Moby Jack & Other Tall Tales (30 page)

Yet, on the other hand, it occurred to me that in any shadow world the shadows must be the main characters, and the objects that cast them subordinate to the shadows’ needs and desires.

I was in their world at the moment, the world in which they held sway. I had entered through the dimension of the
wayang kulit
, which had seduced my mind into passing through the gate, and the power was in the hands of the shadows.

My own weak shadow was now a ragged thing as the ravenous Kala moved over it, devouring it ferociously, as a starving wolf consumes its kill.

I turned and ran
,
heading for my hut, desperate to get out of the light of the moon before my shadow was totally destroyed, for the man who casts no shadow is not there. He no longer exists in this world.

When I reached the hut the voracious Kala, using the waving palms around the hut to cast his shape, began feasting once again. Weak now, I fell on the steps of the hut, unable to shake off the dark creature on my shadow’s back. By the time I was able to crawl through the doorway, little was left except a few wisps of me. I felt ravaged, tattered, my shadow a weathered black banner that had been through many battles, many seasons.

I lay in the safety of the darkness feeling shaken and terrified. Awake for several hours, my mind ran away in a panic, knowing that the sun would rise the next morning, and most likely the moon at night. I was trapped inside this hut, unable to turn on the light. Kala must have been laughing, knowing I would have to come out some time. So long as he was patient, I would be delivered to him eventually.

The next morning it was bright, sunny day and I cowered in the corner of my hut, afraid to be caught in any of the beams that cut through the gaps in the curtains. At three o’clock, however, the sky clouded over and a tropical storm threatened. It was soon dark enough for me to leave the hut without casting a shadow.

I hurried out to find Ketut.

At first he tried to ignore me, but when he saw how distressed I had become, he motioned for me to step off the street into the house of his parents.

‘You must help me,’ I cried, watching the distant lightning on the horizon getting closer by the minute.

Ketut listened to my story and then told me we had to find the
dalang
quickly. He took me by the hand and led to me to a temple at the end of Monkey Forest Road. By this time it was raining hard—a torrential monsoon downpour that could drown a cat if it didn’t find shelter—and I had no fear of shadows. The pressure of the rain caused palms to genuflect, turned dirt streets to muddy rivers, and lowered visibility to zero.

Once in the gloom the temple’s recesses, with the rain thundering on the metal roof, Ketut went off to find the
dalang
. He reappeared a little later.

‘Come,’ he said, beckoning me towards a small room. ‘The
dalang
will help you.’

I entered the room in which the same
dalang
sat cross-legged in the centre of a large palm-leaf mat. A small, wiry man with dark eyes, the
dalang
motioned for me to sit down on the mat. I did as I was told, knowing I was in his hands completely.

Ketut said, ‘He wants you to turn sideways.’

A profile. Right. Once I was in the correct position, the
dalang
took out a wad of dirty cloth and unrolled it. In it was a row of small chisels and knives, which glinted in the dull light from the doorway. He began cutting and shaping a piece of stiff hide, scraping out hollows, chiselling holes, perforating the tough leather, working swiftly. I realised what was happening, of course. He was making a
wayang kulit
from my silhouette.

I was to be a shadow puppet.

While the
dalang
was working, Ketut left me alone with him for a while, returning after a few minutes.

Once the form was cut, it was painted and hung up to dry.

Ketut said, ‘Later the
dalang
will add the sticks. You must now go back to the darkness of your room. Tonight the
dalang
will use your puppet in the story of
Bomantaka
.’

‘What will happen? How will that help me?’ I asked.

Ketut said seriously, ‘Your shadow must kill the shadow of Kala, king of the demons, to free yourself of him.’

A chill went through me. I didn’t dare ask what would happen if my shadow failed. What if Kala killed
me
instead, then ate my puppet’s shadow? Would that mean the end of me too?
The man without a shadow is not there
. I knew it would probably mean my death too, as well as that of my shadow.

I went back to my hut on the rice terraces to find Nyoman had returned. The shutters to the hut were still closed and it was hot inside. She was lying on the bed in the darkness. She patted the bed beside her.

‘Come,’ she said, ‘you must lie with me. Ketut called me on the phone and told me what has happened.’

There were no more words needed. I lay down beside her and waited. She held my hand. I think I fell asleep just as the ducks were being called in for the night.

2.

I am behind a rock near the trunk of the Tree of Life. Sooner or later all things must pass by the Tree. It is a huge growth, reaching halfway to the clouds, and spreads its canopy massively over a third of the world. Here and there a great branch dips to the earth, then rises again as a mighty river of bark. In this flourishing vast network of leafy branches, more numerous than the blades of grass in the true world, are all manner of creatures, real and unreal: birds and beasts, mythological beings and monsters. Their forms proliferate. Spots, stripes, dark and light, but no colour, for this is the land of shadows. They decorate its foliage. They are part of the tree, growing with it, from it, in it. They are its fruit, its nuts, its buds and blossoms.

As well as growing and nourishing every known creature, except man, the arboreal god is a provider of real fruits: figs, oranges, grapefruits, limes, lemons, walnuts, hazelnuts, coconuts, grapes, bananas and every fruit known to humankind as well as those fictitious delicacies which adorn the mosaic walls in forgotten temples deep inside the last jungles.

There are greys within greys, shade upon shade: there are as many delicate monochromatic tones as the colours of the real world in the Tree of Life, hiding some things, revealing others, constantly unfolding new wonders, endlessly concealing old ones. It is life, uncurling like a fern, twisting in agony like a wounded creature, cryptically opening a flower of stunning shadowed beauty here, secretly closing a faded bloom there.

This is the wonder under which I wait, a long curved dagger in my right hand, my heart beating madly with fear. What if I fail? What if the great Kala swallows my shadow, my soul? Shall I then be
nothing
in the universe?

Lone warriors have passed me by, armed to the teeth with an extraordinary arsenal of weapons—spiked objects, deadly pointed missiles, strange ropes and leathers—some of which I can only guess at the use. Bands of brigands, monsters, ogres, fairies and giants, all have wandered past, some clearly looking for war, others avoiding it.

Armies too have marched by the enormous trunk, their feet and horses’ hooves thundering on the hard dark earth, their generals magnificently arrayed in dull armour.

Sometimes
these armies meet on the plain to fight and the air sings with arrows, wails
with spears, clatters with the blades of swords. Thousands fall, their blood mingling with the dust, and heroes rise out of the dead, silvery heroes shining with pure brilliance, their swords in one hand, the Ring of Truth in the other. Their followers rally, inspired by the magnificent spectacle of light-rising-from-darkness, to clash again with the foe, to send them fleeing north, west, east and south, over the fading edges of the world, into the void which surrounds the land of shadows.

Around me the lone and level plain falls away on all sides, disappears at the edges into misty regions of the unknown, where perhaps lurk even more grisly creatures—perhaps some that would stop a man’s heart dead by their mere appearance?

I hear a sound behind me! Out of a cave-hole in the ground a giant, horned serpent has appeared. Sparks fly from its eyes. Its foul breath has the stink of brimstone and flames hiss from its nostrils. Its tail, when it appears, is a club of spikes, each tipped with some terrible toxin whose drips instantly wither the leaves on
shrubs.
Bat-wings unfold with leathery cracklings. As it moves towards me, scales drop from its skin, razor sharp, to slice and bury themselves into the earth like skimmed metal shields.

It opens its mouth to reveal not just two, but rows of fangs each as long as the curved knife I hold in my hand. It prepares to strike, rearing back, and I have only my dagger to protect me. As the beast’s head descends, jaws open wide, I fling the dagger down its throat with all my strength. The creature screams in agony, writhing away from me, thrashing its loathsome coils in the dust beneath the Tree of Life. It squirms and convulses, tying itself in knots, until finally it disappears back down the dark tunnel from whence it first emerged.

At that moment Kala appears on the horizon, taller than six ordinary men, his great feet pounding the earth. He roars, triumphantly and I now know it was he who sent the serpent, to wrest my weapon from me. Kala, the great evil one, king of the demons, devourer of men, comes thundering over the plain. His face is a cruel mask of savagery. There is no mercy in his lustful eyes, only DEATH and GREED, both of which are his rulers. His arms have the strength of mighty apes, his legs the power of stallions. From his chest armour and shoulder straps dangle a thousand shrunken skulls—eaten men—and from his hips and thighs dried gristle and rattling bones. A belt of human hair supports the scabbard of his terrible scimitar.

Kala, humpbacked,
thick-chested
and starry-eyed, a dwarf figure fleshed into a giant, has magic in those hands that can bend the strongest metal. There is sorcery in those feet that can crush rocks to powder. He believes he is invincible, but
he has been destroyed, many times, by a great hero
. He wants my flesh, my bones,
my
soul. He wants to devour me. He has tasted of my shadow and is now obsessed with the tang of me on his palate. He must have me to gratify his insatiable appetite for the bodies and souls of men.

I am helpless against his onslaught. My dagger has gone, tricked from me by the demon-king. There is nowhere to run to, for the world is too small to hide from Kala. I stand and wait in terror as his ferocious form pounds towards me.

In the suspended moment before I am snatched up into his brutal jaws a figure leaps from behind the trunk of the Tree of Life. It is Nyoman armed with two bright swords. Nyoman, sheathed from head to foot in black leather armour.
Nyoman, light as a dancer on her feet, dextrous as a juggler with her weapons.
She stands before Kala, challenging him with her stance, her bright blades swishing the air before his eyes, slicing away the darkness he has trailed with him across the plains.

‘Nyoman!’ I shout.

Kala lunges at her with a heavy arm, but Nyoman skips out of the way, slashing the hand. Dark blood spurts forth from the wound and Kala screams in agony and rage. He stamps with his horny heel, trying to squash this little warrior, only to receive yet another deep wound in the tender bridge of his foot.

Kala clutches at a branch on the Tree of Life as he staggers back, his foot gushing blood. The branch is unable to support his great weight and snaps away. He falls, crashing to the dust, and the world shakes as in an earthquake. Nyoman leaps onto his chest and begins stabbing this way and that, at the throat, in the shoulder joints, at the eyes. Kala is blinded. In his terrible sightless fury he grips the small figure on his breast, but his fingers slide from the oiled leather armour. She is a slippery lizard, unable to be grasped, dancing the dance of death on Kala’s form.

‘Quickly,’ she calls to me, ‘it must be you who delivers the mortal stroke.’

Nearby is the
branch which
was torn from the Tree of Life. Where it has broken away the torn end is sharp, like the jagged point of a stake. I snatch this weapon, jump onto Kala’s chest, and plunge the stake into his heart. There is a
flood,
a fountain of blood shoots forth, high as a cedar. Kala lets out a loud, hollow moan, which fills every crevice in the land of shadows, and echoes back and forth through the distant mountains and valleys on the edge of the world.