Dr Ambara had no need to establish credentials of any kind. Randolph had sought him out, and Randolph would either believe what he had to say about contacting the dead, or not.
‘I was very annoyed when I heard that Dr Linklater had asked to have you taken off my case,’ Randolph said. ‘Quite frankly, he had no right to do that.’
‘I hope you will not allow such a small matter to cause any lasting bad feeling between you,’ Dr Ambara remarked. ‘I am quite sure that Dr Linklater was only doing what he considered best for you. He is a careful and considerate man in my experience. Perhaps too careful and too considerate, but all doctors are concerned about malpractice suits these days of course, and in a general practitioner, these apparent failings can sometimes be a virtue.’
‘He still had no right. I pay his bills, after all.’
‘Ah, Mr Clare, paying a doctor’s bills does not always give you the authority to question his professional judgment. Part of what you are paying him for is the fact that he knows a great deal more about your body than you do. And about your mind, too.’
They started to walk as if an off-stage film director had suddenly instructed them to stroll side by side through the gardens, remembering their lines as they went.
Randolph found Dr Ambara’s conversation peculiarly stilted, as if he were deeply reluctant to tell Randolph anything and yet felt that fate had already dictated that he must.
There was a sense of inevitability about this walk through the Dixon Gardens and about the course of their conversation, as if destiny had required them to come together at last, mismatched partners in what would prove to be an arcane game of Oriental checkers in which the white counters represented the living and the black counters represented the dead.
Dr Ambara spoke quietly and with considerable formality. As they walked, he held his hands pressed together like a closed book that he was unwilling to open.
‘As I believe I explained to you at the clinic, Mr Clare, it is believed in my religion that the souls of the dead are not extinguished forever but that they pass through heaven in preparation for their eventual rebirth.’
‘But you said that they could actually be reached when they were in heaven … that they could actually be spoken to.’
‘I said this more to give you solace in your time of grief than to suggest it as a practical proposition. That, I regret to say, was my misjudgment.’
‘But it can be done? There is a way in which I could talk to my family again?’
Dr Ambara looked at Randolph sharply. ‘Are you really sure you want to?’
Randolph said, ‘Perhaps I could judge that better if you were to tell me something about it, how it’s done, what the dangers are.’
‘Well, Mr Clare, as I mentioned on the telephone, the dangers are considerable, not only to those who attempt to contact the dead, but to the dead themselves.’
They reached a long, dark yew hedge, immaculately clipped. It was still so foggy that Randolph could see only twenty or thirty feet in any direction, and the temperature had risen well up into the mid-eighties. A solitary man walked past them, regarding them with some suspicion through rimless glasses, his windbreaker rustling like brown paper that has grown soft from repeated folding.
Dr Ambara waited until the man had passed and then said, ‘An essential part of our religious activity is the sanghyang, or trance. Anybody who is religiously devout and wishes to experience the spiritual ecstasies of closeness to the gods is capable of entering such a trance. And a measure of how powerful a trance can be is that those who enter it are often capable of extraordinary feats such as walking barefoot on fire, or of dancing complicated dances that nobody has ever taught them, often in unison with other entranced persons and in perfect step.’
‘I think I’ve heard something about the sanghyang,’ Randolph told him. ‘Can’t people in such a state dig knives into themselves, something like that, and put skewers through their cheeks?’
‘Well, perhaps you are getting a little mixed up with the penitents’ rituals at Thaipusam,’ said Dr Ambara. ‘But essentially you have the idea.’
Randolph started walking again, thoughtfully. ‘And it’s this trance that enables people to meet their dead relatives?’
‘A highly developed form of it, yes. It is popularly known as the death trance. It involves fasting and religious training of an intensive nature, and the chants and the rituals used are very complex and very sakti, which means magically powerful.’
‘If you haven’t had any religious training, is it still possible to enter one of these death trances?’ Randolph asked. ‘I mean, could / do it? Is there any chance at all?’
Dr Ambara took off his sunglasses and carefully polished them with his handkerchief.
‘I suppose that for your own safety I should not really tell you any of this. But in my estimation, you are a man who is capable of taking a hand in his own destiny, as long as you understand that I am not recommending that you follow this course of action. On the contrary, for reasons which I will explain to you, you would be far better off if you were to forget that I had ever spoken to you about it.’
He held up his glasses to the foggy sunlight to make sure they were clean and then went on. ‘There are only ten or maybe a dozen adepts capable of entering the death trance.
Many try, many fail. The risks of entering the death trance, you see, are similar to the risks of fire-walking. During a trance it is possible for men and women to walk, even to dance, across a glowing pit of coconut husks. Their feet are quite bare, the coconut husks are white-hot, yet they do not even suffer from blisters. Some people do it regularly all of their lives and are never hurt. But sometimes a fire-walker’s concentration is faulty, sometimes his faith is weak, sometimes his trance is not sufficiently complete. Who can say why? When that happens, the fire-walker falters both spiritually and physically and the fire burns him. I was at a temple blessing in Djakarta when my cousin lost both of his feet while performing a Sanghyang Jaran, which is a trance dance on a wooden hobbyhorse. In the time that it took him to dance from one end of the fiery pit to the other, his feet were burned down to the stumps of his shinbones, yet all the time he kept on dancing and did not cry out.’
The sun was at last beginning to penetrate the fog, and the gardens were transformed to misty gold. Randolph could feel the sweat glueing his shirt to the middle of his back.
Dr Ambara continued. ‘The risks involved in the death trance are similar but much greater. If the fire-walk goes wrong, you may lose your feet. If the death trance goes wrong, you will certainly lose your life. Of those ten or twelve adepts capable of entering the death trance, perhaps fewer than four have survived its dangers often enough to be capable of guiding a less-trained person into the realms beyond the veil. Out of those four, perhaps two could be persuaded to actually do it, although it is impossible to say whether they could be found and what they would charge for such a service. Needless to say, it is illegal in Indonesia for a death-trance adept to sell his services for money, and the government does everything it can to discourage such practices. I have heard, however, that several wealthy American families have paid death-trance adepts to contact their deceased relatives, families whose names you would recognize; and I know for certain that attempts were made to hire an adept to contact Howard Hughes in order to ascertain where his will might be.
Nobody knows if Hughes was actually contacted or whether the adept failed to find him. Perhaps he was found and had something to say that did not please the parties who had been trying to get in touch with him. You must understand, Mr Clare, that meetings with the dead can be deeply distressing and frequently terrifying.’
Randolph said tightly, ‘You mentioned dangers.’
‘Yes, although I have tried not to be too specific. You have little or no knowledge of our religion, Mr Clare, and so far I have not wished to sound patronizing. Perhaps you could compare me with a Western mechanic who is trying to discourage an Indonesian villager from driving a car by fright
ening him with the mystifying details of what happens when you strip the gears.’
Randolph smiled. ‘You can be as mystifying and as detailed as you like, Doctor. I’ve listened to you so far, haven’t I, without any outward signs of scepticism? I think I’m prepared to accept your basic premise that the dead are not irrevocably dead, that they’ve simply been removed for a while from the physical world that the rest of us inhabit. So, whatever else you have to say, it can hardly be any more difficult to swallow than that.’
‘Very well,’ Dr Ambara agreed. ‘What you have to know is that when you enter the world of the dead, you are also entering the world of what I can only describe to you as demons. Well, you raise your eyebrows. I expected you would. But in their own realm, they are as real as the spirits of your loved ones are real.’
‘And these … demons … they’re dangerous?’ Randolph asked. The word ‘demons’ felt as awkward in his mouth as an obscenity. He was a cottonseed processor, a businessman, a churchgoer and a pragmatist; for all his urgent need to believe that Marmie and the children were still reachable, could he really bring himself to believe in demons? Could all those childhood legends and all those dungeons-and-dragons fantasies really have some foundation in fact?
It was bizarre. And yet here was a highly qualified doctor telling him quite calmly that they did, in Dixon Gardens, in Memphis, on the most ordinary of days.
Dr Ambara said, ‘Of course I do not expect you to be able to immediately accept what I am saying. For those brought up in the ways of Christianity and in the ways of modern Western education, the notion of demons must seem fanciful, even ludicrous. But whether you care to believe in them or not, they do exist, and if you choose to enter the realms of the dead, you will risk encountering them.’
‘What exactly do they do? If that’s the right question?’
‘They are the acolytes of a goddess we call Rangda,’ Dr Ambara explained. ‘They are a form of what, in popular terms, you might call zombies, the living dead. They are the wandering spirits of those whose souls were not separated from their mortal bodies by cremation and over whose remains the proper religious rites were never spoken. The Goddess Rangda promises them freedom from their misery if they snare fresh spirits for her, and that is what they do. They capture the dead and, whenever they can, the living, in order to feed their mistress. But she, of course, never keeps her promise to them and never releases them.’
Dr Ambara paused for a moment, uncertain of how to explain the dangers of disturbing the Goddess Rangda to a man whose belief in Jehovah was far from unquestioning. Yet Randolph waited, eager to understand, anxious to hear the words that would convince him of Dr Ambara’s truths.
‘You see,’ Dr Ambara explained at last, ‘when a living being manages in a death trance to enter the realm of the dead, his physical presence alerts the demons. He sets up ripples, twitches, in the same way that a fly alerts a spider when it lands on its web. The demons will at once pursue the intruder and drag him back, if they can, to Rangda. A living being, for Rangda, is a rare prize, and she may richly reward the demons who brought him to her. She is the Witch Widow, the queen of all those evil spirits and ghouls who haunt the graveyards at night. Usually she has to be content with dead flesh and faded spirits. A living being is a feast.’
‘You said on the telephone that there could also be danger to the dead relatives, to the people the living person is trying to get in touch with,’ Randolph said.
‘Indeed,’ Dr Ambara nodded. ‘In spite of her voracious appetite for the living, Rangda does not of course completely eschew the dead. And any feast of souls is given greater relish if there is emotional agony to season it. She would no doubt delight in devouring the spirits of the dead loved ones in front of their living relative before she devours him too.’
Randolph said with a hint of acidity, ‘You speak very eloquently, Dr Ambara.’
‘All Indonesians know the stories and legends of Rangda. Besides, my uncle was a high priest, what we call a pedanda, and my father was the cultural attache at the Indonesian office in Washington, DC, for many years. I myself have given several lectures on Indonesian custom and religion since I have been here in the United States.’
‘These demons,’ Randolph said. ‘Do they have a name? Can you describe them? I’d like to know what I’m up against.’
‘They are called leyaks, Mr Clare. It is difficult to say what they look like for few of those adepts who have encountered them have survived for long. But many talk of grey-faced creatures with eyes that are alight like coals.’
‘Presumably, though, if I were to try to get in touch with Marmie and the children, I’d have to do it here in Memphis, where they are going to be buried.’
That is correct.’
‘But surely there are no leyaks in the United States?’
There is nothing that exists in Indonesia that does not exist in the rest of the world, Mr Clare. Perhaps in a different guise, perhaps with a different mask, but still the same. There are leyaks in Memphis, my dear sir, grave-ghouls who remain invisible to everybody except those who are trained in the spiritual disciplines of Yama. The great Goddess Rangda is here too, the Witch Widow, although she may be seen in a different form. The world of gods and demons is not the same as ours, Mr Clare. It is possible for them to be everywhere and nowhere; it is possible for them to alter their location in time and space as easily as opening a door. This is one of the first things we learn when we are young. Some of the lesser demons, perhaps, are not as versatile in their movements, but they find their own way of spreading their influence
… the butas, for example, who breathe foul diseases into the mouths of their sleeping victims. As a doctor, I suppose I should not be telling you this, but an Indonesian specialist of very high repute is convinced that AIDS was first propagated by a buta breathing into the mouth of an American cardiologist called Lindstrom, who happened to be attending a medical convention in Djakarta in nineteen seventy-six.
Dr Lindstrom had apparently been something of an enthusiast for Zen and yoga and other Oriental disciplines and had put himself into a trance. It was while he was in this trance that the buta infected him. The unfortunate part about it was that apart from being a practising heart specialist, Dr Lindstrom was also a practising homosexual.’
It appeared now that Dr Ambara had little more to say. His waxy forehead shone with sweat. They had almost reached the gates leading out of Dixon Gardens to Park Avenue, but Randolph had the feeling that the doctor did not yet consider their conversation finished, and the way in which he had tried to dissuade Randolph from seeking out his murdered family had seemed peculiarly inconclusive.
It was almost as if Dr Ambara had advertised the death trance like a cigarette commercial and then added a warning that ‘entering the realm of the dead is dangerous to your health.’
Randolph said bluntly, ‘If I were to pay all your expenses, would you find an adept for me, someone who could take me into a death trance?’
Dr Ambara unfolded a clean white handkerchief and dabbed at his forehead. ‘Do you really believe any of what I have told you?’
‘Is there a reason I shouldn’t? You believe it, don’t you, in spite of the fact that you’ve been educated and trained here in America?’
‘Mr Clare,’ said Dr Ambara, ‘it is hardly your place to question or to define my beliefs.
You have asked me how it is possible for a man to meet his dead relatives.
Somewhat against my better discretion, I have told you. That is all I can do. That is all you can fairly ask me to do.’
‘Dr Ambara, I don’t think you understand how much this means to me.’
‘Well, I believe I do.’
Randolph said, ‘I’m sorry. I appreciate your taking the time to come down here and talk to me. I appreciate everything you’ve done. I didn’t mean to be disrespectful.’
‘Disrespectful?’ Dr Ambara queried and then brushed at his cheek like a man who has been unexpectedly bitten
by a mosquito. ‘I suppose it depends on your definition of respect. To my mind, you are trying to take me up on an offer I have not made.’
Randolph persisted, ‘Will you help me find an adept?’
Dr Ambara gazed down the pathway.
‘I can pay you anything you want,’ Randolph said, fully aware of how melodramatic his words sounded. ‘Maybe there’s some clinical equipment you need. A new X-ray unit, something like that. Goddam, Doctor, maybe you want a new Cadillac.’
Dr Ambara pursed his lips, turned away, thought for a while and then turned back again. ‘This cannot be undertaken frivolously,’ he said.
‘Did anybody mention anything remotely frivolous?’ Randolph demanded. ‘I’m talking about my wife and children.’
‘I suppose I could try,’ said Dr Ambara.
His tone was too guarded. Randolph, as an experienced business negotiator, suddenly recognized the personal need that Dr Ambara had been trying to conceal behind carefully selected words, behind tightly controlled sentences. He suddenly identified the real reason for Dr Ambara’s lack of conviction.
‘There could be some mutual benefit here,’ he remarked.
Dr Ambara glanced at him. He looked as if he were about to deny it, but then he quickly nodded his head and said, ‘I can make some preliminary inquiries. I have friends at the Indonesian Embassy, people who knew my father.’
‘You know that I’ll pay,’ Randolph told him.
‘Well,’ said Dr Ambara, ‘perhaps money is not the prime consideration in this matter.’
They reached the gates and Dr Ambara extended his hand. ‘I will call you, Mr Clare, just as soon as I have anything to tell you.’
Randolph said, ‘You’re not a bad judge of character, are you, Doctor?’
Dr Ambara blinked. ‘I’m not sure I understand you.’
‘What I mean is, when you first mentioned the possibility of my reaching my family, you had a fair idea that I would want to try to, didn’t you?’
Dr Ambara shrugged and looked away.
Randolph did not know whether he ought to go on questioning Dr Ambara or not, but when the doctor made no move to go, he said at last, ‘You have your own reasons for wanting me to meet my family, haven’t you?’
Death Trance Page 15
