Death Trance (3 page)

Michael hesitated, and as he did so, a scraggly looking jungle cock stalked into the courtyard, lifted its plumed head and stared at him.

The pedanda
said, 'You are afraid? What are you afraid of? Death?’

'I'm not sure,’ Michael replied uncertainly.

'To be irresolute is a sin.’

'I'm afraid but I don't know why. I'm afraid of you.’

'Of me?’ smiled the priest. He lifted his hands, their long, twisty fingernails gleaming. 'You have no need to be afraid of me. You have no need to be afraid of anything, not even of death. Come, let me show you what death is.’

Michael glanced down at the kris in his hand. Then he looked back questioningly at the
pedanda,
who shook his head. 'Do not strike now. The question has passed. The question will arise again later, never fear, perhaps in a different way.’

The priest rose to his feet gracefully. For one moment he stood staring at the mask of Rangda, with its embroidered covering. Then he turned and glided across the courtyard, back through the
paduraksa
gate, across the outer courtyard and into the street. Michael followed him closely, aware of a strange slowness in the way in which his limbs responded, as if he were wading through warm and murky water. The streets seemed to be deserted except for the cigarette ends that glowed in doorways, the murmur of deep, blurry voices and a soft rustling sound that filled the air.

The
pedanda
guided him along to the end of the street. Michael felt as if he were pursuing a figure in a dream. He was conscious for the first time in over a year that he was half-Western, that he was only half-entitled to know the secrets the
pedanda
was revealing to him. Although he had advanced even farther in his spiritual studies than most full-blooded Balinese boys, he always felt that he was holding something back, some small, skeptical part of his spirit that would always be white.

Now the
pedanda
reached a bronze door set into a crumbling stone wall. He opened it and Michael followed him through. To his surprise, he found himself in a small cemetery thickly overgrown with weeds and garish green moss, curtained with creeper that hung from the trees, silent, neglected, its shrines broken and its pathways long choked up, but elegant all the same, in the saddest and most regretful of ways. The high wall surrounding it must have at one time shielded the graveyard from the sight of every building around it, but now the little cemetery was overlooked by three or four office blocks and an illuminated sign that read 'Udaya Tours.’ In the middle distance, a scarlet sign said, 'Qantas.’

The
pedanda
stood still. 'I have never shown you this place before,’ he said. 'This is the graveyard for a hundred and fifty families who died in the
puputan,
slaughtered by the Dutch and by the
rajas.
Families without names, children without parents. They were cremated and so their
antakaransariras
were freed, but they have remained here out of sorrow.’

Michael walked slowly between the lines of weed-tangled shrines. The carving on each stone was sinuous and curving in the style of Ida Bagus Njana, depicting demons and dancers and ghosts and scowling warriors. Each shrine represented one dead family.

Then he stood still, uncertain of why the
pedanda
had brought him here. The Qantas sign shone brightly: an uncompromising message that the past was long past and that Bali was now regularly visited by 747s as well as by demons.

When Michael turned back to talk to the
pedanda,
his scalp prickled in shock, for the priest was still standing by the cemetery gate, his hands clasped, his head slightly raised, but right behind Michael a family had gathered in complete silence. A father, a mother, two grown-up daughters and a young son, no more than eight years old. They wore traditional grave clothes and their heads were bound with white scarves. All were staring at him, not moving, and although he could see them quite distinctly, they seemed to have no more reality than the evening air. He stared back at them. He knew without a doubt that they were dead.

Slowly the family turned and walked away between the shrines, fading from sight as they passed the
pedanda.

Then, as he looked around, Michael saw other figures standing equally silent among the creepers: a pale-faced young girl, her black hair fastened with gilded combs; a man who kept his hands clasped over his face; an old woman who kept raising her hand as if she were waving to somebody miles and miles away; children with frightened faces and eye sockets as dark as ink.

The
pedanda
came through the graveyard and stood close to Michael, still smiling. 'All these people have been dead for many years. They still remain, however, and they always shall. We refuse to accept the presence of spirits only because we cannot see them except in trances.’

'Will they speak?’ Michael asked. In spite of the humidity, he felt intensely cold and he was shivering.

'They will speak if they believe you can help them, but they are frightened and suspicious. They feel helpless without their mortal bodies, as if they are invalids.’

There was a young girl of twelve or thirteen standing by one of the nearer shrines. She reminded Michael of the girl he had seen sewing at the batik stall. He approached her carefully until he was standing only three feet from her. She stared back at him with wide brown eyes.

'Can you speak?’ Michael asked. 'My name is Michael.
Nama say a
Michael.
Siapa nama saudara?’

There was an achingly long silence while the girl kept her eyes on Michael, regarding him with curiosity and suspicion. Something in her expression told him that she had suffered great pain.

'Jam berapa sekarang?’
she whispered in a voice as faint as a gauze scarf blowing in the evening wind.

'Malam,’ Michael told her. She had wanted to know what time of day it was and he had explained that it was night.

Again he asked her name.
'Siapa nama saudara?’

But gradually she began to move away from him as if she were being blown by an unfelt breeze. Other families began to move away too, to vanish behind the shrines. One young man remained, however, looking at Michael as if he recognized him. He was thin and frighteningly pale but quite handsome, with the thin-featured appearance of a man from the north, from Bukit Jambul.

'He envies you,’ the
pedanda
said, standing close by Michael's shoulder. 'The dead always long to have their mortal bodies restored to them.’

'They seem to be frightened,’ Michael remarked.

The priest pressed his left hand against his deaf left ear and listened keenly with his right. 'They are. There must be leyaks close by. Leyaks prey on the dead as well as on the living. They capture their
antakaransariras
and drag them back to Rangda for torturing.’

'Even the dead can be tortured?’

'Rangda is the Queen of the Dead. She can put them through far more terrible agonies than they have ever suffered during their lifetimes.’

Michael turned and looked around the graveyard. He heard a rustling sound but it was only the creeper trailing against the shrines. Nonetheless, the
pedanda
clasped his wrist with fingers as bony as a hawk's and drew him back towards the graveyard gates.

'It is not wise to tempt the leyaks, especially since we are both in a death trance. Come, let us return to the temple.’

They left the graveyard and stepped out into Jalan Mahabnarata. The street was completely deserted, although some of the upstairs windows were lighted and there was the bonelike clacking of mah-jong tiles, and laughter. The
pedanda
glanced around and then took Michael's sleeve. 'Be quick. If the leyaks catch us in the open, they will kill us.’

They began to walk along the street as fast as they could without alerting hostile eyes. They passed two or three tourists and a fruit seller, all of whom seemed to be moving on a different time plane, moving so slowly that Michael could have snatched the durian fruit from the market woman's upraised hand without her realizing who had taken it. One of the tourists turned and frowned as if sensing their passing, but before he could collect his wits, they were gone.

They were no more than three hundred yards from the temple gates when
the pedanda
said, ‘There. On the other side of the street.’

Michael glanced sideways and caught sight of a grey-faced man in a grey suit, with eyes that shone carnivorously orange. He looked like a zombie out of a horror movie, but he walked swiftly and athletically, keeping pace with them on the opposite sidewalk; as he reached the small side street called Jalan Suling, the Street of Flutes, he was joined by another grey-faced man. Their cheeks could have been smeared with human ashes; their eyes could have been glowing lamps from the night market.

Taster,’ the
pedanda
insisted. Now they made no pretence of walking but ran towards the gates of the Puri Dalem as fast as they could. The priest held up his robes, and his sandals slapped on the bricks. Michael could have run much faster but he did not want to leave the old man behind. There were three or four leyaks following them now, and Michael glimpsed their glistening teeth.

They had almost reached the temple gates when three leyaks appeared in front of them. They were larger than Michael had ever imagined and their faces were like funeral masks. The
pedanda
gasped, 'Michael, the gates! Open the gates!’

Michael tried to dodge around the leyaks and reach the gates. One of the creatures snatched at his arm with a hand that felt like a steel claw. The nails dug into his skin but somehow he managed to twist away and cling to the heavy ring handle that would open up the temple. The leyak snatched at him again, viciously scratching his legs, but then Michael heaved the gate inwards and tumbled into the temple's outer courtyard.

The
pedanda
was not so lucky. The leyaks had jumped on him now; one of them had seized his left forearm in his jaws and was trying to pry the flesh from the bone. The other leyaks were ripping at his robes with their claws and already the simple white cotton was splashed with blood.

Michael screamed, 'No! No! Let him go!’ but the leyaks snarled and bit at the old
pedanda
like wild dogs, their eyes flaring orange. Blood flew everywhere in a shower of hot droplets. The noise was horrendous: snarling and screeching and tearing. Michael heard muscles shred, sinews snap, bones break like dry branches. For a moment the
pedanda
was completely buried under the grey, hulking leyaks and Michael thought he would never see the old priest again.

But then, like a drowning man reaching for air, the
pedanda
extended one hand towards the temple. Michael desperately tried to grasp it, missed the first time but then managed to seize the
pedanda's
wrist.

'Barong Keket!’ he shouted, although it was more of a war cry than an appeal to the sovereign of the forests, the archenemy of Rangda. 'Barong Keket!’

At the sound of the deity's name, the snarling leyaks raised their heads and glared at Michael with burning eyes. And as they raised their heads, Michael tugged at the
pedanda'?,
arm and managed to drag the old man into the safety of the temple courtyard. There were screams of rage and frustration from the leyaks, but none of them could walk on sacred ground. Their nails grated against the bronze doorway and they howled like wolves at bay, but they could come no further. Michael slammed the door and stood with his back to it, panting. The
pedanda
lay on the courtyard floor, his robes crimson with blood, gasping and shivering.

'We must leave this trance if we wish to survive,’ he gasped. 'Quickly, Michael. Take me back to the inner courtyard.’

Michael helped the priest to his feet. He could feel the sticky wetness of blood, the sliminess of torn muscle. The
pedanda felt
no pain because he was still deeply entranced, but there was no doubt that he was close to death. If Michael could not bring him out of the trance and take him to the hospital, the old priest would die within an hour. Breathing as deeply and as calmly as he could, Michael dragged the
pedanda
through the inner gate, the
paduraksa,
and back to the silken mats. The mask of Rangda was still there, covered by its cloth; the incense still smoked.

'You must recite… the
sanghyang…’
whispered the
pedanda.
'You are a priest now… your word has all the influence of mine.’