he said, “I order you to mount a guard to see that nothing is taken from the ship. Whatever is thrown up on the shore is to be stacked up here, so that the Chinese, Kwe Tik Tjiang, loses nothing. Any man who acts contrary to my orders will be severely punished and fined a heavy penalty.”
“So be it!” the men murmured obediently.
The punggawa searched the crowd with his eyes. “Where is Raka?”
he asked. Everyone turned round to look for him.
Raka was standing behind Meru, Pak’s brother, the carver, with his arms affectionately about his shoulders, resting after his exertion. The water ran from his long hair, and though he laughed he looked exhausted. The punggawa stepped up to him, followed by his servant with the indispensable umbrella. “Raka,” he said in a loud voice for all to hear, “I shall inform your exalted friend, the lord of Badung, of your gallantry and readiness. His heart will rejoice to hear a good report of you.”
The men again expressed their assent. Raka raised his clasped hands to his shoulder to thank the punggawa, who then left the beach. The crowd was already dispersing. Some had followed the Chinese to Njo Tok Suey’s house, where they now stood gaping inquisitively over the wall. Others followed the women, who took the young Javanese into the village. Pak stood irresolute. He was proud of Meru for the part he played in the rescue and for the friendly way Raka had leant upon him. Nevertheless, he resolved to warn his younger brother as soon as he got home.
“What we want now, brother,” Raka said to Meru, “is a big jar of palm wine.”
“My belly feels as cold as if I had drunk the whole sea between Bali and Lombok,” Meru replied as they went off hand in hand. Just as Pak was about to follow them, he felt a hand on his shoulder.
“You, with a few more, had better mount guard here,” Krkek said. “You are honest and sensible and I can trust you. I will send you food and firing, and perhaps I can pick out a few friends of yours to join you, and then you won’t need to be afraid of the darkness. You shall be relieved at the first hour of the day.”
Pak’s heart sank as he heard this, but Krkek was the most important man of his village and president of the water committee. He was not a man to gainsay. Even the raja had no power over the subak and had to accept its distribution of irrigation water. Nevertheless, Pak attempted a feeble excuse. “I am too tired to stay here as watchman,” he said. “My eyes will shut whether I like it or not. I was at work in the sawah since sunrise. A tired man makes a poor watchman.”
But Krkek would not listen, for it would have compromised his authority if he had revoked his order. “We have all worked in the sawah, brother,” he said mildly as he walked away. “My wall has a hole in it, big enough to let in all the demons, if I don’t mend it up before night,” Pak muttered in an aggrieved tone, but Krkek shut his ears and vanished behind the palm trees that bordered the village. Pak looked round about him. He was almost alone on the beach. There was only Sarda, and a few more with him, crouching beside his boat and chewing sirih. But they were fishermen of Sanur and used to the sea. A few of the ship’s crew were lying down about two hundred paces away. They looked strange and ill-disposed. The natives called out to the foreigners and invited them to join them, but they shook their heads and a little later got up and went away. Pak sighed. He was horribly afraid of the night. Already the sun was sinking in the west. The tide had gone out and the sand extended nearly as far as the wreck and only tiny wavelets nibbled at the shore. A group of children had waded out to the wreck, where they frolicked about with a great show of daring and kicked the water up with their feet. No more hides were floated ashore, but the smell of them pervaded the air and made the watch still more unpleasant.
Pak now felt for the first time how tired he really was. His thighs ached as he squatted beside Sarda. His eyes were haunted by all he had seen and whenever he closed them he saw the ship being battered against the reef. The sky was as green as a ripening rice-field and then as red as the gums of a child at the breast, and then darkness fell. The kulkuls in the villages announced the beginning of the night with short rapid beats.
Pak chewed sirih. His mind wandered, and his head felt empty. A long time passed in this way. Then the women, whom Krkek had sent from the village, arrived with ample supplies of food—rice and vegetables and meat roasted on spits. The light of torches shone out behind them among the palm trunks, and men came with palm wine in hollow bamboo stems. Pak was glad to drink the sweet tuak, for his throat was dry. Dasni, a Sanur girl, squatted in front of him. She had looked at him more than once at the Temple festival and the last rice harvest. She was not exactly ugly, but she had a dark dirty complexion and her breasts were too heavy. She crouched submissively before him and handed him food, gazing attentively while he chewed to see whether he enjoyed it. “I hear you have got a child,” she said. “I hope it will be strong and beautiful and like its father.”
Pak muttered a word or two in acknowledgment and after wiping his fingers threw away the empty pisang leaves. Dasni remained where she was while the other women got ready to go. At the last moment she took something from her girdle and thrust it into Pak’s hand. Then she vanished with the others. Pak looked to see what she had given him. It was a bulb of reddish garlic. He smiled. So Dasni was anxious about him and wanted to be sure that he would be safe during his watch.
When the women had gone, the men continued discussing the day’s events as they sat on their heels round the nearly burnt-out torches and at last they began to yawn. Sarda collected broken coconut shells and driftwood and made a fire. The night was lonely, cold and perilous. Pak crossed his arms and put his hands round his shoulders to warm himself. Some of the watch had vanished and others fallen asleep. Pak stared into the darkness and his fears gained on him. He drew nearer to Sarda. After a time the fisherman fell asleep with his head on his knees and Pak succumbed also. If lejaks or evil spirits emerged now from the darkness he was defenceless. He quickly felt for the garlic in his girdle which Dasni had given him and rubbed himself all over with it, so that the smell should keep away the evil spirits, and finally stuck the rest in the bored lobe of his ear. Now he felt safer, for it was well known that the demons could not endure the smell of garlic. He gave Sarda a cautious shake, but it did not wake him, so he left him alone; it was not right to be too tough with people when they were asleep, for then their souls might not have time to return to their bodies. He felt a great longing for his sleeping bench safe within the walls of his house and for the warmth of his wife Puglug, who was good even though not beautiful, and for the little girls on the other bench. Nobody came stealing stinking fish or going off with the stranded wreck. I told Krkek, thought Pak, that my eyes would refuse to stay open; and he let them close. He dreamt of the gap in his wall and saw it mended again and better than before. He heard a great noise in his dream coming from the battered ship. He also saw men going by in the light of the watch fire and the face of the Chinese, Kwe Tik Tjiang, bent over him and his foot in a black shoe kicked against him. Pak turned unwillingly on to the other side and ceased dreaming. He heard the cocks crow and opened his eyes. The kulkul beat the last hour of the night. He thought he was at home and groped about him, but the things he touched were unfamiliar. He was chilled to the marrow and biting cold nipped his feet. It was this that woke him and he sat up. Now he recognized Sanur beach where he had been when he fell asleep. It was still dark but for a strip of greenish light where sky and water met. This was the herald of Suria, the sun-god, who would soon leave his house bringing the day with him. The tide was high again and sang with a loud voice and flung the waves up to Pak’s feet. He jumped up in terror, and looking round for the others saw that they had vanished. The fire had burnt out; there were only a few embers in which Pak warmed his hands. His limbs ached, his stomach was empty and his heart had gone small. He pondered for a minute or two and then decided to go home. Even Sarda had gone. He had his sawah to see to; that was his job—not watching over the battered ship of a Chinaman who looked like a dead fish and left the smell of dead fish behind him on the shore. The spirits had already retreated and all wandering souls had returned to every sleeper’s body. Pak felt full
