by Rory Marron
For Lamban’s father, entrusting his rebellious, temperamental young son into another’s care had been a last resort. He had held little hope in life for such a restless, obstinate boy, so he had gambled. Taruna was an enigma, part-Javanese, part-Sumatran with more than a sprinkling of Chinese blood. Respected yet feared, many believed him to inhabit the twilight world of spirits and demons. For Taruna was a djago—master—of pentjak-silat combat. He was also a famous empu—a swordsmith—whose blades were among the most sought after in Java. When Taruna had accepted Lamban as a student his father had been hugely relieved, if sceptical. Yet from that first day the boy had been more afraid of those piercing eyes and sharp tongue than any thrashing from Maralik at the pesantren. Now the boy had become a man and he respected no-one more than Taruna.
Lamban settled into a steady, ground-covering run. After a few minutes he was surprised to hear the clash of bamboo staves and shouts. He lengthened his stride, wondering how he could be late on this special day! Yet as the last bend came into view he sensed something was not right. Mere instinct was enough. In mid-step he dropped and rolled into the thick vegetation beside the trail.
He lay still, then slowly eased himself up to scan the trail ahead. When he saw nothing unusual he closed his eyes, straining his ears. Everything seemed calm. Stealthily he crept forward, pausing every few yards, peering ahead. A tiny movement on a tree branch caught his eye. A second twitch revealed it as a human foot. He glanced upwards and saw a large fishing net strung over the trail. Trying not to laugh, he relaxed and let his breath out slowly. His fellow students had so nearly caught him! I’ll let them wait, he thought. Then the thought struck him that this might be part of the talmat, the martial test that he was to take that day.
A few seconds later, his patience was rewarded when a face bobbed up from behind some hibiscus bushes. Another one!—Lamban thought, pleased with himself. Quickly he foraged two lengths of thin creeper and a piece of rotten root. Then he began to steal behind his ambushers. When he reached the one in the tree, he tossed the root back down the trail. As it caught in branches and rustled leaves, he looped the creeper over the twitching foot, tying it lightly.
The second ambusher was lying prone, under a bush. At his side was a bamboo stave. Deftly, Lamban slid another piece of creeper around his ankles and fastened it to a thick, exposed root. As he backed away, Lamban slid the stave out of reach. Smirking he crept back, and then cupped his hands to his mouth. Angry grunts of a male wild boar shattered the forest silence.
Reaction was instantaneous. Leaf monkeys and gibbons screeched and squawking birds took to the wing. As the figure in the tree tried to scramble higher Lamban gave a sharp tug on the creeper. A youth was left dangling and wailing. Further away there was a howl of pain as a second youth jumped up and then tripped. Jubilant, Lamban moved forward to see who had tried to best him. A second later his body stiffened in a numbing, dizzying paralysis. He fell.
When Lamban regained consciousness he was lying in semi-darkness on a reed-mat floor. An earthenware water jar was close to his face. It was vaguely familiar, as were the sounds of the class practising outside. His head was fuzzy. As he tried to move a stab of pain ran down his back. He groaned sharply. A flash of sunlight made him squint as the door swung open. Through the glare he recognised a pair of legs and heavily calloused feet.
‘Fool!’ The man scolded. ‘You celebrated too soon. What have I spent ten years drumming into you?’
Despite the reprimand there was warmth in the voice. Lamban tried to move but could not. Taruna noticed his discomfort and squatted behind him. Hard, bony fingers sank deep into Lamban’s neck probing for nerve points. In an instant the fuzziness and stiffness vanished allowing Lamban to roll on to his knees and touch his forehead to the floor in a respectful greeting.
‘Good morning, Master. I—’
‘Could have been dead,’ quipped Taruna sharply. ‘Run through some djuru to loosen up.’ Djuru were the martial practise sequences or forms. ‘I hit you a little harder than I intended. Drink some water but eat nothing for the rest of the day.’
‘Yes, Master.’
As he was leaving Taruna turned and pointed to the darkest corner of the hut. ‘There is something else. There are three ingots over there. Pick up each one and drop it on the hearth. Choose the one that calls to you. Place it outside.’ He closed the door behind him and semi-darkness returned. Outside Lamban heard the other students begin drilling again.
Lamban took a long drink from the jar and padded gingerly across the hut. His excitement soared when he saw the ingots that would become sacred keris daggers. Tradition required that the recipient of a blade chose the steel by the sound it made when struck. Lamban could hardly believe his good fortune. Taruna was going to make him a keris!
He sat cross-legged and stared at the ingots. All three were a very similar dark, grey-black. He lifted and felt the surface of each but was unable to feel any difference in weight or texture. For a moment he was tempted to examine them in more light but then dismissed the notion guiltily. His Master would know.
Unsure of what to do, he picked up an ingot quickly and then let it fall. There was a sharp clang. He did it twice more but to his dismay the other two blocks sounded much the same. Telling himself he was rushing, he took some deep breaths. He closed his eyes and took hold of the first ingot again, holding it at arm’s length. He dropped it. Again it sounded dull. The second was almost the same. Anxiously he picked up the third. After a slight hesitation he let it drop. It landed end down on the centre of the hearthstone. A clean, metallic tone enveloped him, resonating deep within his chest.
Outside he examined his choice. Sunlight was reflecting off thousands of tiny bright flecks in the metal. Lamban placed it down by the hut entrance hut and began his solitary practice session.
By late morning he was on edge. When the other students paused for a sparse meal of rice and fruit, he excused himself saying he could not watch them eat. In truth he could not bear their chit-chat. He wandered over to Taruna’s main living hut, which stood on thick, wooden pillars about four feet off the ground. Much of Lamban’s early harimau—‘tiger’ or ground-level—training had taken place under this hut. Here he had learned balance control and how to step, slide and spin in the low stances. How he had hated it. For months his skull had ached and his shoulders had been rubbed raw from the constant banging and scraping against the teak boards above. He had despaired of ever being able to match the smooth movements of the other boys, yet his desire to improve had never faltered. Just as one technique had become familiar Taruna would introduce another. Perpetual challenge was blended with progress imperceptible to the student but not to the master. Now, some ten years later and almost fully grown, he could move under the hut almost as easily as boys half his size.
On a whim, he ducked under once again to practise several forms, his hair just brushing the floor planks. Satisfied, he sat by one of the pillars for a rest. Memories of his early training returned. At first he had done nothing except dig Taruna’s latrine pits, milk and water his goats and pull up clump after clump of elephant grass to help build up his weak thigh muscles. He still ran errands for his teacher. It occurred to him that he had never discussed his leaving with his master. Yet already another student had gathered the fruit for the midday meal, and the pots and pans in Taruna’s hut had been washed and stacked. For a moment he felt a little sad about being replaced so smoothly until he reminded himself how long he had been waiting for this day.
Around noon, after the arrival of some senior students who would be Lamban’s sparring partners, the talmat began. Taruna started slowly, testing him on single punches, kicks and rolls. This was followed by sequences with one, and then two opponents. When Taruna signalled for the advanced forms at full speed and power all levity ceased.
Lamban felt the adrenalin surge, knowing that this was no crowd-pleasing display for a local festival. It was buah, the lethal, hidden essence of pentjak-silat. At Taruna�
�s command fists, elbows, knees and feet flew at Lamban in a blur. He moved quickly and economically to block, spin, dodge and weave, never allowing more than one opponent to face him at a time. His kicks, jabs and throws blended seamlessly. In seconds the four students lay sprawled at his feet. Taruna, his expression deadpan, pointed solemnly to the racks of practice-weapons. ‘Now the staffs.’
For more than an hour Lamban demonstrated staff, short trident, dagger, spear and other weapons forms against single, then multiple opponents. Finally, in mid-afternoon, Taruna asked the others to leave.
Lamban was drenched in perspiration, his breathing heavy but controlled. His performance so far had been flawless but his nervousness returned as Taruna began stretching and flexing. He sensed the enormous gulf in their skills. Suddenly there was no doubt in Lamban’s mind that he would lose his next contest.
Taruna signalled he was ready; his face was expressionless. Lamban felt the cobra-like eyes fix upon him. Master gave student the traditional salute to an opponent, palms pressed together then rolling his right hand in a fist brushing his left palm. It was a prayer for peace yet also a display of the steel required for battle.
Lamban saluted in the same manner and waited. To his surprise the onslaught never came. Instead, Taruna began slowly, as he might have done with a novice. The talmat evolved into a priceless lesson in Lamban’s own weaknesses. Each time Taruna struck home or left him helpless, he repeated the attack until Lamban saw and learned from his mistake.
The sun was setting when Taruna selected two straight klewang swords from a different weapons rack. Each blade was about three-feet long, with a crescent-shaped tip and slightly narrower at the hilt than at the point. They were razor sharp.
Taruna handed one to Lamban and came on guard. Lamban’s pulse began to surge. He had never performed the buah form using a live blade with a partner. At full speed, the slightest error would leave one of them maimed or dead.
Taruna circled, then launched a whirling attack. Even though he knew the pattern by heart Lamban had never had to perform it so quickly. They darted forward and back, spinning and leaping as they slashed, thrust and parried. Again and again he felt the draft from Taruna’s blade on his face and heard the deadly swoosh of steel inches from his head and neck. Suddenly Taruna was still, facing him, his sword in the final guard position. Amazed, Lamban saw that he, too, was in perfect position. The talmat was over. He had no conscious recollection of the sequence. His movements, drilled to become second nature, had been unthinking, mirroring his master.
Taruna let him recover for a few seconds. ‘You did not disappoint me, Lamban, as I expected. Now we must bathe before the ceremony. Come.’
Lamban was experiencing such an intense inner calm that the words reached him like a distant, muted shout. He watched Taruna pick up a bag and then push through some bushes. Lamban followed and found himself at the top of a steep, overgrown track. After a few minutes he heard sound of rushing water.
At the base of a narrow gully, half-hidden by a lush growth of orange rhododendrons and trees wrapped in strangler figs stood an almost circular pool. One wall was sheer exposed rock from which water spouted in a graceful arc several feet above their heads. Lamban was amazed. Taruna was kneeling at the side of the pool filling small bottles. He gestured to Lamban to bathe.
Lamban slipped off his sodden clothes and waded into the thigh-deep water. It came from the depths of the earth and was icy cold. He braced as the waterfall struck him like a thousand needles, pounding his body. Refreshed and calmed, he stepped out of the pool.
Taruna stood and undressed. Lamban had never seen him naked before. Though he was very thin, tight bands of muscle covered his small frame. Across his back was a patchwork of scar tissue. Lamban had heard the tale that in his youth Taruna had been imprisoned for rebellion.
As the water cascaded over him, Taruna closed his eyes and began to recite the inat, the act of contrition of the faithful. ‘Nawaitu raf’al hadast shaghirata…Allahu akbar!’—I shall wash away my venial and mortal sins for the sake of the Creator. God is most great!
For a few moments Taruna stood in contemplation, then climbed out. ‘Now we will enter the cave,’ he said softly. He emptied the bag. It contained a clean, plain white sarong and headscarf for them both. Lamban bent to gather up their dirty clothes but Taruna bade him not to touch them. Then they set off back up the path.
Years before, Lamban and the other children had often dared each other to enter the Cave of Dreams. Rumours of ghosts and monsters had always sent them fleeing in terror. Even now he was apprehensive over what might occur inside.
The cave mouth was a low, jagged slit barely wide enough for a man. Taruna squeezed through. Lamban followed and found himself bent double in a narrow, dark tunnel. Immediately he smelt the faint aroma of sandalwood. His fingers reached out and he realised the limestone walls had been chipped smooth. Gingerly he went forward, feeling a cold, cobbled mass of cave pearls under his feet. As children they had believed they were treading on the tail of a sleeping naga, the sacred, giant river serpent. None of them had ever gone farther.
After a few feet the tunnel turned sharply and Lamban found he could stand. Ahead an orange glow was flickering on the walls. Another sharp turn, this time to the left, led him into a roughly rectangular cavern about twenty feet square. In the centre Taruna was tending a freshly lit fire.
Shielding his eyes from the glare of the flames, Lamban looked around him. Many centuries before the walls had been hewn smooth, firstly by ice, then by water, and lastly by man. Stone and bronze statues of Vishnu, Kali, Shiva, Garuda and the Buddha were dotted around the cave, as were huge clam shells and spectacular conches. Freshly dug ferns and banyan sprigs had been placed in the four corners. As his vision adjusted, he saw that the walls were covered in images from Hindu scriptures, the life of the Buddha and Koranic verses in Arabic. Higher up were coloured handprints and ancient depictions of mousedeer, stick-like human figures and what looked like a rhinoceros. Lamban felt the eyes of all the gods of all the ages upon him. He shivered.
Taruna sat cross-legged on a mat of woven reeds. Beside him was Lamban’s ingot His eyes were closed and he was chanting verses in a language unfamiliar to Lamban. Behind him was a low mound of layered white cloth. Over these were strewn the slender, pearl white petals of the wijaya kusuma, the holy coronation flower.
Fascinated, yet ill at ease, Lamban watched his Master take pinches of powder and crystals from some tin bowls and ground them in an earthenware mortar.
Taruna raised the dish, smelt the concoction and added a small silver coin to the mixture. Using tongs he placed the dish on a stand in the centre of the fire. In seconds the flames turned from orange to a cold, wispy green. A pungent scent of incense permeated the cave.
Taruna beckoned him to sit on the cloths, then leant forward and hung a small, intricately woven ring of edelweiss over Lamban’s left ear. He paused, closed his eyes and then began the invocation of the Wirid, the teachings that fused animist, orthodox and mystical tenets into the vast spiritual pantheon that was the Ke-Jawan. ‘As the Holy One whispered in the left ear of Sayidina Ali, open your mind to the True Divine Revelations of the Hidayat Jati.’
The air was heavy. Suddenly Lamban was short of breath and perspiring heavily. He began to feel dizzy.
Taruna continued to speak in a low, hypnotic monotone. ‘Surengpati’—Unafraid of death….
Lamban was having difficulty concentrating. Taruna sounded distant. Through half-closed eyes he watched him pick up a small glass vial and anoint him with drops of oil on his chest and arms. A thick floral scent filled his nose and throat. He tried to speak but could not.
In slow, deliberate movements Taruna raised burning incense first to Lamban’s left ear, then to his nose and finally to his chest, pausing each time to recite, ‘Fire, earth, wind and water…Keris manjing waranga’—A sheathed keris is as the soul within the body.
Carefully he placed a necklace of intertw
ined strands of betel palm and banana leaves around Lamban’s neck. ‘Margasupana’—Open to the spirits….
Lamban could barely hear Taruna. His eyelids became heavy….
Only embers remained of the fire when Lamban awoke. For a few moments he had no recollection of where he was or the purification ritual. Light from a small serpent-shaped oil lamp guided him to the tunnel and, still groggy, he crawled to the cave mouth. Darkness had fallen but the full moon bathed the forest in a soft, silver light. Revived by the fresh air Lamban hurried back along the trail. Soon he heard the clanging of a hammer on metal. Taruna was already at work.
The open-sided forge cast a red glow far across the clearing. When Taruna saw him he pointed to a set of foot-operated bellows. Lamban had never dared enter the workshop before. Despite a steady breeze he felt the sticky heat engulf him. He looked around. A massive slab of teak serving as a work surface ran across the floor. Several anvils were set into it at intervals. Around them were scattered hammers and chisels of different shapes and sizes. Along one wall, half-finished daggers, swords and machetes lay in small piles. A steady stream of cold water poured from a bamboo pipe into a trough in which floated a single, white coronation bloom.
Taruna came over to him and took hold of his right arm, straightening it out to measure by tying knots in a length of green silk. ‘Pasikutan’—Elbow to finger, Taruna explained. Then he pinned the silk to the bench so that it was taut.
Lamban understood. His keris would be exactly this length. A custom measurement ensured the blade would be true to his heart alone. He sat over the bellows and started pumping. Within seconds he was perspiring.
After several minutes Taruna spoke without taking his eyes from the glowing coals. ‘You chose very unusual elements for your blade. Most of the iron and nickel is from a meteorite I found years ago. It is tosan isi—magic metal. A gift from heaven!’
Lamban lost count of the number of times the ingot was heated, split, folded, twisted and measured. In spite of his exhilaration, he began to tire. In contrast, the staccato rhythm of Taruna’s hammering never faltered. In time the metal took a wavy shape symbolising the naga serpent. It was a potent symbol of life. Lamban kept pumping.