CHAPTER TWO
A sigh under the flaming blue, a shiver of the sleeping sea, a
cool breath as if a door had been swung upon the frozen spaces of
the universe, and with a stir of leaves, with the nod of boughs,
with the tremble of slender branches the sea breeze struck the
coast, rushed up the river, swept round the broad reaches, and
travelled on in a soft ripple of darkening water, in the whisper
of branches, in the rustle of leaves of the awakened forests. It
fanned in Lakamba's campong the dull red of expiring embers into
a pale brilliance; and, under its touch, the slender, upright
spirals of smoke that rose from every glowing heap swayed,
wavered, and eddying down filled the twilight of clustered shade
trees with the aromatic scent of the burning wood. The men who
had been dozing in the shade during the hot hours of the
afternoon woke up, and the silence of the big courtyard was
broken by the hesitating murmur of yet sleepy voices, by coughs
and yawns, with now and then a burst of laughter, a loud hail, a
name or a joke sent out in a soft drawl. Small groups squatted
round the little fires, and the monotonous undertone of talk
filled the enclosure; the talk of barbarians, persistent, steady,
repeating itself in the soft syllables, in musical tones of the
never-ending discourses of those men of the forests and the sea,
who can talk most of the day and all the night; who never exhaust
a subject, never seem able to thresh a matter out; to whom that
talk is poetry and painting and music, all art, all history;
their only accomplishment, their only superiority, their only
amusement. The talk of camp fires, which speaks of bravery and
cunning, of strange events and of far countries, of the news of
yesterday and the news of to-morrow. The talk about the dead and
the living--about those who fought and those who loved.
Lakamba came out on the platform before his own house and sat
down--perspiring, half asleep, and sulky--in a wooden armchair
under the shade of the overhanging eaves. Through the darkness
of the doorway he could hear the soft warbling of his womenkind,
busy round the looms where they were weaving the checkered
pattern of his gala sarongs. Right and left of him on the
flexible bamboo floor those of his followers to whom their
distinguished birth, long devotion, or faithful service had given
the privilege of using the chief's house, were sleeping on mats
or just sat up rubbing their eyes: while the more wakeful had
mustered enough energy to draw a chessboard with red clay on a
fine mat and were now meditating silently over their moves.
Above the prostrate forms of the players, who lay face downward
supported on elbow, the soles of their feet waving irresolutely
about, in the absorbed meditation of the game, there towered here
and there the straight figure of an attentive spectator looking
down with dispassionate but profound interest. On the edge of
the platform a row of high-heeled leather sandals stood ranged
carefully in a level line, and against the rough wooden rail
leaned the slender shafts of the spears belonging to these
gentlemen, the broad blades of dulled steel looking very black in
the reddening light of approaching sunset.
A boy of about twelve--the personal attendant of Lakamba--
squatted at his master's feet and held up towards him a silver
siri box. Slowly Lakamba took the box, opened it, and tearing
off a piece of green leaf deposited in it a pinch of lime, a
morsel of gambier, a small bit of areca nut, and wrapped up the
whole with a dexterous twist. He paused, morsel in hand, seemed
to miss something, turned his head from side to side,
slowly, like a man with a stiff neck, and ejaculated in an
ill-humoured bass--
"Babalatchi!"
The players glanced up quickly, and looked down again directly.
Those men who were standing stirred uneasily as if prodded by the
sound of the chief's voice. The one nearest to Lakamba repeated
the call, after a while, over the rail into the courtyard. There
was a movement of upturned faces below by the fires, and the cry
trailed over the enclosure in sing-song tones. The thumping of
wooden pestles husking the evening rice stopped for a moment and
Babalatchi's name rang afresh shrilly on women's lips in various
keys. A voice far off shouted something--another, nearer,
repeated it; there was a short hubbub which died out with extreme
suddenness. The first crier turned to Lakamba, saying
indolently--
"He is with the blind Omar."
Lakamba's lips moved inaudibly. The man who had just spoken was
again deeply absorbed in the game going on at his feet; and the
chief--as if he had forgotten all about it already--sat with a
stolid face amongst his silent followers, leaning back squarely
in his chair, his hands on the arms of his seat, his knees apart,
his big blood-shot eyes blinking solemnly, as if dazzled by the
noble vacuity of his thoughts.
Babalatchi had gone to see old Omar late in the afternoon. The
delicate manipulation of the ancient pirate's susceptibilities,
the skilful management of Aissa's violent impulses engrossed him
to the exclusion of every other business--interfered with his
regular attendance upon his chief and protector--even disturbed
his sleep for the last three nights. That day when he left his
own bamboo hut--which stood amongst others in Lakamba's
campong--his heart was heavy with anxiety and with doubt as to
the success of his intrigue. He walked slowly, with his usual
air of detachment from his surroundings, as if unaware that many
sleepy eyes watched from all parts of the courtyard his progress
towards a small gate at its upper end. That gate gave access to
a separate enclosure in which a rather large house, built of
planks, had been prepared by Lakamba's orders for the reception
of Omar and Aissa. It was a superior kind of habitation which
Lakamba intended for the dwelling of his chief adviser--whose
abilities were worth that honour, he thought. But after the
consultation in the deserted clearing--when Babalatchi had
disclosed his plan--they both had agreed that the new house
should be used at first to shelter Omar and Aissa after they had
been persuaded to leave the Rajah's place, or had been kidnapped
from there--as the case might be. Babalatchi did not mind in the
least the putting off of his own occupation of the house of
honour, because it had many advantages for the quiet working out
of his plans. It had a certain seclusion, having an enclosure of
its own, and that enclosure communicated also with Lakamba's
private courtyard at the back of his residence--a place set apart
for the female household of the chief. The only communication
with the river was through the great front courtyard always full
of armed men and watchful eyes. Behind the whole group of
buildings there stretched the level ground of rice-clearings,
which in their turn were closed in by the wall of untouched
forests with undergrowth so thick and tangled that nothing but a
bullet--and that fired at pretty close range--could penetrate any
distance there.
Babalatchi slipped quietly through the little gate and, closing
it, tied up carefully the rattan fastenings. Before the house
there was a square space of ground, beaten hard into the level
smoothness of asphalte. A big buttressed tree, a giant left
there on purpose during the process of clearing the land, roofed
in the clear space with a high canopy of gnarled boughs and
thick, sombre leaves. To the right--and some small distance away
from the large house--a little hut of reeds, covered with mats,
had been put up for the special convenience of Omar, who, being
blind and infirm, had some difficulty in ascending the steep
plankway that led to the more substantial dwelling, which was
built on low posts and had an uncovered verandah. Close by the
trunk of the tree, and facing the doorway of the hut, the
household fire glowed in a small handful of embers in the midst
of a large circle of white ashes. An old woman--some humble
relation of one of Lakamba's wives, who had been ordered to
attend on Aissa--was squatting over the fire and lifted up her
bleared eyes to gaze at Babalatchi in an uninterested manner, as
he advanced rapidly across the courtyard.
Babalatchi took in the courtyard with a keen glance of his
solitary eye, and without looking down at the old woman muttered
a question. Silently, the woman stretched a tremulous and
emaciated arm towards the hut. Babalatchi made a few steps
towards the doorway, but stopped outside in the sunlight.
"O! Tuan Omar, Omar besar! It is I--Babalatchi!"
Within the hut there was a feeble groan, a fit of coughing and an
indistinct murmur in the broken tones of a vague plaint.
Encouraged evidently by those signs of dismal life within,
Babalatchi entered the hut, and after some time came out leading
with rigid carefulness the blind Omar, who followed with both his
hands on his guide's shoulders. There was a rude seat under the
tree, and there Babalatchi led his old chief, who sat down with a
sigh of relief and leaned wearily against the rugged trunk. The
rays of the setting sun, darting under the spreading branches,
rested on the white-robed figure sitting with head thrown back in
stiff dignity, on the thin hands moving uneasily, and on the
stolid face with its eyelids dropped over the destroyed eyeballs;
a face set into the immobility of a plaster cast yellowed by age.
"Is the sun near its setting?" asked Omar, in a dull voice.
"Very near," answered Babalatchi.
"Where am I? Why have I been taken away from the place which I
knew--where I, blind, could move without fear? It is like black
night to those who see. And the sun is near its setting--and I
have not heard the sound of her footsteps since the morning!
Twice a strange hand has given me my food to-day. Why? Why?
Where is she?"
"She is near," said Babalatchi.
"And he?" went on Omar, with sudden eagerness, and a drop in his
voice. "Where is he? Not here. Not here!" he repeated, turning
his head from side to side as if in deliberate attempt to see.
"No! He is not here now," said Babalatchi, soothingly. Then,
after a pause, he added very low, "But he shall soon return."
"Return! O crafty one! Will he return? I have cursed him three
times," exclaimed Omar, with weak violence.
"He is--no doubt--accursed," assented Babalatchi, in a
conciliating manner--"and yet he will be here before very long--I
know!"
"You are crafty and faithless. I have made you great. You were
dirt under my feet--less than dirt," said Omar, with tremulous
energy.
"I have fought by your side many times," said Babalatchi, calmly.
"Why did he come?" went on Omar. "Did you send him? Why did he
come to defile the air I breathe--to mock at my fate--to poison
her mind and steal her body? She has grown hard of heart to me.
Hard and merciless and stealthy like rocks that tear a ship's
life out under the smooth sea." He drew a long breath, struggled
with his anger, then broke down suddenly. "I have been hungry,"
he continued, in a whimpering tone--"often I have been very
hungry--and cold--and neglected--and nobody near me. She has
often forgotten me--and my sons are dead, and that man is an
infidel and a dog. Why did he come? Did you show him the way?"
"He found the way himself, O Leader of the brave," said
Babalatchi, sadly. "I only saw a way for their destruction and
our own greatness. And if I saw aright, then you shall never
suffer from hunger any more. There shall be peace for us, and
glory and riches."
"And I shall die to-morrow," murmured Omar, bitterly.
"Who knows? Those things have been written since the beginning
of the world," whispered Babalatchi, thoughtfully.
"Do not let him come back," exclaimed Omar.
"Neither can he escape his fate," went on Babalatchi. "He shall
come back, and the power of men we always hated, you and I, shall
crumble into dust in our hand." Then he added with enthusiasm,
"They shall fight amongst themselves and perish both."
"And you shall see all this, while, I . . ."
"True!" murmured Babalatchi, regretfully. "To you life is
darkness."
"No! Flame!" exclaimed the old Arab, half rising, then falling
back in his seat. "The flame of that last day! I see it
yet--the last thing I saw! And I hear the noise of the rent
earth--when they all died. And I live to be the plaything of a
crafty one," he added, with inconsequential peevishness.
"You are my master still," said Babalatchi, humbly. "You are very
wise--and in your wisdom you shall speak to Syed Abdulla when he
comes here--you shall speak to him as I advised, I, your servant,
the man who fought at your right hand for many years. I have
heard by a messenger that the Syed Abdulla is coming to-night,
perhaps late; for those things must be done secretly, lest the
white man, the trader up the river, should know of them. But he
will be here. There has been a surat delivered to Lakamba. In
it, Syed Abdulla says he will leave his ship, which is anchored
outside the river, at the hour of noon to-day. He will be here
before daylight if Allah wills."
He spoke with his eye fixed on the ground, and did not become
aware of Aissa's presence till he lifted his head when he ceased
speaking. She had approached so quietly that even Omar did not
hear her footsteps, and she stood now looking at them with
troubled eyes and parted lips, as if she was going to speak; but
at Babalatchi's entreating gesture she remained silent. Omar sat
absorbed in thought.
"Ay wa! Even so!" he said at last, in a weak voice. "I am to
speak your wisdom, O Babalatchi! Tell him to trust the white
man! I do not understand. I am old and blind and weak. I do
not understand. I am very cold," he continued, in a lower tone,
moving his shoulders uneasily. He ceased, then went on rambling
in a faint whisper. "They are the sons of witches, and their
father is Satan the stoned. Sons of witches. Sons of witches."
After a short silence he asked suddenly, in a firmer voice--"How
many white men are there here, O crafty one?"
"There are two here. Two white men to fight one another,"
answered Babalatchi, with alacrity.
"And how many will be left then? How many? Tell me, you who are
wise."
"The downfall of an enemy is the consolation of the unfortunate,"
said Babalatchi, sententiously. "They are on every sea; only the
wisdom of the Most High knows their number--but you shall know
that some of them suffer."
"Tell me, Babalatchi, will they die? Will they both die?" asked
Omar, in sudden agitation.
Aissa made a movement. Babalatchi held up a warning hand.
"They shall, surely, die," he said steadily, looking at the girl
with unflinching eye.
"Ay wa! But die soon! So that I can pass my hand over their
faces when Allah has made them stiff."
"If such is their fate and yours," answered Babalatchi, without
hesitation. "God is great!"
A violent fit of coughing doubled Omar up, and he rocked himself
to and fro, wheezing and moaning in turns, while Babalatchi and
the girl looked at him in silence. Then he leaned back against
the tree, exhausted.
"I am alone, I am alone," he wailed feebly, groping vaguely about
with his trembling hands. "Is there anybody near me? Is there
anybody? I am afraid of this strange place."
"I am by your side, O Leader of the brave," said Babalatchi,
touching his shoulder lightly. "Always by your side as in the
days when we both were young: as in the time when we both went
with arms in our hands."
"Has there been such a time, Babalatchi?" said Omar, wildly; "I
have forgotten. And now when I die there will be no man, no
fearless man to speak of his father's bravery. There was a
woman! A woman! And she has forsaken me for an infidel dog.
The hand of the Compassionate is heavy on my head! Oh, my
calamity! Oh, my shame!"
He calmed down after a while, and asked quietly--
"Is the sun set, Babalatchi?"
"It is now as low as the highest tree I can see from here,"
answered Babalatchi.
"It is the time of prayer," said Omar, attempting to get up.
Dutifully Babalatchi helped his old chief to rise, and they
walked slowly towards the hut. Omar waited outside, while
Babalatchi went in and came out directly, dragging after him the
old Arab's praying carpet. Out of a brass vessel he poured the
water of ablution on Omar's outstretched hands, and eased him
carefully down into a kneeling posture, for the venerable robber
was far too infirm to be able to stand. Then as Omar droned out
the first words and made his first bow towards the Holy City,
Babalatchi stepped noiselessly towards Aissa, who did not move
all the time.
Aissa looked steadily at the one-eyed sage, who was approaching
her slowly and with a great show of deference. For a moment they
stood facing each other in silence. Babalatchi appeared
embarrassed. With a sudden and quick gesture she caught hold of
his arm, and with the other hand pointed towards the sinking red
disc that glowed, rayless, through the floating mists of the
evening.
"The third sunset! The last! And he is not here," she
whispered; "what have you done, man without faith? What have you
done?"
"Indeed I have kept my word," murmured Babalatchi, earnestly.
"This morning Bulangi went with a canoe to look for him. He is a
strange man, but our friend, and shall keep close to him and
watch him without ostentation. And at the third hour of the day
I have sent another canoe with four rowers. Indeed, the man you
long for, O daughter of Omar! may come when he likes."
"But he is not here! I waited for him yesterday. To-day!
To-morrow I shall go."
"Not alive!" muttered Babalatchi to himself. "And do you doubt
your power," he went on in a louder tone--"you that to him are
more beautiful than an houri of the seventh Heaven? He is your
slave."
"A slave does run away sometimes," she said, gloomily, "and then
the master must go and seek him out."
"And do you want to live and die a beggar?" asked Babalatchi,
impatiently.
"I care not," she exclaimed, wringing her hands; and the black
pupils of her wide-open eyes darted wildly here and there like
petrels before the storm.
"Sh! Sh!" hissed Babalatchi, with a glance towards Omar. "Do
you think, O girl! that he himself would live like a beggar, even
with you?"
"He is great," she said, ardently. "He despises you all! He
despises you all! He is indeed a man!"
"You know that best," muttered Babalatchi, with a fugitive
smile--"but remember, woman with the strong heart, that to hold
him now you must be to him like the great sea to thirsty men--a
never-ceasing torment, and a madness."
He ceased and they stood in silence, both looking on the ground,
and for a time nothing was heard above the crackling of the fire
but the intoning of Omar glorifying the God--his God, and the
Faith--his faith. Then Babalatchi cocked his head on one side
and appeared to listen intently to the hum of voices in the big
courtyard. The dull noise swelled into distinct shouts, then
into a great tumult of voices, dying away, recommencing, growing
louder, to cease again abruptly; and in those short pauses the
shrill vociferations of women rushed up, as if released, towards
the quiet heaven. Aissa and Babalatchi started, but the latter
gripped in his turn the girl's arm and restrained her with a
strong grasp.
"Wait," he whispered.
The little door in the heavy stockade which separated Lakamba's
private ground from Omar's enclosure swung back quickly, and the
noble exile appeared with disturbed mien and a naked short sword
in his hand. His turban was half unrolled, and the end trailed
on the ground behind him. His jacket was open. He breathed
thickly for a moment before he spoke.
"He came in Bulangi's boat," he said, "and walked quietly till he
was in my presence, when the senseless fury of white men caused
him to rush upon me. I have been in great danger," went on the
ambitious nobleman in an aggrieved tone. "Do you hear that,
Babalatchi? That eater of swine aimed a blow at my face with his
unclean fist. He tried to rush amongst my household. Six men
are holding him now."
A fresh outburst of yells stopped Lakamba's discourse. Angry
voices shouted: "Hold him. Beat him down. Strike at his head."
Then the clamour ceased with sudden completeness, as if strangled
by a mighty hand, and after a second of surprising silence the
voice of Willems was heard alone, howling maledictions in Malay,
in Dutch, and in English.
"Listen," said Lakamba, speaking with unsteady lips, "he
blasphemes his God. His speech is like the raving of a mad dog.
Can we hold him for ever? He must be killed!"
"Fool!" muttered Babalatchi, looking up at Aissa, who stood with
set teeth, with gleaming eyes and distended nostrils, yet
obedient to the touch of his restraining hand. "It is the third
day, and I have kept my promise," he said to her, speaking very
low. "Remember," he added warningly--"like the sea to the
thirsty! And now," he said aloud, releasing her and stepping
back, "go, fearless daughter, go!"
Like an arrow, rapid and silent she flew down the enclosure, and
disappeared through the gate of the courtyard. Lakamba and
Babalatchi looked after her. They heard the renewed tumult, the
girl's clear voice calling out, "Let him go!" Then after a pause
in the din no longer than half the human breath the name of Aissa
rang in a shout loud, discordant, and piercing, which sent
through them an involuntary shudder. Old Omar collapsed on his
carpet and moaned feebly; Lakamba stared with gloomy contempt in
the direction of the inhuman sound; but Babalatchi, forcing a
smile, pushed his distinguished protector through the narrow gate
in the stockade, followed him, and closed it quickly.
The old woman, who had been most of the time kneeling by the
fire, now rose, glanced round fearfully and crouched hiding
behind the tree. The gate of the great courtyard flew open with
a great clatter before a frantic kick, and Willems darted in
carrying Aissa in his arms. He rushed up the enclosure like a
tornado, pressing the girl to his breast, her arms round his
neck, her head hanging back over his arm, her eyes closed and her
long hair nearly touching the ground. They appeared for a second
in the glare of the fire, then, with immense strides, he dashed
up the planks and disappeared with his burden in the doorway of
the big house.
Inside and outside the enclosure there was silence. Omar lay
supporting himself on his elbow, his terrified face with its
closed eyes giving him the appearance of a man tormented by a
nightmare.
"What is it? Help! Help me to rise!" he called out faintly.
The old hag, still crouching in the shadow, stared with bleared
eyes at the doorway of the big house, and took no notice of his
call. He listened for a while, then his arm gave way, and, with
a deep sigh of discouragement, he let himself fall on the carpet.
The boughs of the tree nodded and trembled in the unsteady
currents of the light wind. A leaf fluttered down slowly from
some high branch and rested on the ground, immobile, as if
resting for ever, in the glow of the fire; but soon it stirred,
then soared suddenly, and flew, spinning and turning before the
breath of the perfumed breeze, driven helplessly into the dark
night that had closed over the land.
