He'll probably be held a few hours to scare him. Now step back, please."

Isaac did so, shouting, "Hey, Ismail!"

Ismail, already seated in the van, turned around and stared through the wire with glazed eyes.

"I'll tell your parents what happened," Isaac yelled. "You'll be okay."

Ismail licked his lips but gave no other reaction. He must have taken a pretty good wallop.

Mr. Suherman said to Isaac in his adult voice, "This is why your State Department advises Americans in Indonesia to stay clear of crowds."

The photographer, young and keen, wearing a safari vest with lots of pockets and a baseball cap on backward, approached them, a notepad held in his hand. "What's your name?" he asked Isaac.

Copyright © 2004 by Richard Lewis