Shaman of Bali

by John Greet

  ‘Okay,’ I said tentatively.

  ‘Of course, man, of course,’ said Geno, and we shook hands.

  A stray gust of wind blew in, causing a flock of seagulls to lift off and resettle further along the beach.

  That night I borrowed Ketut’s motorbike and rode towards Kuta. I slowed down as I came into a built-up area. Behind thatched bar fronts with tacky neon signs flashing names like ‘Froggies Bar’ or ‘Peanuts Club’, I heard the drunken drawl of late-night revellers. I recognised Australian and Kiwi accents. An empty beach road stretched out before me. A strip with the ocean on one side and hotels set back from the road on the other. I rode the bike, slowing to a crawl as I passed the spot where Geno and Paolo had been pulled over – that night seemed like ages ago. I passed Legian village. On the main road heading out of town, I saw a signpost that said ‘Beach’, followed by an arrow. I swung into the narrow lane. At the end of the track, sweeping white foam surged and receded on an expanse of flat sand. Coconut palms rustled. Attached to a trunk, swarming with moths, shone a single light bulb. I pulled up under its glow, cut the motor and sat on the bike, enjoying the warm sea air.

  I had the urge to swim suddenly. After dropping my clothes above the tide line, I raced into the sea, my feet sinking in the soft sand. I jumped over a few incoming rollers and found a good depth. Beyond the waves, I floated on my back, looking up into the starry skies. Then I became aware of a current. With memories still fresh of the rip that’d pulled me onto the reef, I swam for the shore, body-surfed on a wave and came out some distance away from my clothes. I could just see the light on the coconut palm.

  There was movement to my right. People were walking along the beach at the water’s edge. I stood waist-deep in the sea. I would stay there until they passed.

  Moonlight and phosphorous foam cast a translucent light on three approaching figures. They came out of a sea-spray mist, two jet-black hunched animals and a tall white woman. The animals wore chain collars and leads, and they loped along, almost pulling the woman faster than she wanted to walk. They were close, not twenty metres to my right, and I could see them clearly: two huge orangutans with hairy manes, and a tall elegant woman dressed in white. They passed directly in front of me. I saw the fiery-red eyes and human-like faces of the apes, but the woman held my attention more. A shawl, embellished with white lace, covered her shoulders. Her silver hair curved across a high brow and fell draped to her shoulders, where it became a plait woven with sea shells and other trinkets. The only non-white adornment she wore was a pair of black wrap-around sunglasses. Her face was delicately sculptured, and her body, under wind-touched fabric, moved gracefully.

  I walked out of the water keeping well behind as they moved up the beach and towards the light. One ape stopped at my clothes and sniffed. Its eyes flashed my way for an instant, and I froze. Then it diverted its attention to the woman’s shoulder bag. She pulled at its chain and the ape heeled. Under the light she rummaged through the bag. I couldn’t see what she took out from it, but whatever it was interested the apes, and they pressed towards her, clutching her. The woman in white, haloed by the light of the lamp, was held aloft by two enormous black apes. I watched transfixed as they disappeared through the coconut palms.

  6

  I awoke to a dusk with no moon. A grey mist hung low over the coffee shop, making the glow of the oil lamps brighter. A swarm of night moths circled and hovered around the electric light, hissing and popping. The tide was out. I padded down from my room to the shop. I saw Wayan pointing to a smattering of dead moths under the light. She ordered a waitress to take a broom and brush them away, but unsatisfied with the way that the waitress did the task, Wayan came out from behind the cash register to show her. She was halfway across the floor when she stopped. I saw her terrified expression. Her face flushed red, and she stood transfixed, then let out a scream. She fell to the floor writhing, making gurgling sounds and clutching her throat, as if she was trying to pry away invisible hands. The terrified waitress knelt beside her. Ketut rushed in. I helped him pick her up. She fought against us, scratching our faces. Her eyes rolled white as she thrashed and twisted. Ketut wrapped his arms around her, lifting her off her feet. Together we carried her out of the coffee shop to a deck chair by the swimming pool.

  ‘Call Anak!’ Ketut cried. I rushed to the telephone in the office. Anak sensed the urgency in my voice and hung up immediately. I returned to the coffee shop to assure our guests that help was on the way, then went to stand by Wayan’s side. We waited long moments. Ketut strained to keep himself together while his wife’s condition worsened. By the time Anak arrived, Wayan was soaked in sweat, and her eyes were wide open, her face flushed.

  ‘It’s a spell,’ said Anak, touching her forehead. ‘It’s a strong one, too. Ketut, get me a glass of water, and tell the staff to return to their work. Adam, you take over Wayan’s work. Stay in the coffee shop, and don’t allow anyone to come near us.’

  ‘How bad is she?’

  ‘Very bad. I must use bloodstone.’

  I took up Wayan’s place behind the cash register. I slipped a recording of calming gamelan music into the shop’s sound system and told our waitresses to offer each guest a cocktail on the house. Through the thatched blinds, I watched Anak hold up a glass of red liquid to the light.

  The coffee shop was almost empty when Anak called for Ketut. Together they held Wayan’s head up and poured the contents of the glass into her mouth. Still unconscious, she gagged and spluttered. Our staff sat around a table, silent and scared. Then Anak called us over. Wayan lay peacefully on the pool chair. We rolled her onto a stretcher and carried her to her room. I walked back to the coffee shop with Anak.

  ‘She’ll be okay,’ he said. ‘The blood water will stop the spell from becoming worse. But, unfortunately, it will have less power as there is no moon tonight.’

  I’d been in Bali long enough to know that spells and magic were very real to the people here. These magical forces and unexplainable energies were as real to them as the air they breathed. Demons and gods were given equal importance. One couldn’t exist without the other, I’d been told, and they went to great lengths to appease them both.

  I wanted to believe that Wayan had been struck down by a spell, and that the magic of the bloodstone had cured her, but a small voice in the back of my mind kept telling me it was nonsense. I remembered drinking the blood water myself and seeing the cuts on my legs vanish. At the time my feelings had ping-ponged between disbelief and amazement, until I had finally come to the conclusion that my incredible cure was due to the papaya. The next day, Wayan was back at her post. Ketut told me she had no recollection of what had happened the night before.

  * * *

  Several days later, I saw Anak wandering along the shoreline. He was investigating bits of seaweed and turning over rocks and shells with a walking cane. As I approached he looked up, acknowledged me with a nod and went back to his fossicking.

  ‘Anak, please, I would like to see the bloodstone.’

  ‘And so you shall, my friend,’ he answered quietly, as if he’d been expecting my question. ‘Come to my compound for the full moon ceremony.’

  I knew that in his capacity as a shaman, Anak cured afflictions ranging from small ailments to spirit possessions through the laying of hands and chanting of prayers. Wayan had told me how patients queued up outside his compound on nights of the full moon with baskets of offerings in exchange for healing sessions. These sessions, she said, were part of an elaborate Hindu ceremony to invoke the power of the moon. The bloodstone was only used on rare occasions when all other remedies failed.

  On the night of the next full moon, Wayan dressed me in a dark blue sarong with a gold embroidered sash, along with the appropriate headgear for a Hindu layman. I climbed onto the back of Ketut’s motorbike, and we headed out of the quiet of the hotel grounds into the madness of Balinese traffic. We were met at the entrance to Anak’s compound by his wife, Dewi. She adorned us with frangipani
garlands and ushered us inside. A large banyan tree grew in the middle of the compound. Lanterns hung from its lower branches, and in the cave-like root cavities of the trunk were placed statues of Hindu deities, honoured with incense and tiny baskets filled with rice and bits of paper currency. About a hundred devotees sat cross-legged before the bamboo dais where Anak was perched. He was dressed in a white sarong, with his hair oiled and tied back. A patient undergoing a healing lay before him, chest bare, sarong rolled up.

  A bell rang, and a group of priests struck up a chant, accompanied by the beating of drums and gamelans. A hundred voices joined in, the sound vibrating through me. The sound of chanting and the heady smell of incense made me feel light-headed. Ketut sat next to me, his palms pressed together, his face enraptured. The chanting ended with the priests sprinkling holy water over the crowd. Each devotee reached out with open palms to receive the blessing.

  Soon, the healed and the priests had left. Only Anak, Ketut and I remained.

  ‘Come,’ said Anak. He pointed to a seat on the dais. As I sat, he placed the bloodstone in a glass of water. After several minutes a thin blood-like substance oozed out of several points in the stone, turning the water red. Anak removed the stone from the glass and returned it to its cloth.

  ‘Drink some,’ he said, handing me the glass. I raised it to my lips and drank a couple of mouthfuls. He then took the glass from my hands. ‘Once again you are under the protection of the blood stone.’

  I had heard the same words when Anak had set my shoulder. I remembered the reverence in Ketut’s voice when he spoke of the bloodstone, and of course the fascination in Eddi’s voice as he told his story. ‘Protection?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes. Nothing can hurt you now. Let me show you.’ Anak reached for his kris, a small razor-sharp curved dagger that Balinese men wear tucked in their sashes. He handed it to me. I felt its sharpness with my thumb.

  ‘Hold out your arm.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You cannot be harmed.’

  He took my arm and quickly slashed it three times. I could feel the sharp blade cutting into my skin. I tried to pull away but his grip held me firm. To my surprise, no marks showed on my skin. There was no indication that I had been cut with a sharp knife. Again he slashed my arm, harder this time; once more I felt the blade piercing my skin. Yet no mark showed. Anak told Ketut to hold out his arm then lightly dragged the kris across his skin. A thin line of blood appeared. Ketut had been cut. He smiled at me as he wiped the blood off his arm.

  I was experiencing something so far outside the realm of what I knew to be possible, yet it seemed believable. Anak was believable. He had no reason to trick me. But that’s what I thought it was: a trick, a hoax, a sleight of hand. I felt the weight of disappointment settle in me. I picked up the kris and felt its blade once more. He must have seen the disbelief on my face.

  ‘One day, you will understand,’ he said.

  I thanked him for the demonstration as he left.

  A gust of air rustled the leaves lying about the deserted compound. An oil lamp flared, illuminating a small golden statue of a god at the base of the tree. We were about to leave when Ketut reached for the remaining blood water. The glass was still two-thirds full. He raised a toast to the moon and drank it. ‘No need to waste it,’ he said as we climbed onto his motorbike. Although the moon was full, the coconut palms that lined the road made it gloomy. Fireflies flickered in and out of our headlight.

  I saw the dog rush out before us, and I felt Ketut swerve to miss it. The motorbike went over. We skidded along the tar seal right into the path of an oncoming truck. I was thrown off into the gravel. I turned my head to see Ketut disappear under the front wheels of the truck. The sound was sickening: a dull crunch, and then the same horrific sound again as the back wheels of the truck ran over Ketut’s body a second time. The motorbike lay on its side, front wheel spinning. The headlight was still on, and it pointed at Ketut’s inert body lying on the middle of the road.

  I picked myself up and staggered towards him. His face looked strangely serene. He opened one eye, and then the other, cocked his head to one side and looked down at his body. Then he stood up.

  ‘Ketut!’ I shouted. ‘Are you all right?’

  He ran his hands over his body, checking. ‘Yes, I am.’

  We picked up the motorbike. Apart from the bent handlebars and a cracked headlight, it was undamaged. There was no sign of the truck that had run over Ketut. We got back on our bike and drove home.

  Back at the hotel, a single bulb lit the deserted coffee shop. Wayan had left a plate of fruit and a thermos of tea for us. An offshore breeze rattled the rattan blinds. Waves thumped against the sea wall. A loose piece of thatch flapped noisily.

  ‘We might have some bad weather,’ said Ketut.

  ‘Are you sure you’re okay? Do you feel anything? Any bruises or pain?’ I wasn’t interested in the weather. If I’d thought Anak’s performance with the bloodstone was a trick, I knew Ketut being run over by a truck wasn’t. ‘Ketut, did you not feel anything when the truck ran over your body?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Ketut, you were run over by a truck. You went under the front wheels, and then the back wheels too.’

  ‘I did?’

  ‘Yes, I saw it.’

  ‘Strange.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I know we fall off bike because of dog, but I don’t see no truck.’

  ‘Ketut! I saw it!’ My voice rose in frustration.

  He sipped the tea and then unpeeled a mangosteen. He popped the white flesh of the fruit into his mouth and flicked the peel over the sea wall. The wind grew stronger, causing a tablecloth to flutter to the ground. I could see he was deep in thought. I stared out at the sea. After some time he turned to me and smiled.

  ‘Maybe I explain a little. You see, Wayan and I, we been working at Sandika Hotel for long time and I see many foreigners. One thing, the Westerner, he always need an explanation for everything. How much this? How much that? Where? Why? What? And also the Westerners have only one god. And I know him always angry: Don’t do this, don’t do that. So, many Westerners cannot believe in him. You see, we Balinese very lucky. We have many gods, happy gods, sad gods, fighting gods, gods for this and that. So many gods. Even me, I can’t remember them all.’ Then his face darkened, and as he spoke, he lowered his voice. His eyes scanned the surroundings as if he were afraid someone would listen. ‘But also we have leyaks, devils and demons. They very bad, Adam, watch out for them. You see already what happen to Wayan.’

  ‘Yes, but …’ I was not sure what Ketut’s discourse had anything to do with the night’s bizarre events.

  ‘Wait,’ he said, ‘I’m not finished. You see the bloodstone, and you don’t believe its powers, but I believe. Do you believe the Americans put man on moon?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I do not. I can’t believe that one, because the moon is a god, and how can a man walk on a god? But I try to answer your question now. Anak show you the bloodstone and you no believe, so a god who’s watching said, “Ah! I gonna show him.” You understand?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Adam, not everyone see the same thing at same time. Maybe that god, he want to show you the power of blood stone with the truck. But me, I believe already, so he no need to show me. You understand?’

  ‘So what you’re saying is the truck didn’t exist. It was only an illusion manifested by some god?’

  ‘Ah! There you go again. You see the Western mind is so hard, Adam, like a rock.’ Ketut slapped his forehead in frustration. Then he leaned over and rubbed my arm as he spoke, ‘Of course, the truck exist. You exist, I exist, and even the thinking in your head exists. Adam, please don’t worry yourself anymore. You see the truck. I did not. That’s it.’

  At that moment, a gust of wind blew through the coffee shop and pushed the blinds aside. Moonlight illuminated Ketut’s face as the wind rose stronger. The chorus of crickets and frogs became silen
t, and the fruit bats grew still. I thanked Ketut for his explanation and headed up to my room. I lay awake listening to the rain pound on the roof.

  * * *

  Grace rang the following morning. ‘Hi Dad, are you sitting down?’

  ‘I am now.’ Her tone made me anxious.

  ‘Hey, are you okay?’ she asked. ‘You don’t tell me much about what’s going on with you in Bali.’

  ‘Gracie, what is it?

  ‘Well … I’m with someone.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I have a boyfriend,’ she blurted out the words so fast, I nearly missed them.

  ‘Whew, you had me worried there. I thought it was something serious.’

  ‘It is serious,’ she said quietly, and with a slightly indignant tone.

  ‘Okay, who is he?’ I stood and looked out the office window to the coffee shop. Wayan was serving a couple of surfers. Sunlight filtered through the banyan tree, casting shimmering patterns of light on the ground. Grace had a boyfriend; should I be concerned, worried? I had to admit it kind of bothered me. I still saw her as my little girl.

  ‘His name is Steven,’ she said carefully. ‘He’s two years older than me, and he’s studying Accounting at Auckland Uni. He’s not really good looking but he’s, like, kinda cute in his own way. He’s kind and caring. Dad, he really loves me.’

  ‘Do you love him?’

  ‘I think so,’ she paused. Wayan came in and bustled about the office looking for a receipt book. Grace continued, ‘I can talk to him, and he listens. Since my dad’s not around, I haven’t had anyone else to talk to.’

  ‘That’s not the reason you’re with him, surely?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Have you two … you know?’

  ‘Know what?’

  ‘Made love, had sex?’

  ‘Dad … I’m eighteen.’

  ‘Okay, okay.’ I suddenly felt foolish. ‘Well, Grace, what can I say … I wish you both the best and don’t get pregnant.’