Death Trance

by Graham Masterton

  Death Trance

  * * *

  (1986)

  A man's family is hideously butchered in order to teach him a business lesson he will never forget. Desperate to contact his dead family he contacts an Indonesian priest who introduces him to the death trance. But by visiting the realm of the dead he doesn't just risk his own life - but the souls of his loved ones too...

  By turns eerie and horrific, Death Trance is also one of Masterton's most moving novels as the reader is shown the lengths to which a bereaved person will go to contact his deceased family. Quite a journey - both physically and spiritually.

  Death Trance

  Graham Masterton

  PROLOGUE

  Bali, 1981

  It was just after eight o’clock in the evening when Michael came cycling through the night market.

  He steered his antiquated Rudge between the shuffling crowds of tourists and shoppers, between the jumbled arrangement of stalls lit with hundreds and hundreds of glass-funnelled gaslights. It was the monsoon season, hot and cloudy, and there were no stars.

  Whenever Michael found himself obstructed by early evening diners clustered around the warong stands with their white china bowls of fried noodles, he furiously jangled his bell. Occasionally people would move out of the way for him, but more often he was forced to hop down from the saddle that was far too high for him and manhandle the bicycle through the crowds like a young cowboy trying to wrestle an obstinate steer.

  Sometimes he had to half-lift the bicycle onto his left shoulder to get around crates of chickens, bales of batik and baskets of snake-skinned salak fruit.

  Scarcely anybody took notice of the slight, thin-wristed boy with the old-fashioned bicycle. An occasional American would glance at him, especially one who remembered the half-caste heritage of Vietnam, but then he would look away almost at once. For the boy had tousled hair so blond it was almost white, while his eyes were dark brown and slightly slanted, and there was a curve to his nose and a softness about his mouth that betrayed his mother’s Balinese blood.

  Two women were standing in his way now, arguing over the price of jackfruit.

  ‘Aduh! Terlalu mahal! Tidak, say a tidak mau membel-inya!’

  Michael jangled his bell and the women moved out of the way, still arguing. He could have been any local boy cycling through the night market on any kind of errand. Only somebody sensitive to the magic that awoke in the city of Denpasar every time the sun sank, only somebody who could recognize the preoccupied expression of a child who had been trained in the spiritual disciplines of Yama - only somebody like that would know where Michael was going, and why.

  He cycled on, towards the street called Jalan Mahabhar-ata. The night market was filled with distorted rock ‘n’ roll blaring from rickety hooked-up speakers, and the rock ‘n’ roll clashed with the jingling of ceng-ceng cymbals and the beating of kendang drums. The air was fragrant with chili and rice and with the crackling fat of babi guling, the Balinese roast suckling pig. Strident voices chattered and argued, proffering food and fruit and shoes and ‘guaranteed ancient’ root carvings.

  An old man with a burned-down cigarette between his lips and a strange, lopsided turban tried to step into Michael’s path and stop him. ‘Behenti! Behenti!’

  Michael wobbled around him, skipping one foot on the ground to keep his balance and skinning the back of his calf on the serrated edge of one pedal.

  The man cried out hoarsely, ‘You - puthi anak - white child! I’ve seen you before. I know where you go. You should beware of leyaks. You should be careful of whose advice you take. You -puthi anak! You should be careful who guides you!’

  Michael kept on cycling without looking around to see if the old man was following him, hoping that he wasn’t. Nevertheless, he wasn’t surprised or distressed. He had been warned from the very beginning that there were others who were sensitive to spirits and that many of these others would recognize him for what he was.

  It was usually the old who sniffed him out, those who had retained a nose for the subtle presence of Dewi and Dewa, the male and female deities whose spirits could still be heard whispering in the dead of night, whose movements still left the gentlest of eddies in the morning mists. Few young people had any interest in the spirit world now; they were more interested in Bruce Springsteen, in Prince, and in roaring up and down Jalan Gajamahda on their mopeds, whistling at American girls. The spiritual power of Denpasar was still potent, especially in the older parts of the city, but as far as the young were concerned, the ancient deities had long ago been outshone by red and yellow neon lights and by the garish posters advertising sexy films.

  Michael was uncertain of what the old man in the turban had been trying to tell him, but he remembered, as he often did, the words of his father: ‘Be patient, for there is always an explanation for everything. And whatever happens, you always have your soul, and you will always have me.’

  ‘I shall never ever leave you,’ his father had told him gently on the porch of their house at Sangeh village, with the monsoon rain dripping from the eaves and steam rising from the blue-green fields. ‘No matter where I travel, no matter what happens to me - even if I die - I shall never leave you.’

  It had been raining this afternoon in Denpasar. It was November, the second month of the monsoon season, and the temperature was up to eighty-seven degrees. The city felt as if it had been wrapped in hot, wet towels. Michael’s face was glossy with sweat and his white short-sleeved shirt clung to his narrow back. Around his waist he wore a scarlet saput, or temple scarf, that had once belonged to his father. On his feet he wore grubby Adidas running shoes. Apart from his bicycle, which had been given to him by Mr Henry at the American consulate, his only other concession to Western culture was a Casio digital wristwatch with a football game on it.

  When he reached Jalan Mahabharata, he dismounted. He wheeled his bicycle past a batik stall, where a young girl was sitting sewing by the light of a gas lamp. Her beauty was almost unearthly even though her hair was fastened back with the simplest of combs and she wore nothing more elaborate than a plain dress of white cotton. She raised her eyes as Michael passed. She may have recognized him, but she said nothing.

  Farther along the street, the stalls and warong stands of the night market gave way to rows of older houses: Dutch colonial frontages with secretive doors and shuttered windows, dark entrances with signs written in Indonesian, shops and dental surgeries. A stray dog tore at a thrown-away chicken carcass. Two young men with slicked-back hair sat astride their Yamaha mopeds, smoking and hooting and singing ‘hey-hey rock ‘n’ roh’ over and over again. Across the street, outside a derelict laundry, a girl in a tight red satin skirt waited for somebody, or nobody.

  The air along this part of the street was rank with the smell of cheap food and sewage and incense. Tourists avoided the area because it seemed so heavy and threatening. But Michael wheeled his bicycle through the garbage and the fallen frangipani leaves, calm and distant in his demeanour, and unafraid.

  There was nothing to fear in the world of men. It was only on the edge of the world of spirits that real fear began.

  He reached the gates of an old and neglected temple, the Pura Dalem, the Temple of the Dead. The ancient structure stood between a flaking-walled Dutch apartment house and the ‘Rumah Maka Rama,’ the Rama restaurant. Its towers and arches were draped with dense, entangled creeper, and here it was darker and more silent than in any other part of the street. Along the front wall, stone carvings of devils and demons glared with hideous faces bearing long tusks. The gateway was guarded by the effigies of Rangda, the Witch Widow, and Barong Keket, the Lord of the Forests.

  Their grotesque bodies were thick with moss and their limbs were girded with flowering vines. />
  The girl in the tight red satin skirt called across the street, ‘Are you lonesome, young Charlie?’

  But Michael said, ‘Tidak,’ which meant ‘No.’

  ‘Mungkin nanti, Charlie?’ the girl asked in the same flat tone. ‘Maybe later?’

  Michael nodded to show that he had heard her, but he walked without hesitation up to the corroded green copper gates of the Pura Dalem and turned the heavy handle.

  He pushed his bicycle inside and then closed the gates behind him. He was in deep silence here, except for the distant ripping echo of a moped. Oil lamps flickered and smouldered, although the outer courtyard through which Michael had entered remained shadowy and oddly dark. The temple had been looted during the grisly days of the puputan, the great suicidal struggle against the Dutch, and the few thatched pavilions that surrounded the courtyard had long since collapsed, leaving nothing but their white skeletal framework. The stone flooring was slippery with moss.

  Michael left his bicycle by the outer gate and crossed the courtyard until he reached a smaller gateway embossed with flowers and figures of beasts and guarded by the twin monkey giants of Hanuman. This was the paduraksa, the door to the inner courtyard, the gateway to the Kingdom of Death itself.

  There was no need for Michael to open the inner door, or even to knock. The high priest always anticipated his arrival and would toll the temple bell three times: three flat, dull, oval-shaped chimes that would reverberate through the temple like the disapproving voice of a demon. A flock of mynah birds scattered into the night from the overhanging frangipani trees and then quickly settled again.

  The gates opened and there stood the pedanda, the high priest, his smallness and frailty still surprising after five years. He wore a white headdress of knotted cotton, no grander than an ordinary temple priest would have worn, and he was wrapped in simple white robes, almost as if he were ready to be cremated. Michael had often tried to guess how old he was but it was impossible to say for sure; the little man was so thin and wizened, with eyes as impenetrable as pebbles and a wispy white beard.

  Beneath his wrappings his body seemed to have no substance at all, like the body of a fragile, mummified bird.

  ‘Selamat malam, Michael,’ the pedanda nodded, lightly pressing the palms of his hands together. ‘Good evening.’

  ‘Selamat malam, Pak,’ Michael replied.

  The pedanda turned without ceremony and led the way into the inner courtyard.

  There stood four earthenware braziers, one set at each corner, smoking with incense. The priest appeared to almost float through the smoke as if his feet never touched the ground.

  ‘Ada sesuatu yang menjusahkan?’ the pedanda asked without turning around. His voice betrayed a hint of amusement. He wanted to know if Michael felt there was anything wrong.

  ‘An old man tried to stop me when I was cycling along Jalan Kartini. He said some strange things.’

  ‘Ah,’ said the pedanda. He raised one hand. His fingernails had grown so long that they twisted like corkscrews.

  His head was angled in an odd way, somehow indicating to Michael that he was pleased.

  ‘The old man sensed your readiness,’ the pedanda explained.

  ‘Am I really ready?’ Michael asked.

  ‘Do you have any doubts?’

  Incense wafted between them, rolling over in the heavy night air. Michael said, ‘Yes, naturally I have doubts. Didn’t you have doubts before you did it for the first time?’

  ‘Of course,’ replied the pedanda. He had taught Michael to always question him. ‘But I had to throw away my doubts. Just as you will have to throw away yours.’ He paused for a moment and then said, ‘Silakan duduk.’

  Michael obeyed, walking across to the centre of the courtyard where two frayed silken mats had been laid out. Carefully, so that he would not wrinkle the silk, he sat down cross-legged, his back rigidly straight and the palms of his hands held outward.

  ‘Tonight you will take your first steps into the world of the spirits.’ said the pedanda.

  He did not join Michael straight away as he usually did, but stood watching him with stony eyes, his hands still lightly pressed together as if he were holding a living butterfly between them. What shall I do now? Release the butterfly, or crush it to death?

  Michael shivered, although he had always promised himself that when the pedanda announced that this evening had finally arrived, he would accept it without fear and without sentimental feelings. He had every right to feel afraid, however, because the culmination of his tutorship under the pedanda would mean that he could see and talk to any of the dead whom he chose to, just as clearly as if they were still living.

  He had every right to feel sentimental too, because once he had seen the dead - once he was able to enter that trancelike state that was the necessary vehicle to such difficult explorations - he would become a priest himself, and after that, he would never see the pedanda again. The pedanda had taught him everything he could. Now it would be Michael’s turn to seek out evil and walk among the ghosts of Bali’s ancestors.

  The pedanda had never shown him any fatherly affection, for all that Michael called him Pak. On the contrary, he had often been persnickety and brittle-tempered, and he had even given Michael penances for the slightest mistakes. And when Michael’s father had died, the pedanda had been unsympathetic. ‘He is dead? He is lucky. And besides, when you are ready, you will meet him again.’

  All the same, a strong unspoken understanding had grown up between them, an understanding that in many ways was more valuable to Michael than affection. It was partly based on mutual respect, this understanding, and partly on the mystical sensitivity they shared, a faculty that enabled them both to enter the dream worlds of the deities. They had experienced the reality of the gods at first hand through the trancelike state known in its less highly developed form as sanghyang, during which a man could walk on fire or stab himself repeatedly with sharp-bladed knives and remain unhurt.

  ‘You say nothing,’ the pedanda told him. ‘Are you afraid?’

  ‘Tidak,’ Michael said. ‘No.’

  The pedanda continued to stare at him without expression. ‘I have told you what to expect. As you enter the world of the dead, you will also be entering the world of the demons. You will encounter the leyaks, the night vampires who are the acolytes of Rangda. You will see for yourself the butas and the kalas, those who breathe disease into the mouths of babies.’

  ‘I am not afraid,’ Michael said. He glanced at the pedanda quickly, a sideways look, to see his reaction.

  The pedanda came closer and leaned over Michael so that the boy could smell the curious dry, woody smell the priest always seemed to exude.

  ‘Very well, you are not afraid of leyaks. But suppose you came face to face with Rangda herself.’

  ‘I should call on Barong Keket to protect me.’

  The pedanda cackled. ‘You will be afraid, I promise you, even if you are not afraid now. It is right to be afraid of Rangda. My son, even I am afraid of Rangda.’

  Then the pedanda left Michael briefly and returned with a large object concealed beneath an ornately embroidered cloth. He set the object in front of Michael and smiled.

  ‘Do you know what this is?’

  ‘It looks like a mask.’

  ‘And what else can you tell me about it?’

  Michael licked his lips. ‘It is very sakti.’ He meant that it was magically powerful, so powerful that it had to be covered by a cloth.

  ‘Would you be frightened if I were to show it to you?’ asked the priest.

  Michael said nothing. The pedanda watched him closely, searching for the slightest twitch of nervousness or spiritual hesitation. After a moment, Michael reached forward, grasped the corner of the cloth and drew it off the mask.

  As confident and calm as he was, he felt his insides coldly recoil. For the hideous face staring at him was that of Rangda, the Witch Widow, with bulging eyes, flaring nostrils, and fangs so hooked and long that th
ey crossed over each other. Michael’s sensitivity to the presence of evil was so heightened now that he felt the malevolence of Rangda like a freezing fire burning into his bones. Even his teeth felt as if they were phosphorescing in their sockets.

  ‘Now what do you feel?’ asked the priest. His face was half hidden by shadow.

  Michael stared at the mask for a long time. Although it was nothing more than paper and wood and gilded paint, it exuded extraordinary evil. It looked as if it were ready to snap into sudden life and devour them both.

  Michael said, ‘If Barong Keket does not protect me, the spirit of my father will.’

  The pedanda took the embroidered cloth and covered the mask again, although he left it where it was, resting between them.

  ‘You are ready,’ he said dryly. ‘We shall close our eyes and meditate, and then we shall begin.’

  The pedanda sat opposite Michael and bowed his head. The fragrant incense billowed between them, sometimes obscuring the priest altogether so that Michael could not be certain that he was still there. The incense evoked in Michael’s consciousness the singing at funerals, the trance dances, and all the secret rituals the pedanda had taught him since he was twelve years old. There was another aroma in the incense, however: bitter and pungent, like burning coriander leaves.

  ‘You must think of the dead,’ the pedanda told him. ‘You must think of the spirits who walk through the city.

  You must think of the presence of all those who have gone before you: the temple priests who once tended this courtyard, the merchants who cried in the streets outside, the rajas and the perbekels, the children and the proud young women. They are still with us, and now, when you wish to, you may see them. The crowds of the dead!’

  Michael looked around. He was in the first stages of trance, breathing evenly as if he were cautiously entering a clear, cold pool of water. There, lining the walls of the inner courtyard, stood carved stone shrines to the deities of life and death, a shrine to Gunung Alung, the volcano, and another to the spirits of Mount Batur. It was in these shrines that the gods were supposed to sit when they visited the Pura Dalem.