Death Trance (2 page)

The
pedanda
had never shown him any fatherly affection, for all that Michael called him
Pak.
On the contrary, he had often been persnickety and brittle-tempered, and he had even given Michael penances for the slightest mistakes. And when Michael's father had died, the
pedanda
had been unsympathetic. 'He is dead? He is lucky. And besides, when you are ready, you will meet him again.’

All the same, a strong unspoken understanding had grown up between them, an understanding that in many ways was more valuable to Michael than affection. It was partly based on mutual respect, this understanding, and partly on the mystical sensitivity they shared, a faculty that enabled them both to enter the dream worlds of the deities. They had experienced the reality of the gods at first hand through the trancelike state known in its less highly developed form as
sanghyang,
during which a man could walk on fire or stab himself repeatedly with sharp-bladed knives and remain unhurt.

'You say nothing,’ the
pedanda
told him. 'Are you afraid?’

'Tidak,’
Michael said. 'No.’

The
pedanda
continued to stare at him without expression. 'I have told you what to expect. As you enter the world of the dead, you will also be entering the world of the demons. You will encounter the leyaks, the night vampires who are the acolytes of Rangda. You will see for yourself the butas and the kalas, those who breathe disease into the mouths of babies.’

'I am not afraid,’ Michael said. He glanced at the
pedanda
quickly, a sideways look, to see his reaction.

The
pedanda
came closer and leaned over Michael so that the boy could smell the curious dry, woody smell the priest always seemed to exude.

'Very well, you are not afraid of leyaks. But suppose you came face to face with Rangda herself.’

'I should call on Barong Keket to protect me.’

The
pedanda
cackled. 'You will be afraid, I promise you, even if you are not afraid now. It is right to be afraid of Rangda. My son, even I am afraid of Rangda.’

Then the
pedanda
left Michael briefly and returned with a large object concealed beneath an ornately embroidered cloth. He set the object in front of Michael and smiled.

'Do you know what this is?’

'It looks like a mask.’

'And what else can you tell me about it?’

Michael licked his lips. 'It is very
sakti.’
He meant that it was magically powerful, so powerful that it had to be covered by a cloth 'Would you be frightened if I were to show it to you?’ asked the priest.

Michael said nothing.
The pedanda
watched him closely, searching for the slightest twitch of nervousness or spiritual hesitation. After a moment, Michael reached forward, grasped the corner of the cloth and drew it off the mask.

As confident and calm as he was, he felt his insides coldly recoil. For the hideous face staring at him was that of Rangda, the Witch Widow, with bulging eyes, flaring nostrils, and fangs so hooked and long that they crossed over each other. Michael's sensitivity to the presence of evil was so heightened now that he felt the malevolence of Rangda like a freezing fire burning into his bones. Even his teeth felt as if they were phosphorescing in their sockets.

'Now what do you feel?’ asked the priest. His face was half hidden by shadow.

Michael stared at the mask for a long time. Although it was nothing more than paper and wood and gilded paint, it exuded extraordinary evil. It looked as if it were ready to snap into sudden life and devour them both.

Michael said, 'If Barong Keket does not protect me, the spirit of my father will.’

The
pedanda
took the embroidered cloth and covered the mask again, although he left it where it was, resting between them.

'You are ready,’ he said dryly. 'We shall close our eyes and meditate, and then we shall begin.’

The pedanda
sat opposite Michael and bowed his head. The fragrant incense billowed between them, sometimes obscuring the priest altogether so that Michael could not be certain that he was still there. The incense evoked in Michael's consciousness the singing at funerals, the trance dances, and all the secret rituals the
pedanda
had taught him since he was twelve years old. There was another aroma in the incense, however: bitter and pungent, like burning coriander leaves.

'You must think of the dead,’ the
pedanda
told him. 'You must think of the spirits who walk through the city.

You must think of the presence of all those who have gone before you: the temple priests who once tended this courtyard, the merchants who cried in the streets outside, the
rajas
and the
perbekels,
the children and the proud young women. They are still with us, and now, when you wish to, you may see them. The crowds of the dead!’

Michael looked around. He was in the first stages of trance, breathing evenly as if he were cautiously entering a clear, cold pool of water. There, lining the walls of the inner courtyard, stood carved stone shrines to the deities of life and death, a shrine to Gunung Alung, the volcano, and another to the spirits of Mount Batur. It was in these shrines that the gods were supposed to sit when they visited the Pura Dalem. Michael had occasionally wondered if the gods ever came here anymore - the temple was so ruined and the
odalan
festivals were no longer held here - but he realized that it would be heretical to display doubts to the
pedanda.

The shrines to the greatest deities had eleven layered meru roofs, tapering upward into the darkness. Those to lesser gods had only seven roofs, or five. There were no gifts laid in front of any of these shrines as there were in other temples, no fruit or flowers or bullock's heads or chickens. Here there was nothing but dried leaves that had fallen from the overhanging trees and a few scattered poultry bones. There were no longer any temple priests to cater to the comforts of the gods.

The
pedanda
began to recite to Michael the words that would gradually lift him into a deeper state of trance. Michael kept his eyes open at first but then slowly his eyelids drooped and his body relaxed; gradually his conscious perceptions began to drain away and pour across the courtyard floor like oil.

The
pedanda
began to tap one foot on the stones rhythmically and Michael swayed back and forth in the same rhythm, as if anticipating the arrival of celebrating villagers, the way it would have been when the
odalan
festivals were held in the temple. He swayed as if the
kendang
drums were beating, and the
kempli
gong was banging, and the night was suddenly shrill with the jingling of finger cymbals.

'You can walk now among the dead, who are themselves among us. You can see quite clearly the ghosts of those who have gone before. Your eyes are opened both to this world and the next. You have reached the trance of trances, the trance of the dead, the world within worlds.’

Michael pressed his hands against his face and began to sway ever faster. The clangour of drumming and cymbal clashing inside his brain was deafening.
Jhanga-jhanga-jhanga-jhanga-jhanga:
the complicated, unwritten rhythms of gamelan music; the whistling melodies of life and death; the rustling of fire without burning, of knives that refused to cut; the swath in the air made by demons who stole children in the dark.

Great blocks of crimson and black came silently thundering down on top of him. His mind began to burst apart like an endless succession of opening flowers, each one richer and more florid than the last.

The
kendang
drums pounded harder and harder; the cymbals shrilled mercilessly; the gongs reverberated until they set up a continuous ringing of almost intolerable sound.

Michael swayed furiously now, his hands pressed hard against his face. The voice of the
pedanda
reached him through the soundless music, repeating over and over, 'Sanghyang Widi, guide us; Sanghyang Widi, guide us; Sanghyang Widi, guide us.’

It was now - at the very crescendo of his trance - that Michael would usually have stood up to dance, following the steps untaught by priests or parents, or by anybody mortal, yet known by all who can enter into the
sanghyang.

But tonight he was suddenly, and unexpectedly, met by silence and stillness. He continued to sway for a short time, but then he became motionless as the silence and the stillness persisted and the imaginary music utterly ceased.

He took his hands from his face and there was the
pedanda,
watching him; and there was the inner courtyard of the temple, with its dead leaves and its abandoned shrines; and there was the incense smoke, drifting thickly into the darkness.

'What has happened?’ he asked. His voice sounded strange to himself, as if he were speaking from beneath a blanket.

The old man raised one skeletal arm and indicated the courtyard. 'Can you not understand what has happened?’

Michael frowned and lifted his head. The smell of burned coriander leaves was stronger than ever. Somewhere a whistle blew, loud and long.

The
pedanda
said, 'You know already that your one body consists of three bodies: your mortal body, your
stulasarira;
your emotional body, your
suksmasarira;
and your spiritual body, your
antakaransarira.
Well,
your stulasarira
and your
suksmasarira
have fallen into a sleeping trance, not like the wild and frenzied trance of the
sanghyang,
but more like a dream. Your
antakaransarira,
however, has remained awake. Your spirit can perceive everything now, unhindered by physical or emotional considerations. You will not be concerned by the prospect of hurting yourself. You will not be concerned by anger, or love, or resentment. In this state, you will be able to see the dead.’

Michael raised his hands and examined them, then looked back at the
pedanda.
'If I am asleep, how can I move?’

'You forget that your
stulasarira
and your
antakaransarira
are inseparable, even after death. That is why we cremate our dead, so that the
antakaransarira
may at last fly free from its ashes. Your spirit wishes to move your mortal body and so it has, just as your mortal body, when it is awake, can move your spirit.’

Michael sat silent; the
pedanda
watched him with a patient smile. Although essentially the temple seemed to be the same, now it possessed a curious dreamlike quality, a subdued luminosity, and the clouds above the meru towers appeared to be moving at unnatural speed.

'You have so many questions and yet you cannot ask them,’ the
pedanda
said.

Michael shook his head. 'I feel that the answers will come by themselves.’

'Nonetheless, you must try to put into words everything that you fail to understand.’

'Can I feel pain in this trance?’ Michael asked. 'Can I walk on fire, or stab myself with knives?’

'Try for yourself,’ smiled the
pedanda,
and from the folds of his plain white robes he produced a wavy-bladed kris, the traditional Balinese dagger. Michael could see by the way the blade shone that it had recently been sharpened. He accepted the weapon cautiously, testing the weight of its decorative handle. For a moment, as the
pedanda
handed it to him, their eyes met and there was a strange, secretive look in the old man's expression that Michael could not remember having noticed before; it was almost a look of resignation.

In the
sanghyang
trance, young boys seven or eight years old could stab their chests with these daggers and the blades would not penetrate their skin. But this was not an ordinary
sanghyang
trance. This was a very different kind of trance, if it was a trance at all. The silence in the courtyard was so deep that Michael could almost have believed the
pedanda
had deceived him. He wondered if perhaps in some unknown way he had failed his initiation and let the old priest down. Perhaps the only honourable course of action left to a student who disappointed the
pedanda
was suicide, and perhaps this was what he was being offered now.