by Victor Mahn
Rickety could not properly place the mien of Limbuang. He had encountered him before, while in the course of restoring the supplies, carried out fortnightly which the Allied Forces got from the nearest local village. Limbuang was with his son then, as all females of the village had been sent to a neighbouring village. The reasons for that were unknown and unlikely to be divulged. Rickety did not find him odd, just enigmatic. Then again, all tribesmen that we have encountered are enigmatic. We do not know their ways or mannerisms. We are the aliens here! We can’t even communicate in their language, and that has proved to be a huge stumbling block—we lost a lot of time in deciphering each other’s meaning and intentions.
That morning, however, as Rickety had finished writing up his external physical examination of the infant that was found at the southern end of the camp, Limbuang had showed up at the infirmary with his amanuensis, who was also his translator: Ambiau. Rickety had been too tired then to ponder on where and how Ambiau learnt to communicate in the English language. Many strange happenings had taken place in a very short time.
Ambiau had explained that Limbuang was summoned to the camp by the spirit of a tapir, which had been wandering the outermost planes of the jungle close to the camp. The spirit was in a deep lugubrious state and had appeared in Limbuang’s dream just before dawn that day. Limbuang looked solemn, never removing his gaze from the bizarre-looking corpse.
“What do you mean, it directed him here?” Rickety asked Ambiau.
“Dia dukun,” he responded.
Rickety had heard the word ‘dukun’ mentioned somewhere and sometime in the past. He could not ascertain where or when – he was tired to the bone – but he knew what it meant. A shaman. This brought about a little clarity as to the self-proclaimed importance that Limbuang had in the eyes of his tribe, as he had indicated that he was an adept dukun, and that he could not be inhibited by an event as significant as this. Nonetheless, Rickety thought he had captured a sense of narcissism about Limbuang, and he peered at the ceiling, scornfully.
Ambiau was disheartened at Rickety’s expression of doubt, was about to utter something wrathful; already his arms were akimbo. Limbuang, in his acute state of tranquillity, did the uttering instead. But it was not directed toward Rickety, but, instead, to Ambiau – “Aray!”
“What did he say?” Rickety inquired, his exhaustion in overdrive now.
“He told me to stand down,” Ambiau responded, matter-of-factly.
“Eh? That did not sound like the language we have been hearing around the immediate villages. This is different; new.”
“Yes.”
“Yes?”
“But not new. Old, very old.”
“Hmm.”
“And from a village far away. Actually, a river”
“Ah, great. Delightful.” Exhaustion to the point of collapse, right about now…
“Limbuang is a Dayak.”
The last statement came as a mild surprise. Rickety never knew of any Dayaks—he had heard of them, sure, but had never actually encountered one. It is said that they were deadly and fanatical in their way of life.
Ambiau continued, “He is a Ma’anjan Dayak. From southern Kalimantan,” (which is what the locals call the island of Borneo, deriving from the Sanskrit word Kalamanthana – island with a burning weather – aptly named to describe the searing heat of the tropics). Ambiau went on to say that the vegetation in the south is uncommon and exclusive to that region, which Rickety only managed to catch in nebulous strands. Why mention that?
“Southern? But that is literally thousands of miles away!” Rickety exclaimed. Limbuang looked epic in his serenity.
“Yes. Southern. From the Barito River.”
The Australian military wing had given Rickety and his company a crash course on the island prior to flying them to the camp (the course lasting a day and a half in total). Vague memories brought forth impressions of a map of Borneo and the outlining of the main rivers and basins, with a disclaimer being thrown in: that should one be in a situation of being cut off from the company, to stay close to and follow the rivers, in the hope of reaching one of the many villages inhabited by the local tribespeople. The name ‘Barito’ had stood out on the map. It was right next to Kahayan River which was a long river that cut through the town of Banjarmasin.
Banjarmasin has its roots in history in a cyclical fashion, as is the case for many of the cities, towns, villages and ports in the region—the Dutch had established their trading posts and garrison cities in the early seventeenth century, and coexisting with them were the local kings of Banjar (and other villages and stipulated regions in South Kalimantan), before the coming of the Japanese and the fall of Banjarmasin in February 1942. Prior to all these changes, it was largely a Hindu region known as Negara Daha (also pronounced Negara Daya – from which stems the word ‘Dayak’), of the Majapahit Empire.
The Ma’anjan Dayaks are inherently from the eastern wing of Central Kalimantan. The length of the Barito River encompasses different segments known as Regencies (thirteen in all), and each segment is ruled by a Regent—known as bupati in Indonesian. This word also has its roots in Sanskrit, in which it is shortened from two distinct words, bhumi (the Earth, or land) and pati (lord): the Lord of the Land. However, most of the population of Banjarmasin were then converted to Islam. Limbuang must be from the western parts, then, Rickety thought.
The Dayaks (and almost all the indigenous tribes of Kalimantan) are riverine folk, and foundationally embrace animism—they believe in the spirit realms and that everything in existence is in a state of balance (or that it is up to man to uphold that balance). Their origin is a mystery (though most claim that it had been bifurcated from Hinduism), as their historical accounts are mostly oral literature and folklore, though some are recorded by being etched on wooden planks called papan turai—the symbolism and arrangements of which resemble those of the Egyptian hieroglyphs.
They are a hunter-gatherer community and spend a great deal of time refining their methods of warfare and one of their most defining attributes: ngayau, the ritual of headhunting. Almost all subdivisions of the Dayak people carry out the ngayau, from the Ibans (Dayaks of the Sea) and Bidayuh (the Land Dayaks) to the Muruts, being the last subdivision to renounce the daunting practice. The abandonment of the headhunting practices has been attributed mostly to the peace-making accord held at Tumbang Anoi in Kalimantan in 1874, in which approximately a thousand representatives of the one hundred and fifty-two Dayak subdivisions had been present, to pledge a truce amongst them, which ultimately led to a cessation of civil wars spanning centuries in the jungles of Kalimantan.
Then there were the dense jungles of Borneo, hugely underexplored mountainous terrains. The flora and fauna here are sui generis—primates, particularly the orangutans and the proboscis, had been studied in the past by biologists. In these times of war, however, such research had been suspended. Even anthropological investigations have been staved off, Rickety had once remarked to his superior during their transit at the Dutch East Indies. They argued that the output of that research might have some tactical advantage, especially in recruiting the locals as informants and in getting assistance and supplies—undoubtedly the output would be academic and protracted, as all scientific inquiries would be. Perhaps it was better that military personnel carried out such analysis, with practical considerations always in mind.
“Let us get under some sunlight, Ambiau,” Rickety suggested.
“Yes.”
The three of them gathered outside of the infirmary, at a circular patch of white grass. The sombre mood around the camp seemed to have changed, somewhat. There were also some natural jungle sounds—the birds and insects seem to have snapped out of the morning’s trance. A subaltern (whom Rickety had never spoken to) was scurrying past them just then, and Rickety hailed him to give him instructions to locate and accompany Sgt Annand-Sri to this assembly. He was uncertain who Rickety was talking about, which forced Rickety to use the nickname that has
been assigned to Anand since the infernal accident with a landmine that had cost him his left arm – Arm-a-nill-O. The youngling was then nodding excitedly, claiming recognition now. What an imbecile, Rickety said to himself as the underling swivelled on his boot and scurried off.
“The Zeros’ sorties are not following a schedule, after all. The reports from the HQ are to be treated with moderate dubiety”, one of the five loudspeakers of the camp blasted with the familiar voice of the ‘Radio Man’—Joseph Sprintz. Rickety decided not to have this impinge on his strained mind—let someone else do the thinking about the Japanese’s habits and routines.
“Limbuang is fascinated with your eyes. They’re blue, a colour not meant for eyes. Only seas and the sky,” Ambiau remarked.
Rickety stood silent for a bit, then, “Thank you.”
“He also says that the forest spirits are pleased with your handling of the infant.”
“Are the forest spirits aware that I had to cut into it?” Rickety queried, now alarmed that he had referred to the infant as it.
“You created harmony now. It was not in harmony earlier. You put her to rest. Peaceful.”
“How do you know it was a her?”
“Limbuang told me this morning.”
“What else has he told you?” Rickety was biding his time for Annand to be present now—he wanted to question him in the presence of Limbuang.
“He said—” Ambiau was cut off by the tramp of heavy military boots right behind him, belonging to a soldier stationed within the camp. The Dayaks tolerated many of them—save the Japanese, whose sole objective was to obliterate all tribal communities so they could get at the precious metal that is rumoured to be in abundance in Borneo: gold.
“Sir!” Annand was known to be terribly proper; he presented the formal salute to a superior officer. A neatly sewn sleeve, folded several times over, had circumscribed the length of what remained of his left arm.
“At ease, Annand. Now tell me, what’s your story?”
“Sir?”
“You found the bundle this morning, correct?”
“Yes, Sir. During the dawn patrol.”
Annand was part of a team commissioned to locate and remove landmines. Everyone loathed this detail, but the Sikhs and Indians were a gallant lot, and it seemed that they sought out such roles within the armed units. Several months ago, they received a communique that a Japanese reconnaissance team would be traversing within a mile of their camp and so they chose a termination squad to eradicate them. However, the camp’s CO thought it was crucial to have the premise probed by the minesweepers several hours prior, lest a ‘friendly’ were to tragically blow himself up during the confused state of skirmish that would most likely happen in the dark. After all, they were mostly boys.
The minesweeping division spread outward in a unilateral fashion, headed by Sgt Annand-Sri. He was cautious and perceptive; the lion of the team who invariably sees to the safety of everyone under his care. One of the younger members of the minesweeping team, adept in artwork, had done an illustration of a charging lion on Annand’s helmet. It was a remarkable work of art; everyone beheld it with reverence. It was said that it depicted courage and emulated or represented the character of a guardian. Annand wore the helmet facing backward ever since, having the lion facing his team as though watching over them.
They had ventured several yards out of the camp, from the same southern entrance, when a thundering blast echoed from between the trees. The locals would readily swear that the sound created by the exploding mine could easily rival that of the fourth explosion of the famous Krakatoa in 1883. Rickety, however, knew better and he treated the wounded with the greatest empathy. Annand was confined to bedrest for the next two months, and his recuperation had been routinely disrupted by the shifting of the infirmary from one spot to the next. Damn those Japs!
The medical supplies had been greatly expended through the caring of Annand, but Rickety did not care; he wanted them replenished as soon as reasonably possible. There had been news on the grapevine that the local tribes had some medicine. Rickety thought that these may not be practical, as they would be most likely be traditional oils or something of that nature but he would gladly try anything right now. He reassured himself that the medicines would have been refined over the course of time by whoever made them; as tribal feuds occurred regularly and that the wounded warriors would needed to be healed quickly. It was then that another skirmish team, through the same south entrance, headed off to Limbuang’s village.
Rickety was amazed at how fast Annand’s facial hair was growing. By the tenth day of being immobilised in bed, he was looking like a Swami at an ashram. He did not lose his sense of humour, though, nor was he pessimistic—which was another matter that caused bewilderment in Rickety. Annand laughed quite frequently, saying that it was a payment to absolve his negative karma. They had spoken at length of the concepts of karmic action-reaction system, of Annand’s village in the state of Assam (where many westerners go to hunt tigers from the backs of elephants), of the many temples and the miracles beheld (and recorded) throughout India. Must be the effect of the morphine, Rickety had concluded.
“Why did you not alert the camp’s CO before proceeding to move the baby?” Rickety asked. He pictured the way Annand would have recoiled upon the sight of the bundle.
“Don’t know, Sir. It seemed all right,” Annand was stoic.
Rickety thought for a moment. “That’s fine, I suppose— doesn’t matter. Did you see anything or anyone else in the vicinity?”
“No one or nothing, Sir.”
“No footprints or the like? Come on, chief, you ought to know these things. You’re the expert on details!”
Annand looked iffy. He had been having a nap after having been abruptly woken up by the scurrying youngster. A twelve-hour patrol covering a radius of only two miles could easily tire any man. And then there was the grim discovery at four that morning. I mean, with eyes like that? Evil! Annand had the last hit of morphine; something he was saving for a ‘needy’ time. Apparently, that time was today, after the fiasco. But now he had been woken up, forcefully and in a semi-delirious state, being questioned by the camp’s Medical Officer. It was important, without a doubt. But damn the fool who jerked me awake! He could have done it nicely! Then again, this was a time of war, and they were thousands of miles away from home—why should anyone be nice?
“I saw a shape behind the line of trees. Or at least I thought I did,” Annand said.
Ahh indeed, Rickety thought. A shape. There are many shapes in the jungle, man. Then— “Ambiau, could you translate that for Limbuang, please?”
Ambiau turned his head to the left, towards the shaman, who seemed to be only slightly taller than four feet. When the first encounter with the tribe took place, the Allies thought that this was a community of pygmies. He then whispered to the latter, who was nodding in appreciation of what was said.
“A forest spirit,” Ambiau translated Limbuang’s response. Annand shot a look of sarcasm at the two natives, made some snide remark in Bengali (his mother-tongue). It was Rickety’s turn to appear serene now.
“A forest spirit?” Annand repeated in the same tone of mockery.
“The Semangat has manifested in this form. It is sad, and angry too,” Ambiau said.
“And what is a Semangat?” Rickety asked. The inquiry was not going well.
“It is the all-pervading power that holds everything in balance. It is tied to the soul of everything: humans, things, animals, trees,” Ambiau made sure that they followed his hand gestures toward the trees and the sky.
“So, a manifestation of that power? Took place this morning? Why did it not prevent the murder of the baby?” Rickety lined up these questions in series, not putting forth a tidy effort of concealing his anger.
Ambiau asked Limbuang this and conveyed the response to the alien soldiers – “To bring back the balance.”
Gee wee! Ain’t that a delight?
“Wha
t I would like to know, Ambiau and company, is whether you guys saw any sign of the Japs running recons during your flight here? Or, rather, during your arduous walk here?” Rickety asked.
“Sir! Do you hear that?” Annand asked swiftly. His eyes were darting in sporadic directions. Limbuang sensed an undercurrent of terror rising within the handicapped soldier— he did lose a part of himself in this jungle after all; in fact, just about a hundred yards from where we are standing.
“It is silent, Annand. I don’t hear anything,” Rickety said. As silent as the grave. A grave for an infant. Another loathsome joke, becoming bilious now. What the actual fuck is wrong with me today?!
“Exactly, Sir. The jungle has stopped.” Stopped. That word had a depth of its own, and it was the key that implied the state of trepidation Annand was experiencing. During the foundational year at medical school, Rickety had enrolled into a course that was outside of the mainstream medical sciences: Neuro-Linguistic Programming (NLP). He took it up to fill his credit hours and because it was not a heavy subject. However, the cost-benefit ratio was to his favour, as he enjoyed the lessons greatly. In one lesson, they were taught about using certain key words that could do all sorts of things to an individual: immobilise them, inspire them, or even create a sheer sense of panic within them. He was therefore keenly aware of the use of language and the interconnectedness it has with the mind. Being a keen observant, he noted that Annand was now centre stage of the situation; he was the first to encounter the infant.
“It is here,” Ambiau said.
The calmness of the jungle had been replaced by an impetuous gale. Dust and dry mud was picked up, creating a wall of thick, brown fog. And then, a crackling giggle, inhuman and sinister, low at first, but then rising like the tides at the far-end beach on the north. Upon hearing this, Rickety felt a forbidding chill down his spine—it is most definitely not a natural sound. It’s from an unnatural source! Annand, now standing at Rickety’s right, felt that all his sensory organs had suddenly heightened a hundredfold. His heart beat at a quickened pace, and his sweat glands flooded his scalp, face and palms. In all, it would have lasted a mere ten seconds.