Love and Death in Bali

by Vicki Baum

  Opposite the seat of the lords was the place for the judge. An elderly man took his seat there with a shallow vessel of water in front of him and one half of a coconut shell with a hole in the bottom. Next to him another man sat with a small gong. The fighting had been in progress for hours, but Pak, in obedience to his father’s advice, had bridled his own and his cock’s impatience. The earlier fights were of small importance and were not for cocks such as his. Nevertheless, the building was crowded and the whole neighborhood echoed with the crowing of cocks in their hampers. Gamblers shouted their bets and held up their money, and bets were often taken from one side of the building to the other. The owners of the cocks that were fighting at the moment squatted in the ring, and other men at the corners with their birds in front of them were waiting to match them. Others again whose birds were to fight next were already busy binding the fine sharp two-edged blades to their spurs, carefully winding the shaft of the weapon with a long cord, so that the blade stuck out firmly at a killing angle from the fighter’s spurs.

  At the very moment when Pak and his cock and his father reached the balé and were looking about for a place, the attention of the spectators was taken from the cocks by the arrival of the lord of Badung, accompanied by his retinue. The punggawa greeted him and was invited by the lord to take his place beside him. The keeper of the lord’s cocks put down the hampers and took the birds out. “Mbe!” the spectators exclaimed as each fighting-cock appeared. Every one was a picked bird, fine, strong, quivering with courage and lust of battle, crowing, flapping its wings, dancing with impatience and hardly to be held back. The punggawa, too, had two servants with four of his cocks and these also were splendid birds. A little old man crouched at the lord’s feet— Ida Katut, the storyteller. He was clasping a dark-brown hamper to his breast and from it, rather later, he tenderly drew a white cock who gave every sign of courage and pugnacity, although he was small. Pak’s father leant over to his son and said, “That little white one has won fourteen fights already. He has a scar on his right leg. Can you see it?” Pak gave only a fleeting glance; his eyes were glued to the lord’s cocks. Mine is quite as beautiful, he thought, with a sudden rush of pride, and his heart glowed within him. He opened his hamper from which the head of his impatient Srawah had been darting again and again and balanced him on his hand. The sudden swell of pride was as suddenly dashed. No, he thought, my cock is not half as good as the lord’s ones. He was better than most in Taman Sari, no doubt. He had looked magnificent on the grass plot in front of the village hall; but now that Pak was forced to compare him with the finest birds of Badung, he shrank at once and Pak’s courage failed him.

  “I will wait a bit and see first how the other cocks shape,” he whispered to his father. The old man raised his eyebrows in assent without taking his eyes from the ring. “Would you like to bet?” Pak asked, knowing that his father had not a kepeng. He took a little string of kepengs from his sirih pouch and gave it to his father. Pak had dug up five ringits’ worth of money from under his house when he set off for his cock’s first fight; yet he was not so sure now that he was going to win a great deal.

  He put the cock back in the hamper for the time and gave his mind to the ring. The tumult in the balé was just reaching its height, for two red cocks were about to be let go by their owners and the last bets had been taken. Money was tossed on the ground and money was passing from hand to hand until it reached the taker. Bets were shouted on all sides with cries of even money, two to one and five to one. The moment the cocks were let go, silence fell. Pak had merely shaken his head in response to any bet offered him. His money was not to stake on somebody or other’s red cock. He was keeping it for his own bird, who stuck his head out from time to time and crowed a challenge followed by the little gurgle that promised victory. The two red cocks stepped round each other for a moment, and then sprang up with a flutter of their wings and their steel spurs cut the air. At the very first encounter both were wounded. One of them appeared to have had his right leg sinew severed, for he sank to the ground and blood trickled from him. The other was bleeding, too, from the left wing, but he could stand. As neither renewed the fight the gong sounded, and at the same moment the judge put his coconut shell into the bowl of water. It filled and sank. He took it out and put it in once more, and when it sank for the second time the time was up, and the gong was again struck.

  During these brief moments a few more bets were made while the owners of the two cocks, after retiring to their respective corners, tried every means of restoring their birds for the next round. But they did not seem to have much success. When the gong sounded and the cocks were put into the ring again, one of them sat down as before and the other stood still and showed no fight. The coconut shell was again dipped, while the spectators abused, encouraged and derided. When the gong was struck again without battle being joined, the two cowards were put in a basket together and so compelled to fight. This time the cock with the wounded leg decided to attack. He flew up—and now there was profound silence—his spurs flashed and the other cock collapsed. The basket was removed, again the gong sounded and the coconut shell sank below the water. As neither now got to his feet, the fight ended in a draw and the spectators greeted this conclusion with good-tempered burble and laughter. The two men took up their cocks, one wounded, the other dying, and went away. Pak’s father looked round at his son and smiled. Pak raised his eyebrows. He was glad he had not betted. The lord, whose light skin was set off by a black jacket, had paid little attention to this fight. He was talking earnestly to the punggawa. From time to time Ida Katut clasped his hands before venturing to interpose a jest which the lord acknowledged with a distracted smile. More and more men arrived and more and more cocks. A serried rank formed at the back of the highest step, everywhere the spectators were squeezed closer and closer together and the hot air scarcely stirred.

  Pak made two bets; he put fifty kepengs on a tailless cock and two hundred on a Buwik and won both times. He got terribly excited when one of the lord’s cocks fought a cock from Kesiman, but he did not dare to bet. The cock from Kesiman looked a splendid bird; the lord’s cock had fought many a battle and had the advantage of experience, but his years began to tell. Pak fancied the cock from Kesiman. But though he put up a gallant fight, the lord’s cock won and Pak released the breath he had held throughout the third round. Once more he was glad he had not betted.

  Thus hour after hour went by, and the sun was already in the third quarter of the day when Pak took out the Srawah and pushed his way through to seek out an adversary for him. By this time the heat and the excitement had reached fever-pitch and the bets rose in proportion. Men who had lost all their money were throwing down rings and krises, and the crowing of the cocks and the shouted bets were equally loud and piercing.

  As soon as Pak put his cock down on the ground and stroked his neck feathers upwards to rouse him, he could see, as the bird sprang up with a thrust of his strong legs, that his Srawah excited admiration. He was beside himself with the lust for battle. He sunk his head and wanted to fight every cock that was shown him. But Pak knew that he must match him only against a pure white one or else a Buwik and he refused all others. After looking all round he saw a man from Taman Sari who had a good white cock. The two birds had often tried each other’s mettle in sport on the grass outside the village hall, and Pak was sure his bird would win if he fought this white one. His owner, however—Limbak was his name—had a firm belief in the strength of his own bird and was in any case a boaster and a gambler. He had often chaffed and annoyed Pak by crying down his Srawah. Pak exchanged a glance with his father and waddled, still squatting, up to Limbak. “What do you say to it?” he asked. Limbak displayed his white cock and they both held their birds fast to prevent them going for each other on the spot. Both were eager to fight; there was no need to rouse them first. Several men squatted near and gave their opinion, but Pak was now so excited that he didn’t hear anything that was said to him. Limbak took hold of Pak
’s Srawah to size him up and Pak took Limbak’s white cock and stroked his neck feathers and let him bounce up from the ground. He could tell by the feel of him that he had not such good muscles or as good a wind as his own bird. He felt sure of victory and felt with one hand for the money in his girdle. But Limbak, though a braggart, was no fool. “No,” he said, giving Pak his bird back, “not today. Next fight if yours is still alive.” A few men laughed.

  Pak had to look about for another opponent. The Srawah was so full of fight and impatience that he nearly burst. He flapped his wings, crowed challenge after challenge and Pak could feel his heart beating under his fingers.

  “Show your cock,” someone said behind him. When Pak looked round he found himself face to face with the punggawa, the most powerful man in the five coast villages. He had left the elevated seat that befitted his caste and in the heat of battle had come down among the common people and he had a Buwik in his hand. While Pak was still staring at the punggawa and his speckled cock, his Srawah sprang up with lowered head and wanted to begin.

  “A good match,” the punggawa said. He gave his bird to Pak and took hold of Pak’s to test him. Although two other cocks were fighting in the ring at the moment, many eyes, as Pak could feel rather than see, were turned from the contest and fixed on him and the punggawa. There were cries of “Let them have a go at one another,” and “That will be a good fight!” and “Pak, the punggawa will have roast fowl tonight!” The last was in Rib’s voice, and Pak turned angrily round and saw the broad grin on the face of his humorous friend. He was still holding the punggawa’s cock and the punggawa was holding his. Never had Pak had such a cock in his grasp. All that his own cock had this one had, too, and he had twice of it. His muscles were even harder and broader, the air quivered in his breast, his legs were as springy as bamboos and his courage beat out of him like the heat of a fire. Pak looked about him in a daze, for cries of encouragement and warning flew about his head. He looked for his father and saw the old man’s eyes far away in the throng. But he saw also that the old man was standing up and looking across to him, and that he raised his eyebrows and dropped his eyelids and this clearly meant: Yes, let them fight.

  “Right,” Pak said to the punggawa, forgetting in his excitement the polite forms of address due to a man of his station. There they sat man to man on the same level, on the floor of the cockpit, and it was no time for formalities.

  “Twenty-five ringits,” the punggawa said. Pak fell steeply from his height.

  “I have not got them, Highness,” he said, and taking back his Srawah, revived his courage by the feel of the bird’s strength. “Five, then?” the punggawa asked. Pak nodded.

  “Who will put twenty-five ringits on the Srawah against my cock?” the punggawa shouted. Pak felt as though he were whirling in the rapids of a river in the rainy season. Suddenly there was silence. “Let me see your cock,” the lord said from his lofty seat, and stretched out his hand. Pak did not understand what he meant. Somebody gave him a dig in the ribs. “His Highness the raja wants to see your cock,” Rib shouted somewhere behind him. The anak Agung Bima, whom Pak knew, came down and took his cock from his hands. Pak felt bereft when it was taken from him. He followed him with his eyes as the anak Agung Bima carried him off and handed him to the lord. The lord weighed him on his hand, rubbed his neck feathers up the wrong way, stroked him, looked at his feet, made him spring up from the ground and then held him down. The cock struggled and was not polite to the lord, for he loved his master, Pak, and could not bear a strange hand on him.

  “Fifty to your twenty-five,” the lord called out to the punggawa, and the cock was passed from hand to hand back to Pak. The officials and courtiers who sat behind the lord now began talking all at once, and a ring set with rubies was thrown on the ground. It rolled past Pak, who stared at it in amazement. The real betting had not yet begun; this was only the prelude and the excitement rose higher and higher as the two adversaries armed with their spurs were matched against each other. Pak held his cock and his heart throbbed right up in his throat.

  Suddenly he was overwhelmed by a pang of fear. If he let his beloved cock loose on the other, there was no certainty he would be victorious. He might be dead in less time than it took a bored coconut to sink in the water. It came to him in a flash that his cock would lose and be killed. He looked round about him, and back at his own bird, and it seemed very small and young. He looked at the punggawa’s. It was a gigantic bird and it seemed to grow larger and more formidable the longer he looked at it. He clasped his cock to his breast.

  “I am afraid,” he said.

  “What of?” the punggawa asked.

  “I am afraid. My cock is no good, Highness,” Pak said. The punggawa looked at him for a moment, shrugged his shoulders and stood up. Someone picked up the ruby ring. Pak’s cock crowed. Pak looked for his hamper and was overcome with shame. He wanted to bundle his cock inside and go home.

  Jokes and jeers were showered on him from all sides. The lord, who had been laughing a moment before, looked annoyed. But Ida Katut restored his good humor in the nick of time. He drew his little white cock from his hamper and clambered down from the dais to the edge of the ring.

  “Twenty-five ringits to my lord’s fifty,” he shouted. “And no one shall say we are cowards, my cock and I.”

  Everyone laughed, the lord too. It was comical to see how the little man puffed himself out, strutting like the hero of a shadowplay, and how his little white cock copied him, flapping his wings, extending his lowered head with the obvious intention of making short work of Pak’s Srawah.

  “Done, my friend?” Ida Katut asked Pak.

  “Yes, sir, if it pleases you,” Pak said in confusion.

  They were surrounded by a ring of men and a moment later they sat in a corner binding the spurs on to the feet of the cocks. Pak went over in his head all the advice his father had given him—the north-east corner, the broad short spur, and not to forget to breathe his own strength into the cock before the fight began. Ida Katut meanwhile provoked more laughter by arming his little cock with the largest and most formidable spur he could find in his wooden box. It was of serpentine shape like a tiny kris and it gave the little white cock an extremely warlike air. In spite of this Pak felt completely confident. When their turn came they took their birds into the middle of the ring. Both were mad to fight and now the spectators began betting.

  And now Pak noticed that not everyone was betting on his fine large cock; the little white one had the reputation of being a great fighter and a sure killer, as Pak’s father, who knew everything, had told him beforehand. The betting was fast and furious, voices rose, money flew through the air and there was great excitement. Pak put his hand to his cock’s breast and felt it beating fast and hard against his little ribs, and he rubbed up his neck feathers to excite him still more. He blew his breath into his eyes and beak and let him go. His five ringits lay beside Ida Katut with Ida Katut’s five on top. There was a lot more money on the ground, and as the fight started Pak felt his heart beating like a drum in his chest.

  The two cocks circled round, with heads sunk and bent legs, watching each other. Suddenly the little white one flew up and attacked the Srawah. The Srawah, too, sprang up and defended himself. The spurs flashed, a few white feathers flew and again the cocks faced each other. Neither had gained any advantage. At the third encounter there was a murmur from the onlookers, and Pak was aware that now his cock was wounded in the right leg. There was a trickle of blood but he did not seem to notice it, although he limped as he turned in a circle with lowered head watching the other cock. The little white one was a dangerous opponent; how dangerous, Pak saw only now. He was experienced and cool-headed; he meant to kill and he knew how to wait for the right moment. He flew up the fourth time and when the spurs flashed past each other in the flutter of feathers the onlookers shouted “Got him!” But they were mistaken.

  The cocks separated again and Pak’s Srawah limped on his wounded leg and sa
t down in dejection. The plumage of the white one was bloody, but it was the blood of Pak’s cock, not his own; and yet neither was seriously hurt. As the fight was not resumed, the gong was struck and Pak took up his bird and hurried to the north-east corner where he was relieved to find his father waiting for him. The old man took the cock from his hands, bathed him quickly and skilfully in the bowl that was there ready, massaged the wound with the tips of his fingers, stroked his plumage and gave him to Pak to breathe into, for Pak was young and he was old and had not much strength to give.

  The cock was ready even before the gong sounded, and although he limped it seemed that a waxing rage of battle had only now come over him. The moment Pak let him go he fluttered up over the white one and again a murmur went in a wave through the balé. This time the Srawah had taken the white one off his guard and his left wing hung down. Though both were wounded they felt nothing and had no thought but to fight to the death. Pak’s cock limped and Ida Katut’s could scarcely fly up any more, but they went for each other, in the air too, and aimed blows at each other with their little swords with the greatest gallantry and the utmost contempt of death. At their fifth encounter Pak saw that his cock struck the other beneath the wing. “Got him!” shouted the onlookers, and the judge struck the gong. Then both cocks fell back on the ground, and the white one lay there as though dead with a trickle of red on his breast. Pak’s cock lay down too, seeming now at last to be aware of his wound. The gong sounded and the judge put the coconut on the surface of the water. “Get up, get up,” Pak implored his cock, for only if he got up before the next gong was he the conqueror. “Get up, have courage, get up,” shouted all the men who had put their money on the Srawah. The lord sat bending forward gazing with a thoughtful smile at Pak’s bird.