Why The Mountain Sings

James Penha

adapted from the Javanese Legend of Gunung Wayang

Sultan Prabu of the Sang Regency surrounding Mount Wayang on the island of Java was a wise and just monarch much beloved by his people. His young daughter Princess Teja elicited as much admiration and far more passion for she was the most beautiful young woman Java had ever seen. Her skin was smooth and dark as the coffee beans plucked from the slopes of Mount Wayang and her hair lustrously black as the fire-strewn lava embedded in the soil, Teja embodied Sang; she personified Java.

Teja’s mother had died in childbirth. The Sultan never remarried out of respect for his wife and so, although he single-mindedly doted on his only child, he knew he had to find her an able, virile husband who could assuredly provide the male heir to continue the sultanate.

There was no shortage of royals reared among the principalities of Java to seek the hand of the Princess Teja. But Prabu wanted the one noble man who had the grace and beauty to satisfy his daughter and the strength to father a dynasty.

And so, when Teja turned eighteen, the Sultan announced an historic competition among the island’s princes: the victor in a triathalon of riding, wrestling, and self-control would marry Princess Teja.

Twenty-seven aristocrats arrived in Sang on the day of the full moon and were feted lavishly by the Sultan during the full week preceding the games. No desire by any of the royal guests went unsatisfied.

Prince Rianto from the eastern provinces had a whole suckling pig for dinner his first night, a roasted lamb the next, an entire turkey glazed in nutmeg and orange following. By the sixth day, Rianto could barely move and was forced to withdraw from the competition.

On his first night in Sang, Prince Hadi from the north asked the young man who had prepared his bath to give him a massage. When Hadi felt the servant straddling him to pound his muscles, the Prince felt an urge for more intimate but no less weighty strokes. “Young man,” he said, “put these unguents on your manhood and let them stir my soul.” Hours before the games were to begin, Hadi was seen leaving Sang with a retinue expanded by a score of the Sultan’s best looking houseboys.

Southern Javanese Prince Sukri downed a flagon of rice wine with dinner at the opening banquet and found it so much to his liking that he never stopped imbibing it until he fell asleep face down in a paddy and drowned two days later.

Although Batawi, the obese western prince, lusted after Teja, he was satisfied to have one Sang maiden after another relieve that lust by sliding up and down upon his rollicking scepter. Persuaded that he could live an ecstatic life without having himself to engage in any exercise ever, he slept through the Tejan Olympiad and was sent home on an oxcart shortly thereafter on the direct order of Sultan Prabu.

These four were not the only princes never to engage in the actual competition for Teja. Indeed, on the day appointed for the games to begin, only two noblemen assembled on the horseshoe in front of Prabu’s palace to vie:

Sudharman of Banyuwangi was as pure as the sweet water that flowed through his principality. Unknown to women or men, he was as moderate in his desires as he was in his aspect and bearing.

Prince Raden of Blambangan possessed the same personal virtues as his rival, but with a visage and personality that were anything but moderate. They dazzled all who came to know him. They dazzled Teja.

Sultan Prabu addressed the two competitors and the court, “These two noble sirs shall engage in three trials, the winner to marry my daughter.” Prabu’s chancellors undressed the princes, for the convention in those days demanded that sportsmen compete withou sarongs for the sake of their own mobility and the audience’s pleasure.

As was typical and natural, all eyes roved to the no-longer private parts of the princes. Sudharman’s penis was long, but as thin as the rest of his body. Its head hooked a bit toward his rear and this oddity elicited some smiles ladies of the court hid behind their fans.

It came as no surprise that Raden’s body was as handsome as his face. His genitalia explained to those on the horseshoe that day why Javanese refer to the penis as a cock: although not yet awake, Raden’s broad bird could be imagined upright and crowing loud enough to call the sun to order.

The smiling ladies swallowed hard the instant they turned toward Raden. Teja moistened her lips with her tongue.

Sultan Prabu called for two of his best stallions to be brought to the quadrangle facing the east portico of the palace. With each of his arms draped around the shoulders of the competitors, the Sultan walked them to the edge of the portico as the court followed. “Because your skin is darker, Raden, you shall mount the white steed on the south side here at my right; Sudharman, the black beast on the north is yours. You shall, on my signal, race in opposite directions from this point around the perimeter of this quadrangle. The first man whose horse eats this apple from my hand is victor of this event.

“Are you ready?”

The two suitors, atop the horses, nodded.

“Then, GO!”

Each horse flew from the palace. Teja kept her eyes on the white horse, but she would not know who was in front until the horses passed each other. Even then, she could not be sure if the steeds crossed left or right of center. The furious sound of the horse hooves—and her fate—closed in on the hand of her father. When, in cyclones of dust, the apple disappeared, it was into the black mouth ruled by Sudharman.

Teja gasped although she joined the court in applauding the winner who dismounted and revealed how his close encounter with the perfectly groomed horse had had the racy effect of hardening his cock as much as his resolve.

“The first event goes to Sudharman,” the Sultan confirmed. “If he is victorious in wrestling, he shall become my heir. Let the competitors enter.”

Raden and Sudharman looked at each other in confusion. They thought they were the only remaining competitors, that they would engage each other in man-to-man combat. But the Sultan had other ideas, the princes reddened to realize, as two voluptuous sisters from Minang, the matriarchal province of West Sumatra, approached the portico and removed their sarongs. Each suitor would wrestle one of these naked beauties, explained the Sultan. “Sudharman, meet Kakak; Raden, approach Adik. The first man—or the only man!—to pin his opponent’s lovely shoulders to the ground will win this round!

“At my signal, then . . . “

Neither Sudharman nor Raden had ever imagined fighting any woman ever, and so each gentle man hesitated. But at the Sultan’s signal, each sister elbowed her opponent’s chest with such force, knocking him to the ground and leaping with both knees upon him, that the princes realized they might be killed if they did not defend themselves.

Raden grabbed Adik’s knees and, folding her like a book, upended her so that she fell on her back. He managed to leap on her breasts forcing every bit of air out of her lungs and the bounced to his knees on Adik’s shoulders. The woman made to grab hold of Raden’s penis in her teeth, but despite its length, she could not reach it before the Sultan counted “ . . . three!” and declared that Raden had pinned Adik.

And he had done so first, for although Sudharman had followed a similar fightplan, his still-erect cock was a better target for Kakak who realized she had only to work her tongue on its red head before Sudharman loosed such a river of semen that he was set back, literally, on his heels and loosed, simultaneously, his opponent’s shoulders.

“The second event goes to Raden,” the Sultan announced. Each contestant rose and, apologizing for his ungracious actions, helped his worthy female opponent to their feet. “Minang women are stronger and smarter than most men of this archipelago,” the Sultan said. “They look as well and as beautiful now as an hour ago. And certainly, they are richer.” Courtiers brought forth new robes for the women and, for each, a bag of gold.

“As for the third event, that testing self-control,” continued the Sultan, ”it has already concluded!” There were murmurs among the court and surprised looks on the faces of Sudharman and Raden. The Sultan walked toward Sudharman and wiped a bit of the semen the Prince had ejected onto his own chin. “And, brother Sudharman, you have lost the event.” The Sultan turned to face Raden. “You are my victor and my son-in-law!” The two men embraced.

The court cheered and applauded; Teja beamed. The Sultan waved his hands for silence and attention. “But, my boy, I thought this last race would be a far closer contest. Your virility showed itself in your muscles, but not down here where it must if you are to be my heir, the father of future Sultans. I shall not retract my promise that Teja is yours,” the Sultan said as he beckoned his daughter to join Raden,“ but I need proof that you are potent enough to succeed as Sultan for the ages.”

“Sire,” replied Raden, “I grow well enough each night, but I have never urged myself to harden and expel. Nonetheless, though pure, I am not so innocent that I do not know what to do.” The young prince wiggled his flaccid penis with his hand. But to no account. And so the Princess Teja kneeled before her betrothed and took him in her mouth. At first, she merely held Raden’s cock in her lips, using her tongue to taste a man for the first time. Then she grasped his eggs, as the Javanese refer to the testicles, and slipped a finger in his anus while she moved her mouth down and back. Soon it was clear to all that Teja could no longer contain the whole length of Raden’s masculinity without choking. Her mouth retreated to the cockhead and she used her left hand to stroke her man until, with a holler of satisfaction, Raden exploded, showering the face of his betrothed and the gowns of several handmaids standing a meter behind their mistress.

Off to the side, Raden’s former rival Sudharman smiled that, at least, he was no longer alone in displaying both pride and embarrassment.

The Sultan said, “Yes, that will do. The wedding shall take place by the full moon next month, It shall be the greatest our kingdom has seen.”

Raden returned to Blambangan to sort out the affairs of his own principality in advance of its merger with Sang.

A few days before the full moon, Raden assembled a retinue to accompany him and the presents he carried for his bride. On the eve of the wedding, the company erected its tents at a riverside clearing at the foot of Mount Wayang, not far from Sang. Here they planned to wait for a morning march to Sultan Prabu’s palace. Not being natives of the area, none in Raden’s assembly knew they camped in the special territory of the water goddess Puteri Segara, a divinity of great beauty and even greater selfishness.

The goddess watched Raden, on the evening of his arrival, bathing in her river. Having experienced for the first time the ecstasy of orgasm on his day of many victories, Raden often replicated the pleasure as best he could by himself. And so, leaning against the bank of Puteri Segara’s river, he closed his eyes and dreamed of his wife-to-be as he masturbated. Raden saw Teja take his hand in hers. She undraped her sarong and lowered her body onto Raden’s lap. Oh, what a dream! He felt now Teja’s lower lips caress his cock, and he heard a sweet moan from above. She rode him from gentility to frenzy as one breaks a stallion until, as one, they stifled their screams in each other’s mouths.

Raden opened his eyes and saw not Teja, but Puteri Segara, The juices, venomous aphrodisiacs, flowing from her tongue and vulva gave Raden no choice but to love only her. To love her again and again all night long. until the prince, spent, lost consciousness and his grip on the goddess who let the river carry him away.

Meanwhile, at the Sultan’s palace, all was in readiness for the wedding ceremony. Princess Teja, garbed in golden raiment, awaited her hero, her bridegroom. So did hundreds of guests. So did the Sultan . . . in vain . . . until at dusk, Prabu cleared the palace, declared the wedding postponed, and ordered a battalion of his army to accompany him at dawn in search of his unbecoming heir. Teja was inconsolable and begged her father to bring her prince safely home. The Sultan cupped his daughter’s chin in his hand and promised that he would.

Sultan Prabu’s army literally left no stone unturned, for the landscape outside the palace contained many enchanted caves and hidden springs. Finally they arrived at the riverside camp of Prince Raden’s compatriots, deserted save for one skinny groom who reported that everyone else searched for the Prince who had never returned from his bath in the river two days before.

Fearing the worst now, Prabu led his men to the river. He dismounted his horse and bent down on the riverside cocking his right ear to the flowing water.

“Stop searching, Sultan, the boy is mine.” Prabu knew the river’s voice belonged to Puteri Segara.

He jumped back in the saddle and led his army along the river’s edge toward Mount Wayang itself. The parade swept in and out of the raging current whenever the jungle itself became too thick to maneuver. Where the cascades poured down the mountainside to give birth to the river, the Sultan saw two figures. He recognized Puteri Segara although her face was nestled in the naked lap of his daughter’s fiancé.

“Leave that boy alone, you devil goddess,” yelled the Sultan.

Puteri Segara raised her head and turned to laugh at the Sultan, her mouth red with blood. “Ah, well, another wedding feast interrupted,” she said and disappeared into her river.

The Sultan himself cleansed the body of Prince Raden and carried it in his arms on the ride back to the palace.

The Sultan found his palace utterly dark and silent, but for a soft sad song of mourning from his daughter’s room. Racing up the stairs to her chamber, the Sultan saw his daughter tearfully turn to the lifeless Prince in his arms before she collapsed and, heartbroken, she died.

The Sultan buried the Princess and her Prince side by side in a cave in the jungle at the top of the mountain.  Each night, for the rest of his life, the Sultan climbed to the roof of his palace and listened to the soft sad song that still sweeps down with the wind from the peak of the Mount Wayang in Sang, in Java.

***

A native New Yorker, James Penha teaches in international schools in Asia. Among the most recent of his many published works are stories at East of the Web and The Hiss Quarterly and poems in Heliotrope, at Shampoo.com and in Only the Sea Keeps: Poetry of the Tsunami (Bayeux Press). No Bones to Carry, a volume of Penha’s poetry, is forthcoming from NewSins Press. Penha edits a website for current-events poetry at www.newversenews.com.