The Nutmeg Islands and the Chemistry of Flavour
The Nutmeg Islands and the Chemistry of Flavour — a science story. 10 illustrated pages, narrated, on the kids shelf, free to read on Wonder Science.
Page 1
The wind turned in a heartbeat, flattening the palms and dragging a wall of grey rain across the channel from Gunung Api's smoking cone. Sari was still tying off a basket when the gust slammed into the stacks, toppling them one into the next like dominoes. Hundreds of nutmegs spilled free, bouncing down the wet black sand and vanishing into the hissing surf. "Grab the baskets, not the fruit!" shouted Nenek Wulan, dropping to her knees and hauling a half-empty basket upright before the next wave could take it. Pak Hamzah planted his long bamboo pole in the sand and used it to block a whole tide of rolling seeds from reaching the water, scooping them back with his free hand. Sari splashed knee-deep into the foam, cupping nutmegs two and three at a time against her chest. Pala took off low over the sand, flapping hard after a bobbing basket that was already floating out past the shallows. "Pala, leave it, come back!" Sari called, laughing despite the rain running down her face, as the old woman and the thin man kept scrambling side by side to save what they could.
Page 2
Under the kanari trees, taller than any house in Lonthoir, Pak Hamzah lifted his long bamboo pole with both thin arms and hooked the wicker claw around a ripe fruit high overhead. He twisted, tugged, and the fruit dropped free. Sari ran beneath, stretching a wide cloth between her fists, and caught it with a soft thump before it could burst on the roots. Again and again the pole swung, and again and again she scrambled sideways to catch, her bare feet slapping the damp earth. One fruit slipped past the cloth's edge and split open against a root, and out spilled its lace of mace, scarlet and clinging, bright against the brown dirt. Pala hopped close, pecking curiously at the red threads. Nenek Wulan knelt by her brass scales, swinging from their wooden yoke, and poured the gathered basket onto one pan, watching the arm tip and settle while she called out numbers for Sari to remember.
Page 3
Joos came pounding around the corner with a wooden crate of glass vials clutched to his chest, shouting for everyone to look at what he'd brought from the kitchen. His heavy buckled shoes hit the soaked bamboo of the drying floor wrong, and his feet shot sideways. He crashed forward, slamming both knees into the nearest tray and sending it flipping over the one beside it. Nutmegs scattered and rolled, but worse than that — the seeds underneath lay exposed, swollen fat with rainwater, their brown skins gone grey and furred with mould. Sari dropped to her knees and grabbed one, turning it over in her palms. Pak Hamzah set down his long pole and crouched to steady a tray before it slid off the platform entirely. Nenek Wulan swung her scales off her shoulder and set them down hard, frowning at the ruined crop. Joos, scrambling up, snatched a seed and cracked it open against the bamboo rail to prove his fear — he pressed it to his nose and found nothing there at all.
Page 4
The thousand steps of the Tangga Seribu climbed straight up the cliff, each stone slab taller than a dog and slick with rain. Sari hauled her sack of nutmegs over one shoulder, gripping the knotted neck with both hands as she pushed up step after step. Halfway, the wet fibers gave way with a soft tearing sound, and nutmegs burst out, bouncing down the staircase in a clattering brown river. "My sack!" Sari cried, spinning to grab at empty air. Pak Hamzah dropped his bamboo pole across two steps to block a rolling cluster, scooping them against the stone wall with his long arms. Nenek Wulan set down her brass scales and cupped her indigo skirt wide to catch a bouncing wave of seeds. Joos flung himself flat on the steps, catching three nutmegs in his waistcoat pockets before they vanished over the edge. Pala swooped low, batting one seed back toward Sari's knees with her wing. Together they scrambled down a hundred steps, snatching, cupping, and stacking nutmegs back into Sari's arms before a single one reached the bottom.
Page 5
At the top of the thousand steps the old fort waited, its stone walls knee-high in places and chest-high in others, baked pale by years of sun. Pak Hamzah hauled broken planks up from a fallen beam and slammed them across two wide stones, building a long drying bed waist-high off the ground. Sari scrambled along the rampart scattering nutmegs across the planks with both hands, spreading them thin so none touched. Within an hour the stones themselves grew too hot to stand on barefoot, and Joos, crouching close with his nose almost on the seeds, cried out that he could smell the oils cooking away into the air like steam off a kettle. Nenek Wulan set down her brass scales with a clang and pulled her indigo sarong free from her waist, knotting its corners to two broken merlons to make a long shade sail above the bed. Pala hopped along the shaded planks pecking at stray seeds that rolled loose, while Pak Hamzah and Sari climbed back down toward the grove, leaving Nenek Wulan behind under the cloth, turning each nutmeg carefully with a flat stick.
Page 6
Joos hauled his copper pot, waist-high and heavy, onto the kitchen table and slammed a bamboo pipe into its lid, packing wet cloth round the join to seal it tight. He dragged a bowl of cool seawater beneath the pipe's far end to catch the drips, calling for the others to come and see. Sari scrambled to stoke the little brazier under the pot, feeding in twigs, while Pak Hamzah braced the whole rig steady with both long arms so it would not tip off the table. Steam curled up through the pipe, and a thin golden thread of oil dripped toward the waiting bowl. Then Pala swooped through the open window, orange-ringed eyes fixed on the warm metal, and landed square on the bamboo pipe. It tilted, cracked loose, and a warm fragrant pool of oil spilled across the table, running between the hanging bundles of mace. Sari grabbed a cloth and pushed it against the spreading pool before it reached the floor, while Pak Hamzah caught the startled pigeon in both hands and lifted her clear, the whole kitchen suddenly thick with spiced sweetness.
Page 7
Steam still curled up from the grey cinder slope where the rain had soaked through, and the whole ground felt warm under Sari's bare feet, like standing on a sleeping animal's back. Pak Hamzah knelt and dragged his wooden paddle through the grit, carving a long shallow trench as long as his own arm span, grey dust puffing up around his knees. Sari scooped nutmegs from the sling bag at her hip and laid them one by one into the warm furrow, pressing each gently down with her fingers. Joos dropped to his knees beside her, scooping cinder with both hands and packing it snug around the seeds. "Don't bury them deep," Pak Hamzah warned, "just enough to breathe." Pala hopped along the trench edge, pecking curiously at a loose nutmeg until Sari nudged her away with a laugh. Together they rolled flat stones over the bedded trench, grunting as they heaved the heaviest ones into place, sealing in the gentle heat without smoke or flame to spoil the oils.
Page 8
The swell came from nowhere, lifting the long canoe sideways and dropping it hard into the trough. A sack of dried nutmegs, big as a sleeping dog, slid across the painted hull and tipped over the gunwale into the sea. Sari screamed and grabbed for it, but her fingers only brushed rope. Pak Hamzah threw himself flat along the deck, his whole thin body stretched over the side, bamboo pole swinging out to hook the sack's trailing cord. The claw caught. "Pull now, pull!" he shouted, and Sari and Joos seized the pole behind him, boots and bare feet braced against the ribs of the canoe, hauling with both arms while the canoe rocked under them. Pala wheeled low overhead, shrieking and beating her wings as if she could lift the sack herself. Slowly, dripping, the sack rose over the gunwale and thumped back onto the deck boards, soaked but whole. Everyone sat down hard, breathing fast, laughing with relief.
Page 9
The cargo net swung up over the rail of De Zeemeeuw, bulging and heavy, and then with a sharp crack one woven rope gave way. Nutmegs burst out across the deck, bouncing off barrels and rolling between the sailors' boots, clattering into every corner of the tall ship. Sari dropped to her knees, scooping seeds into her skirt before they vanished down the scuppers. Pak Hamzah slammed his long bamboo pole flat across the planks to block a stream of rolling nutmegs from reaching the gangplank. Pala flapped low, snatching at loose seeds with her beak, scattering more than she caught. Sailors scrambled everywhere, shouting, grabbing, chasing seeds under crates twice their height. Then Joos planted his feet, pulled one tiny vial from his bandolier, and popped the cork right under the ship's merchant's nose. The man froze mid-stride. One by one the deck crew stopped chasing and stood still, breathing in the rescued scent drifting up from that single small glass tube, as if the spilled cargo had never happened at all.
Page 10
The coral steps of Pulau Run rose knee-high and uneven, bleached white and sharp, and Sari climbed them one at a time with the seedling basket braced against her hip, its handle cutting a red line into her arm. Pak Hamzah went ahead with his long bamboo pole, using its blunt end to steady himself and test each loose stone before she stepped. At the top terrace, a flat shelf of packed white coral no wider than a courtyard, Sari knelt and set each small nutmeg seedling into a shallow hole, patting the pale soil firm with both palms while Joos trailed the line with his bandolier chiming, dribbling water from a vial onto each root. Then Pala, restless on the basket's rim, snatched up the last spare seed in her beak, beat her blue-green wings hard, and sailed straight off the terrace edge over the white cliff. "Pala! That one was spoken for!" Sari shouted, scrambling to the edge. Below, through the green crown of forest, the pigeon opened her beak and let the seed fall tumbling out of sight. Pak Hamzah only laughed, leaning on his pole. "She's planting her own way," he said.
About this story
- Audience: kids (ages 6–12)
- Format: 10 illustrated pages, narrated, on the kids shelf, free to read on Wonder Science
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