elbowed aside the man next him and then saw with a momentary shock that it was the wealthy Wajan whose ribs he had dug with his elbows in order to make his way to the front.
Raka had put himself at the head of the young men and was now knotting his kain into a loin-cloth. Raka was the handsomest man in all the five villages round and the best dancer in the whole lordship of Badung. He was the eldest son of the revered pedanda, Ida Bagus Rai, and all this combined to make him the hero of the villages. The girls’ eyes darkened when he passed and the men could not help smiling and wishing him well whenever they saw him. When he danced he looked like the young god Arjuna himself, splendidly dressed, proud and beautiful.
At this moment indeed there was nothing of the glamour about him, except for the fine build and beauty of his body. He looked like any peasant with his kain knotted between his thighs as he darted into the sea behind a retreating wave which left only its froth on the sand. “Who will come bathing with me?” he called out laughing, and some did actually follow him up to the edge of the foaming breakers. Meru was one of them, Pak saw, and he had only just time to seize Lantjar and drag him back as the next wave was breaking on the beach.
A universal shout went up when the young men vanished in the water, for the people of Sanur were afraid of the sea where there were sharks and sword-fish. Only a few fishermen were on intimate terms with it and its unreliable god Baruna too, who exacted many offerings from them. Pak stood perfectly motionless, his arm about Lantjar’s slender shoulders, which were quivering with excitement. Everyone was motionless as they gazed dumbly at the water. When the wave had spent itself they saw Raka and his companions already some way out wading towards the wreck. The ship’s sides were stove in by the next sea that struck it and a man climbed to the highest part of the ship that was still above water and waved what looked like an old faded flag.
“What is that he’s waving?” Pak asked the omniscient Krkek, for it might well be a cloth endowed with magic powers.
Krkek screwed up his eyes and considered the matter. “It is the sign the Dutch carry in front of them when they fight,” he said at last.
“Mbe!” said Pak, impressed by the extent of his knowledge. Even he had heard of the white men who ruled the north of the island and even on the south of it had overthrown the lords of Karang Asem and Gianjar. Far-travelled men who passed through Taman Sari had surprising things to tell of these Dutchmen. Pak had never yet seen one and he knew that the sight of them would terrify him. It was said that the white men were as tall as giants and tremendously stout and strong. Their eyes were without color, but they could see quite well, although they moved about like blind men, as stiffly and clumsily as figures of stone. It was uncertain, too, whether they had souls and whether any part of the divine nature dwelt in them as it did in every living creature in Bali. They had come years ago from Java, the only foreign land Pak had ever heard of. They were clever and powerful beyond measure, probably because they had fair skins like many of the gods. Although this was all in the highest degree strange and alarming, it appeared that the Dutch did not do any harm. They respected the gods of the island and the ancient laws. They could cure sickness and were unwilling to have people killed. It was even said that they would not allow the rajas on the conquered territories to carry out death sentences. They were immeasurably rich and occasionally one of their ringits got as far as Taman Sari. On it was stamped the picture of a long-nosed, full-breasted but not unpleasant-looking goddess.
Pak ran over in his mind all he knew about the white men, while Lantjar’s trembling body leant against him. He plucked up his courage, for it was possible that some of them might come to land from the wrecked ship and that he would before long have to face the sight of them. In a few minutes he even forgot his anxiety for his brother Meru, who was struggling on through the water, although he had nothing to gain there.
A great cry rose from the crowd when Raka and the handful of men with him reached the ship. The force of the waves had decreased, for the tide seemed to have passed its height. The sea had fallen already and revealed the vessel’s battered hull. Two jukungs put out; one was Sarda’s and the other belonged to another fisherman, Bengek, who owned the neglected sawah next to Pak’s.
The people laughed when they saw what Raka was about now he had reached the ship. He and some of his companions each took one of the shipwrecked men on their backs and then waded through the surf and foam of the ebbing water to the shore. The laughter grew louder and louder as they came nearer and ended in general uproar and stampeding when they reached the shore. Pak’s extreme apprehension was relieved when he saw that the men who were carried ashore on the sandy beach were not white men after all. They were Mohammedans and Chinese and in wretched plight. The women uttered cries of pity, particularly over the youngest and handsomest of them, who was bleeding from a wound on the forehead and seemed to be unconscious. They came round him in a circle, but made way when a woman who was taller than the rest went up to the wounded man and crouching beside him took his wounded head on her knee.
It was Teragia, the only wife of the beautiful Raka; she was greatly revered in the village, though she was still young and awaiting the birth of her first child. The good powers were so strong in her that many could feel them radiating from her. She had the gift of healing and of finding springs, and sometimes the divinity entered into her and spoke through her mouth. She was of high caste, as Raka, too, was, and the doctor of the village was her father and had taught her many formulas and magic prayers. She wiped the blood away from the young man’s forehead with the corner of her sarong and looking round murmured a few words to her servant who knelt beside her. The girl folded her hands in token of obedience and ran off. She quickly returned with a small basket out of which Teragia took a number of large leaves. She put them on the wounded man’s forehead, whereupon the bleeding ceased and the man opened his eyes and sighed. The women uttered exclamations of astonishment and admiration and pressed closer.
Meanwhile Njo Tok Suey had taken charge of the other newcomers. They had brought a few saturated cases with them which they put down on the beach. One of them was a Chinaman too, and he gave a few brief orders in Malay. He was clearly the master of the ship, although he was in a wretched state; his clothes were torn to rags and his chin trembled. Njo Tok Suey supported him and conducted him to the punggawa. The men of Sanur and Taman Sari crowded round, eager not to miss a word. Unfortunately the interview between the punggawa and the two Chinese was carried on in Malay. Krkek pressed forward as near as he could, and even put his hand to his ear to hear better. He translated bit by bit what the three men said for the benefit of his fellows.
“He says his name is Kwe Tik Tjiang. He says he is a merchant from Bandjarmasin. He says his ship is called Sri Kumala.”
There was some laughter at this, for they thought it funny that a ship should have a name like a person. Krkek motioned to them to keep silent so that he could hear.
“He says they anchored yesterday off Bijaung. The storm came up and beat against the ship and broke the anchor cable. He says the ship was tossed to and fro like the shell of a coconut. He says they have been in great terror. They did not think they would ever reach land alive.”
Krkek paused to listen attentively as the Chinaman raised his voice and embarked on a long sentence.
“The Chinese Kwe Tik Tjiang thanks the men for rescuing him and begs leave to retire. He is in pain and very tired,” Krkek then went on.
The crowd murmured its sympathy. The Chinaman stood a moment longer in silence, and looked at the people round him with inflamed and swollen eyes. They stared back at him, for it was not every day that they saw a shipwrecked merchant from Bandjarmasin. The Chinaman tottered as he turned to go, and Njo Tok Suey quickly gave him his support and led him away in the direction of his house.
“He looks like a dead sea-urchin,” the wag Rib said as soon as their backs were turned. There was some laughter at this and the punggawa turned round in annoyance.
