Helen Lacklan sat in a patch of sunlight reading a book. From its bright red cover and small size I recognized it as a popular guidebook on Indonesia and Malaysia. John Lacklan sat in the boat cleaning his gun. It looked from this distance to be a bolt-action Winchester; with an ebony cap on the forestock I figured that it was one of the fancier models. From its long barrel and scope and the fact that the Lacklans came from New Mexico I assumed that it was his prized gun for deer or bighorn sheep … whichever, it wasn’t the best weapon for the jungle. This was a place where speed and maneuverability counted most. As I watched he carefully depressed the stop and slid the bolt back into the rifle, then pressed five long cartridges back into its magazine. For the first time I was glad he was armed.
He tucked his cleaning supplies into a small pack and then stalked over to a mound of supplies and set the rifle down. He paused and made a comment to Helen but she barely looked up. He stood there, tension building up in him, for a moment, but then broke off and went to the other end of the camp. I realized that I was witnessing an argument or the aftermath of one.
Over the wash of the river, slow and quiet at this point, I heard a man’s voice raised in anger. Then John Lacklan was standing over Helen yelling and gesticulating wildly. His thin face was turning a dark red under the fresh burn he’d been getting, and although I couldn’t understand the words, his voice was hoarse. Suddenly, Helen threw her book at him and leaped to her feet. The red-covered guidebook bounced off of his shoulder and he backed up a step. She advanced toward him and it almost looked like she was daring him to hit her. They paused and he backed away. In some way, she had called his bluff.
I squirmed back into the shadows of the forest. At the last minute as I headed back to my camp I noticed the flamboyantly dressed Iban boy and two of the men from the boat crew standing in the tree shadows across from me. The older crewmen had averted their gazes with expressions of shock and embarrassment on their faces; such outbursts of emotion as they had just witnessed were not considered at all acceptable in Malaya, but the boy studied them carefully and with a knowing smirk from behind his dark glasses.
I lay in my hammock that night wondering what would happen tomorrow afternoon when I faced them again. It was going to be awkward and I was going to have to act like there was never any problem between us. I didn’t know if they would accept the story I was going to make up about deciding to use their supplies to look for diamonds, but it probably made more sense than what I was actually up to.
Had I really followed them hoping for the worst so that I could step in and rescue Helen Lacklan and make her husband look the fool that I took him to be? And if that was true how much of a fool was he? He had chosen another guide to keep his wife and I apart. I had thought the idea amusing at the time, then I’d thought it dangerous. I had had one short opportunity to appreciate Helen Lacklan and I doubted if she had given much thought, if any, to me. But here I was, following them through the bush and rapidly developing a case that would do a sophomore proud on a married woman I hardly knew. Paranoid he might be but I was beginning to guess few people called John Lacklan stupid.
Well, I would follow along for one more day, until we reached my old diamond placer, then I would do my best to divert them from whatever this Iban boy had planned. If they didn’t want to follow me I would leave them to their destiny.
For better or for worse, I thought, I was back upriver. Even though it had cost me all the supplies that Lacklan had paid for, supplies that I might have sold, and losing the canal-cleaning job. I realized I’d better make the best of it. This was what I’d wanted all along: another chance at the diamonds. I drifted off to sleep as a soft rain began tapping at the shelter half strung over my mosquito net. Somehow I’d gotten what I’d wanted all along.
A high-pitched crack of thunder brought me awake just before dawn. I lay listening, waiting for the echoes to roll back from the mountains or down the river canyon. Through some trick of the rain or the forest vegetation the echo didn’t come. I thought about returning home with the money from a diamond find in my pocket… I thought about returning home with enough to explain my having disappeared into the Far East for almost two years.
An hour later when the gibbon monkeys began to noisily greet the sun, Raj rolled out of his hammock and made up some breakfast. We didn’t take long to get packed. I walked up the riverbank, the water running slightly higher because of last night’s rain, just far enough to see if the Lacklans had left camp yet. Their boats were gone so we pushed out into the stream and dug our paddles in against the current.
Around us the forest released great plumes of steam as -the sun’s heat cut into the trees. Trunks, some two hundred feet tall, leaned out over the water leaving only the narrowest slot of sky overhead. In the jungle itself one rarely could see more than sixty yards without the view being blocked by the growth. Even the tops of the trees were obscured by a much lower canopy with only the massive trunks hinting at the true size of the forest giants.
We pushed past the Lacklans campsite from the night before. They must have had an early start because their fire was cold, not even a thin line of smoke rising from behind the piled-up rocks they had used as a hearth. The shadows between the boles of the trees behind their camp were black as night, the few penetrating rays of the morning sun overshooting this area to glance off the emerald leaves of the higher forest.
Suddenly I stopped paddling. The canoe lost momentum and Raj looked around quickly.
“Boss? What’s wrong?”
Hidden under the trees, deep within the shadows but not quite deep enough to keep the morning light from revealing it, was the stern of a blot to “Turn in!” I commanded, and we made for the shore.
Leaving Raj to haul our boat out of the water I grabbed up my gun and splashed up onto the rocky beach. I hit the darkness of the forest and froze, letting my eyes adjust.
The two dugouts rested in narrow lanes between the trees, back along the shore were drag marks from where they had been pulled out of the water and across the mud flat to the jungle. Everything, supplies, mining equipment, camping gear, everything but the paddles were gone!
Could they have headed away from the river to a legitimate place to placer for diamonds? Had they hidden the canoes or just pulled them away from the rising waters of the river? I walked back out to their campsite.
The fire was dead and there was no sign it had been doused with water. They had not had breakfast.
Then I saw it. Shining brightly in a patch of sunlight; the answer to my questions … the worst answer to my questions. A long thin cylinder of brass. I picked it up and turned it over. It was stamped .30-06. The empty cartridge casing smelled powerfully of gunpowder even in this dampness. It had not been thunder I had heard just before dawn. It had been John Lacklan’s rifle!
I had tracked animals while hunting in Arizona and Nevada but following a trail in the jungles of Borneo was a different experience altogether. Luckily, the Lacklans and their captors had left camp after the rain stopped and they were not trying to hide their trail. The fact that there were ten of them heavily laden with the goods from the. canoes helped also.
Raj and I were burdened only with water, light packs, our parangs Raj’s being more along the lines of a traditional headhunting sword, thus larger than mine and my rifle.
They left occasional slip marks in the mud, breaks or machete cuts on protruding branches and vines. The trail was not hard to follow. But another problem soon became apparent.
Away from the river we found ourselves climbing a tall ridge cut by many small streams. The trail then followed the top of the ridge as it switch backed along between the Baram River on one side and a deeply cut canyon on the other. Visibility was so limited and the landscape so broken that although I could easily follow the trail or backtrack my own path I had no idea which direction was north, south, east, or west. I could barely tell which way was up-or downriver unless I could see the water close up and by now we were hundreds of
feet above the banks. To make matters worse it was dark, dark as deep twilight, and the humidity had increased tremendously. I was overheated, slick with sweat, and making far too much noise as I pushed along the trail.
Raj was doing better than I and it wasn’t only because of his youth. Although he had lived his life in Marudi he often went with his uncles to the forest and had some of the natural ease of the jungle peoples. He seemed to be able to instinctively place his feet in the most solid spots whether we were climbing over rocks covered with wet moss or skirting a deep bog of leaf mold. I dropped our pace to the point where I could follow him more exactly, and in relative silence, we pressed on.
By noon we seemed no closer to our quarry and I was down to the last of my canteen. We stopped by a brook that cascaded down the dim mountainside and had some dried pork while I boiled water on a tiny gas stove I had bought for the Lacklans. I didn’t always purify my water when I was in the bush but this would be a disastrous time to get sick so we waited while the stove hissed and the pot finally boiled. Raj harvested a vine growing nearby and after pounding it with a rock he made a paste that we rubbed on our legs. “Kulit dang,” he said. “Will help a couple hours, leeches don’t like.” We pressed on.
The dim light under the tree canopy was fading and the black cicadas had started their rasping, throbbing chorus when we reached what seemed to be our destination. We were on another river, much smaller than the Baram, and tucked back in the trees at the edge of a gravel bank was a decrepit long house Dugouts were pulled up on the bank and all around the main dwelling stretched a wasteland of squalor such as I had only seen in the native villages that had become ghettos because of their closeness to the large coastal cities.
The last of the sunlight was striking the overgrown slopes of the nearby mountains and the river valley was in shadow but I could barely make out overgrown fields and collapsed farm huts behind the ring of trash that had been ejected over the years from the long house In most cases a Dyak long house is a fascinating structure; built up, off the . ground and out of the flood plains on stilts, sometimes as much as twenty feet high, the interior of the building is twenty feet from floor to ceiling and often over one hundred feet long. Its roof and sides are made of a kind of native thatch or sheathed in tin, where available. Although surrounded by farming huts and storehouses it is the communal dwelling for the entire village.
This long house was one of the smaller ones and obviously very old. One corner was drooping dangerously on poorly repaired stilts and in this and other areas the verandah had all but given way. Across the distance I could hear harsh laughter and a slight strain of sap eh music on the wind, lights could be seen coming on through the doors and breaks in the walls.
Raj edged closer, he seemed jumpy, his fingers toyed with the hilt of his parang.
“You were right, boss.” He whispered, although we were a good half mile away. “This is the long house of Tuan Jeru.”
I was surprised by his use of the term “Tuan,” which indicates respect, and by his nervous whisper. I had seen Raj stand calmly by and thrust the same parang he was now nervously tapping deep into the side of a boar that attacked one of our workmen on a construction job. He had then pivoted like a matador and finished the enormous animal off when it turned to attack him instead. He had been barely fifteen at the time.
“Are you afraid of going in there? Tell me why?” I wasn’t feeling too good about it myself but I figured I better know as much as possible.
Raj’s chin came up and the dying light in the sky glinted in his eyes. “I am not afraid of any man!” he stated flatly. “But it is said that Tuan Jeru is a bali saleng, a black ghost, that he has killed many mans and taken their blood to bless the buildings of the English and Dutch and now for the oil companies.”
“Do you believe that?” I demanded. “You’ve worked with me on many buildings. Have you ever seen a foreigner take the time to make a sacrifice of blood or anything else?” “No…”
I wasn’t sure that this was really the right argument to use and I actually had a fair amount of respect for the beliefs of Raj and his people, but if he went in there scared, witch doctor or not, Jeru would take advantage of the situation.
“How many do you think are down there?” “If the stories are true, twenty mans, maybe ten worn-ans, maybe more.”
“What else do the stories say?” I asked. “The mans of Tuan Jeru are sakit bati; they are killers and rapists from the oil camps and towns on the coast. No village would have them. They are collectors of blood and they take heads to make magic.”
“Do you want to stay here, guard our backs?” I gave him a chance to get out with honor.
“I will go with you, boss,” the boy said. , “Good. Now, what do you think is going on down there?” “I think they have big arak party. Everyone get very drunk. They have all new trade goods, shotgun shell, fancy rifle. I think we wait.”
“What about the Lacklans? Will they be all right?” Raj paused, he wanted to tell me what he thought I wanted to hear but he knew I would press him for the truth. “I don’t know, boss,” he said. “I think maybe they cut off man’s head. The woman, I don’t know … These people, they not Iban, not Kayan, not Kelabit,” he named off the three major tribal groups, “they something different now … outlaws, you know. I bet they get drunk like Iban though, you’ll see.”
I hoped so, because outlaws or not I was betting that just like a normal village they had plenty of dogs and roosters. The typical long house celebration in Sarawak was a roaring drunk and I hoped that was what they were building up to because otherwise we weren’t going to get in there without raising an alarm.
I wanted to be ready when the moment came, so we moved in closer, carefully waded through the rushing waters of the stream, and circled away downwind of the skeletal silhouette of the long house We settled down just inside the secondary tree line and waited to see what would happen. The noise from inside was getting louder and I was sure that Raj had been right about them working themselves up to an all-night drunk. I just wasn’t sure what was going to happen to John and Helen … or when.
They might be dead already and I couldn’t wait much longer without trying to find out. I decided to split the difference; wait another hour but if I heard a commotion I’d go in with the rifle and hope for the best. If there were twenty men in the long house at least five would have the cheap single-shot shotguns that were common in the backcountry of Borneo. Someone in there had possession of Lacklan’s deer rifle and certainly there would be a full complement of spears, blowpipes, and machetes. My only hope was to get in and get as many of them covered as possible before anyone thought to grab a weapon. It wasn’t much of a plan; get in fast, get out fast, and put my confidence in the local arak’s potency.
Now, in my experience, arak has the punch of the best (or worst, depending on your expectations) moonshine. It seemed to have the chemical properties of torpedo fuel or the infamous “Indian whiskey” that was made in the old days in Oklahoma. One shot would make you stagger, a couple more would make you stupid. Imbibing further could leave one blind or even dead. Waiting for a level of intoxication that would give me an edge was a risky business.
About a half hour later two men staggered out on the verandah and hung over the railing. They alternated between what sounded like telling jokes and laughing hysterically with being violently ill. After three or four rounds of this odd combination of social interaction they parted, one going back into the light and noise of the long house the other slumped, snoring, against the railing. The sound of the crowd inside had taken on a harsher tone and I figured I’d better move in before something bad happened … if it hadn’t already.
Touching Raj on the shoulder I slipped past him and made my way down toward the river. We crept in past the outer circle of trash and one of my worst fears came suddenly true.
Three dogs rushed us out of the darkness under the long house Barking and snarling they rushed through the moonlight like dark miss
iles, low to the ground … missiles with pale flashing teeth.
I took a swipe at the first with my rifle butt and connected heavily. It backed off yelping. Raj moved quickly, snatching up the smallest of them by grabbing a fist of I flesh on either side of the dog’s neck just below the ears. He spun in a tight circle with the frantic beast snapping in I his outstretched arms and let go, hurling the dog far out I into the river. I clubbed with my rifle again, and drawing I his parang, Raj swatted an animal with the flat of the blade. The two remaining dogs backed up, growling but no longer I willing to attack. I was just beginning to curse our luck I and wonder if we should either hide or charge the ladder to the long house when a door above us slammed open and a man staggered out onto the verandah and called out into the night in what sounded like Iban.
Instantly Raj answered in an angry adult tone I’d never heard him use before. The man above us muttered something and then whistled sharply and called out some kind of command. We stood frozen in the darkness as he wandered back inside and closed the door.
Raj heaved a sigh of relief and I turned to peer into the darkness where he was standing. “What, in the name of God, was that all about?” I demanded.
He laughed, a giddy, semi hysterical cackle. “I told him to call off his damn dogs!”
We were a moment getting our wind back, then we worked our way under the long house and edged toward the back where, because of the slope of the gravel, the stilts were not so long. The ground beneath the building stank from garbage and worse. Above us feet tramped rhythmically on the ancient plank floor and shrill voices cried out. Toward the back the floor was low over our heads and then I was boosting Raj onto the verandah, and swinging up myself. Moving carefully on the weathered boards we eased up to a crack in the wall and peered in.
The light was probably dim, but with our pupils dilated by hours in the darkness it was blinding. Raj backed up for a moment and I blinked and squinted. In the center of a seated group a dancer leaped and whirled, his moves theatrically depicting … something, I couldn’t tell what. There were men and women in the room, but fewer women than I had thought. Bottles, mostly old beer and wine, were lying about. Some were obviously empty, others still in use. I knew from past experience that they no longer held beer or wine; they had been filled and refilled time and again with arak.
Off the Mangrove Coast (Ss) (2000) Page 10
