Midnight Shadows

By Garrett Kam

An innocent Balinese family is caught in the deadly crossfire between between opposing sides after the alleged Communist coup fails in Indonesia in 1965. Supernatural forces bring about divine retribution in this exciting tale of mysticism and morality. It looks at the reasons behind the terrible violence that engulfed the island by interweaving actual events and history with mythology, dreams and rituals.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trafford Publishing
• Release date: Dec 20, 2005
• ISBN: 9781412253017

Garrett Kam

Garrett Kam (I Nyoman Swastawa) was born in Honolulu, Hawaii. He has lived in Bali for many years, and since 1990 has served as a ritual assistant in one of the island's most important temples. He has written extensively on Southeast Asian art and culture. This is his first novel.

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© Copyright 2003 Garrett Kam. All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written prior permission of the author.

Cover painting by I Nyoman Arcana

Cover design by Garrett Kam

Layout by Garrett Kam

National Library of Canada Cataloguing in Publication Data

Kam, Garrett

Midnight shadows / Garrett Kam.

ISBN 1-55395-689-3

ISBN 978-1-4122-5301-7 (ebook)

I. Title.

PS3611.A45M52 2003 813’.54 C2003-900360-4

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This book was published on-demand in cooperation with Trafford Publishing.

On-demand publishing is a unique process and service of making a book available for retail sale to the public taking advantage of on-demand manufacturing and Internet marketing. On-demand publishing includes promotions, retail sales, manufacturing, order fulfilment, accounting and collecting royalties on behalf of the author.

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Contents

ONE Sandi Kaon Evil Link

TWO Raréné Sirep The Children Are Asleep

THREE Tengah Lemeng Middle Of The Night

FOUR Galang Kangin Bright In The East

FIVE Suryané Endag The Sun Rises

SIX Jegjeg Ai The Sun Is Above

SEVEN Singit Kauh Late Afternoon

EIGHT Sanja Twilight

NINE Sandi Kala Joint of Time

TEN Rarene Sirep The Children Are Asleep

FOREWORD

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MIDNIGHT

WRITTEN BY GARRETT KAM, NEXT TO VICKY BAUM’S A Tale From Bali, is the second original novel about Bali. There are some basic similarities in the two stories, for both narrate dramatic historical events and convey an inner peace in the hearts of villagers in the main roles. Both novelists also chose a particular region in Bali with rural and religious people.

For the author Garrett Kam it was a matter of falling into trance in what the Balinese call kasurupan. The voices of the characters speak through the author in the book. It is as if their spirits have descended into his body and taken possession of him.

In other words, this fascinating story is highly inspired.

It is a gripping novel that the author has written, perhaps a bit heavy on ritual detail. But I may be wrong here. There is, in the world, a great interest again in ritualistic, symbolic life. It could be that the author has struck the right accord with his novel.

The sympathetic family of Pekak Dalang and Nini leave a strong impression on the reader. Komang and Putu together with Kadek are lovable. The conversations are well-done—short, often comic sentences that show the straight-forwardness of their thinking.

The whole effect is utterly Balinese!

I could go on and on, but this is what I have to say: This is a marvelous novel and will attract many readers. It will be on all the lists and bibliographies of books about Bali.

ARIE SMIT, artist

Ubud, Bali

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THE DIVINE REVELATION OF THE SUPREME DESTINY

All that grows and exists

is to be compared to vessels filled with water.

The Lord is like the sun in the sky.

Look at Him from below; He is only One.

But suppose that a thousand vessels

were made to reflect His light;

suppose the number of the pots to be even

a hundred-thousand or a million vessels.

No doubt all of these would reflect His light.

Look at the water in the vessels

which are standing on earth:

it is clear that they all equally contain

the image of the sun,

all the waters within the vessels.

Thus is the Lord in the hearts of all men.

There is nothing wanting;

the hearts of all beings are filled only with Him.

Jñanâsiddhânta,

Chapter Five

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MIDNIGHT SHADOWS

ONE

Sandi Kaon

Evil Link

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PRANA

is the vital energy

that dwells above the head.

It descends into the fontanel

and spreads through the eyebrows,

ears, eyes, nostrils, and tongue.

It shines like the planet Venus

and dwells in the forehead,

ascending above the head.

Its sacred sound is

ING.

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THE VOICES OF HUNDREDS OF PEOPLE MARCHING FROM RENDANG VILLAGE ON THE southern flank of mount Gunung Agung in the Karangasem region of East Bali rang out in the clear mountain air late one afternoon. The marchers in the procession wound their way along the narrow road while loudly singing:

We swear an oath of equality;

Poverty will surely end.

Farmers and workers will all have work;

A new world will surely come.

Bright red flags with the yellow hammer and sickle symbol of the Indonesian Communist Party were blazing like fire in the rays of the setting sun. They flapped briskly and noisily in the cool mountain breezes, and contrasted with emerald green rice growing next to other fields full of golden grains waiting to be harvested. Like a bright red river of blood, the procession flowed down the hillside through the village of Muncan.

Little naked children playing in the road quickly dashed for safety into the nearest house gates and then cautiously peered out from the sides.

Older youngsters shouted at each other and ran alongside the marchers as dogs barked furiously.

Mothers with babies at their bare breasts looked out over the shoulder-high walls of mud bricks surrounding their household compounds.

Bare-chested men squatted by the roadsides and continued to exercise their fighting roosters, which were of much more importance to them than the passing procession.

Boys wearing wide tray-like hats used long, thin bamboo sticks topped with feathers to push their flocks of noisy ducks together amidst the hustle and bustle.

Farmers with mud-caked legs called at their water-buffaloes to keep

them heading towards home as the road became full of marching people and curious bystanders.

Komang was coming up the road on his way home after working in the rice paddies that day. He had just finished bathing in the river with his friends. Drops of water from his wet hair fell onto his bare shoulders and chest. His kamben felt cool and slightly damp around his hips and clung lightly to his legs, for he had used his long loincloth as usual to dry himself. It was most convenient and practical to have a garment which also doubled as a towel. And one that could even become a blanket at night.

Komang quickly stepped over to the side of the road and watched with great curiosity as the marchers passed by him. This noisy group was so unlike the religious processions that he was used to seeing.

Where were the colorful flags and long arched banners brightly painted with mythological figures that came to life as they fluttered in the breeze?

Where were the clear glass jars of holy water, tirta which sparkled in the sunlight?

Where were the beautiful offerings of fruits and rice cakes with fragrant sticks of incense, which appeared to float above the crowds on the heads of women?

Where were the voices that were harmoniously joined together in singing sacred verses?

Where were the pulsating gongs, rhythmic drums, and clashing cymbals played by musicians carrying instruments of the gong balaganjur ensemble?

But most important of all, where were the holy images of deities carried in palanquins upon men’s strong shoulders and flanked by gilded parasols?

Looking quite puzzled, Komang scratched his head and thought to himself, Kebo mabalih gong. As the Balinese would say, he felt like A water-buffalo attending a traditional music performance. He didn’t understand at all what was going on. But he just watched the sight of the spectacle anyway as they marched by and sang:

Come, come take action now,

Freedom is already ours.

Our flag is red

And red is the color

Of the blood of the people.

A man in the procession on that day in mid September of 1965 handed Komang a leaflet. It announced that in Selat, the next village down the road from Muncan, a free theatre performance would take place sponsored by Lekra.

What’s Lekra? shouted out Komang over the noise of the march. He was trying to read the leaflet that he held in his hands while keeping up at the same time in his bare feet with the brisk pace of the procession.

Lembaga Kebudayaan Rakyat, The Institute for Peoples’ Culture, responded the marcher. It’s the arts wing of our Partai Komunis Indonesia. It supports free performances for the masses. And for those who can’t afford to do it on their own.

It’s art for the people! shouted the man next to him.

"And Lekra will even buy supplies for artists! Pay for dance costumes! Buy musical instruments! And have new puppets made for dalang!" added another man.

Komang immediately stopped in his tracks when he heard this. A marcher from behind bumped into him, which caused Komang to drop the leaflet. The sheet of paper disappeared beneath the feet of the crowd. Komang quicly stepped over to the side of the road, mesmerized by the sounds, colors, and movements of the marchers.

Their voices gradually faded away into the distance as they continued downhill towards Selat. With them went the last lines of their song that they repeated over and over:

And red is the color

Of the blood of the people.

As if to emphasize their point, the flooded paddy fields around them

reflected the scarlet sunset sky like fragmented pools of blood.

"And have new puppets made for dalang!" It was these words rather than the song that echoed like music in Komang’s ears. He pulled the long pleats of his kamben up between his legs and tucked the end of the cloth into the back so that he wouldn’t step on it. And then he ran home as fast as he could.

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KAK! KAK! CALLED OUT KOMANG FOR HIS GRANDFATHER AS HE DASHED through the house gate and sent the chickens noisily fleeing. Komang was running so fast that he was like a demon which couldn’t turn corners and nearly collided with the aling-aling. This small wall facing the gate just inside the compound kept out evil spirits and shielded the inner household from inquistive outside eyes.

Pekak Dalang was sitting on the edge of the porch of the bale daja pavilion on the north side of their compound. Dressed only in a plain kamben, Komang’s grandfather had not bothered to go outside to watch the noisy procession. But he was a dalang, a traditional Balinese puppet master, and was not interested in such things. Anyway, he was concentrating on fixing the jointed arm of the white monkey Hanoman. The thin leather limb had broken off at the shoulder in an especially vigorous battle scene of Hanoman against an ogre during a puppet performance of the Hindu Ramayana epic that he had given at a nearby temple the previous night.

What is it, Komang?

The marchers that just went by … Komang paused to catch his breath.

"Ya, what about them?"

They told me about their Communist arts organization called Lekra! It will pay to make new puppets! Komang’s big eyes were shining. So?

"Kak! Your wayang are so old! See for yourself! Some of them have broken arm rods! Or even no arms at all! Why don’t you get Lekra to buy

you some new ones?"

Pekak Dalang did not respond right away but sighed as he looked kaja-kangin, towards the sacred direction between the towering mountains and rising sun, towards the family temple. His eyes gazed at the shrines in the sanggah lit by the low rays of the setting sun. Their moss-speckled bricks took on the same colors as the big ripe papayas hanging from a tree just outside the kitchen. The sunlight touched his gray hair so that he appeared to have a softly glowing aura around his head.

Komang sat down on the steps leading to the porch of the pavilion. He looked up at his grandfather. From experience he knew that he should quiet down and patiently wait for an answer. It didn’t take Pekak Dalang very long to respond this time.

Mang, he softly said while looking affectionately at his young teenage grandson, "Let me tell you something. Ever since I was a child, I often watched my father perform with those wayang. He also taught me everything that he knew about puppetry. And before he died he gave me his complete set of puppets." He paused and closed his eyes, gently smiling in fond reminiscence.

After a while, Pekak Dalang softly sighed and opened his eyes. You weren’t born yet, of course, he continued, So you wouldn’t have known about this. Not until now, that is.

Komang listened in silence.

"So you see, Mang, I can’t just get rid of the wayang like old clothes. They’ve been a part of our family for as long as I can remember. And they’ve always served us very well indeed. You and your older brother Putu have been very good at helping me during my performances. But it’s you, Mang, who’s inherited the skills for moving the puppets correctly and giving them their different voices. So someday all of the wayang will be yours."

Komang was surprised and speechless at the same time.

Pekak Dalang explained, "Soon after you were born, Mang, we took you to a distant village to see a balian katakson. One who didn’t know anything about our family. Through the power of taksu she went into trance and spoke with the voice of our divine ancestors. They confirmed that you’re the reincarnated soul of your great-grandfather."

Really? asked Komang.

Ya, Mang. And it’s no coincidence that you were born on Tumpek Wayang, the special day for honoring puppets.

Pekak Dalang smiled at Komang and added, "So my father who gave me the puppets will actually be getting them back through you, Mang, for you are his reincarnation. Now you understand why I don’t need or even want new wayang."

As if to emphasize his point, Pekak Dalang held in his left hand the tapered buffalo horn rod that supported the figure of Hanoman. In his right hand he grasped the narrower stick attached to the newly repaired arm. He tested its strength by having the brave monkey warrior vigorously shake his fist at an invisible opponent. The arm remained attached to the body, and Pekak Dalang looked satisfied with his workmanship.

Komang watched his grandfather. After a moment he said, "But won’t your performances look even better with new wayang, Kak?" He was hoping somehow to persuade Pekak Dalang.

"Listen, Mang, it’s not just what the puppets look like which matters. It’s how I can make them come alive so that they no longer are just pieces of thin perforated leather painted with bright colors. You’ve seen me praying before every performance so that the gods will grant me the divine charismatic power of taksu in order to make this possible."

Indeed, Komang always saw his grandfather worshipping with fragrant incense and flowers in the family temple at the palinggih taksu, the last shrine in the row facing the high and sacred direction of the mountains, just before he left the house to perform somewhere. This he did when Komang and his older brother Putu would bring out the big wooden box containing all the leather puppets from the dark interior of the bale daja. Here they were stored with other important heirloom objects—the family keris, its sharp wavy blade representing the ancestors, and dozens of lontar books made of dried palm-leaves inscribed with mystical knowledge along with the very stories that Pekak Dalang used for his performances.

Komang and Putu would insert a strong bamboo pole through the metal loops on both ends of the flat gedog. In this way they could carry the heavy box hanging between them on their broad shoulders that came from hard work in the family’s small rice fields.

Kak, what if Lekra sponsored some of your performances? Komang asked. He knew that the family was short of money, just like almost everyone else.

Due to the terrible state of the Indonesian economy, within the past two years the price of rice had more than tripled. And wages had not kept up with the pace of the runaway inflation. People suffered great difficulties in trying to get even the most basic necessities. Many were starving, for vast areas of agricultural land remained covered by thick layers of volcanic debris from the great eruption of Gunung Agung. Over a year and a half had passed since that terrible disaster, and damaged irrigation systems had just been repaired but were not yet fully flowing.

Now Mang, have you ever seen me take money even from the temple for performing? Pekak Dalang now was beginning to feel a bit annoyed with Komang’s questions. "Of course not! I always ngayah by volunteering my skills. I refuse any kind of payment for what the gods have granted me."

But what about those offerings that you always get, Kak? persisted Komang.

"Ya, the temple gives me some raw rice. A few eggs. Some coconuts. A roasted duck. These I cannot refuse, for they are gifts of thanks and appreciation. But to serve the