BABOE DALIMA'S JOURNEY.
A long the rough mountain path which runs winding through the volcanic
region of Soembrieng and Lindoro, baboe Dalima, a few days after her
acquittal and release, was stepping along with her usual firm and
springy tread. She was clad with the utmost simplicity in sarong and
kabaja, but was as neat and tidy as in the days when she was Anna's
favourite servant. On her shoulder, tied up in a shawl, she carried
a bundle containing probably some articles of wearing apparel. We
must notice also that she was not barefooted; but wore a pair of
sandals to the use of which she seemed perfectly accustomed. It was
evident, therefore, that the girl intended to take a long journey,
while her outward appearance showed that she must already have got
over a considerable amount of ground. How then did Dalima get to the
spot where now we find her, at so great a distance from Kaligaweh,
and what was the object of her journey?
Immediately after her release, she had made, as we saw in the last
chapter, some anxious inquiries after nonna Anna. When she was
told that her young mistress had gone to Karang Anjer and had then
disappeared without leaving a trace, her simple brain had set to work;
and there arose within her the determination to go and seek for Anna
on her own account. She had but little comprehension of the social
relations which exist between Europeans; but somehow her instinct
told her that her beloved Nana must be in distress. She felt that the
dear girl must be sorely in need of a companion, and so the faithful
creature at once devoted herself to share the load of sorrow with
her former mistress. But, Karang Anjer was a great way off--in her
estimation the distance seemed infinite. Her friends in the dessa had
told her that it lay somewhere yonder, not far from the great sea,
and near to the territory of the Queen of the south, a mysterious
being of whom the Javanese stand in the greatest awe.
But all that could not deter her. She made up her mind to summon up
courage and to plod resolutely on, even though, as her friends again
had informed her, the road might take her along seething solfataras,
along burning mountains, along dizzying precipices and through
lonely forests. She could travel only by day for fear of the wild
beasts. Other fears she had none; for she knew that no man would
wantonly molest her; and her outward appearance was not such as
to suggest that she had anything to lose. And yet she did possess
a treasure, which she had anxiously hoarded and had tied up in a
handkerchief and now was carrying with her in the bundle which hung
from her shoulder. When she lay in prison at Santjoemeh, nonna Anna
had, from time to time, sent her small sums of money; van Beneden
also and van Nerekool when they visited her to gather particulars
for her defence, never failed to leave a few coins with the poor
Javanese girl. All these presents she had thankfully accepted and
most carefully saved up; for she always had an eye to the future. In
this manner she had collected quite forty guilders, and this money,
she had before starting, changed into twopenny and fivepenny pieces,
knowing well that the sight of guilders or rixdollars might attract
the attention of the evil-disposed, and might bring trouble upon her.
This money had, in fact, for some time been constantly present to her
mind, and had been the cause of some hesitation before she finally
could make up her mind to undertake her long journey. She had anxiously
hoarded it to meet the expenses which she knew must soon come upon
her. The money was dear to her, for she would not be a burden upon
her poor mother, who, now that her father was a prisoner, had already
trouble enough to feed her little brothers and sisters. This money she
had clung to, for young as she was, she knew that a time of need would
soon be at hand. But all these considerations vanished as she thought
of her Nana--then she wavered no longer. Her own unhappy condition,
indeed, gave her but little uneasiness. She knew how kind-hearted
her country-women are, and she felt sure that in the hour of need,
she would find some hospitable roof to shelter her; and that even the
very poorest would reach her a helping hand, and would gladly share
her modest ration of rice with a traveller in distress.
Once, at Kaligaweh, Dalima had received a visit from M`Bok Kârijâh,
the loathsome confidante of Mrs. van Gulpendam. Perhaps it was at that
lady's suggestion that the old hag went to see her. She had whispered
to her something about a medicine made from the Clitoria Ternatea. At
first poor Dalima had not understood what she meant and had opened
her eyes wide with surprise--she knew nothing, of course, of the
connection between the filthy old hag and the Resident's lady. But
when the crone pretended to sympathise with her in her misfortune; and
proceeded to speak out more plainly--then the girl's indignation and
disgust knew no bounds, and she drove the old hag from her presence,
threatening to rouse the entire dessa against her should she venture
to show her face again. Her nature revolted at the foul crime which
M`Bok dared to suggest, such practices she was quite content to leave
to the more highly favoured daughters of civilisation.
Thus then had she started on her journey, and, with the little
bundle which contained all her earthly possessions on her back,
she had trudged over hill and dale; and after eight days of steady
walking, she was beginning to draw near to her destination. Whenever,
at nightfall, she reached some dessa she would at once seek out the
native priest and tell him that she was travelling to Karang Anjer
in search for her father whom she hoped to find there.
Perceiving the plight she was in, the good man then used generally
to direct her to some kind-hearted woman, who willingly took her in
for the night, and not unfrequently refused to take the small coin
she tendered in payment for her lodging. Sometimes even they would
give her a couple of small parcels of boiled rice as provision on the
road. But she was not always so fortunate. Sometimes it happened that
she could not well make out the directions given to her, and thus
night would come on before she could reach any inhabited spot. Then
she used to beg for a resting-place on the bench of some guard-house,
and her prayer was never refused. But, on one occasion, even this poor
resource failed her. Her road that evening lay through a dense wood,
the sun was about to set, and under the thick foliage it soon grew
pitch dark. She could keep to the path only by looking upward and
following the narrow strip of sky which showed through the tree-tops
stretching along in the same direction as the rough road. The stars
were twinkling brightly, and for some time she listened breathlessly
hoping to hear some sound, such as the late crowing of a cock, or the
measured strokes on the rice tomboks, which might lead her to some
human dwelling. Then she hurried on again; but she did not come across
even a detached guard-house. At length she was suddenly brought to a
standstill by the shrill discordant "meoh! meoh!" of a peacock which,
perched in the upper branches of a lofty tree, thus announced that the
last glimmer of light was disappearing in the west. Dalima stopped
in terror, for she well knew that the peacock is hardly ever heard
in the woods unless a tiger is near. Soon, however, she recovered
her presence of mind, and quickly glancing round, she plunged into
the wood and began to climb into a tree which stood close by. She
was not indeed very well fitted for such gymnastics; but carefully
clambering up, she, with some trouble, managed to reach one of the
lower branches. As soon as she got there she felt safe. A panther
will rarely attack mankind, and the tiger, she knew, does not climb
trees. So she tried to make herself as comfortable as she could on the
branch which was, fortunately, quite thick enough to bear her weight,
and grew out horizontally so as to form a kind of seat. But that night
of nearly eleven hours seemed to her of interminable length. She
did not dare to give way to sleep, fearing that she might lose her
balance and fall to the ground, and the branch on which she tried to
settle herself, and the trunk against which she leaned, were covered
with a thick knotty bark, which pressed into her limbs and gave her
great pain. Again and again she attempted to change her position,
but the relief thus obtained was only temporary. Then she tried to
assume the squatting attitude which is customary with the natives;
but, in clambering up the tree, the sandals had dropped from her feet,
and the rough bark, cutting into the soles of her feet, soon made
that position unbearable. To these discomforts was added the plague of
myriads of insects, such as ants, mosquitoes, sundry kinds of beetles
and other pests, which settled upon her, and caused the most frightful
itching, while her hands, which supported her, and with which she had
to keep her balance, were not always free to brush the tormentors away.
She had also been obliged to drop her bundle, which contained her
clothes, her money, in fact all she possessed; but she felt no anxiety
on that account. No human being was present in that wood, and even if
any one had been lurking about, he would hardly have been wandering
in the dark just under the tree where she was seated. As for the
animals which might be roving about, they would not disturb her little
bundle. So the night crept slowly along, and it was with a deep sigh of
relief that the poor girl at length welcomed the first faint streak of
grey which began to tinge the eastern horizon. But she had much longer
still to wait and endure the pain which every instant was getting more
acute. For, during the night, she had heard very alarming sounds. The
hoarse and terrible hoh! heoh! of the tiger had resounded more than
once. There was no mistaking that well-known cry, and however painful
her position might be, she could not yet venture to descend. Indeed
the tiger is never more formidable than just at dawn of day--then he
prowls about noiselessly like a huge cat seeking for his prey--then he
hurries off to the nearest water hole to quench his burning thirst,
and to lay in his provision of water for the day. In one word, she
knew that the hour of early dawn is the most dangerous; and she felt
that she must still have patience. On that branch she must remain
perched until the sun was fairly above the horizon, and the daylight
had penetrated the foliage, driving all evil beasts to their lairs.
Soon she found that she had done well to be patient, for once again
the peacock gave forth his screeching meoh! meoh! thus hailing the
dawn as he had the evening before greeted the last glow of the setting
sun. Thus Dalima knew that the tiger was close by. So she kept her
seat high up on her branch, shivering with cold in the keen morning
air, while she watched the faint streak of light gradually expanding
and deepening, and the stars fading away one by one. Gradually the
rosy tint of morning began to spread to the zenith, driving back the
damp shadows deeper and deeper into the wood. Oh! how slowly time
seemed to go by! how lazily the sun seemed to rise! And no wonder;
for the agony she was enduring was growing well-nigh intolerable. She
twisted and stretched her cramped limbs as she anxiously peered all
around. Under her feet all was as yet dusky and grey. She could only
just descry her bundle lying under her on the grass, and her sandals
at the foot of the tree; but overhead the light was already shining,
and the choir of birds was beginning to carol forth its morning hymn
of praise. But how slowly time crept on! She saw the sky assuming a
deeper and ruddier hue, while the East was clad in glorious purple. The
clouds, the trees, the leaves, the branches above were all bathed in
gold, and presently the light broke through to the bottom of the wood.
Then the sun rose in his majesty and flooded everything in dazzling
radiance. At length Dalima felt that she could safely leave her
perch, and after giving another look round and observing the same
precautions she used in clambering up, she began to descend. As soon
as she reached the ground in safety, she stretched her numbed limbs,
then she took up her bundle, in which she fortunately found a couple
of parcels of rice. Swarms of ants were evidently anxious to share her
breakfast with her; but these she soon got rid of. A little stream
was murmuring close by, to this she hastened and bathed her face,
her feet, and her arms in the cool refreshing water. Thus, having
somewhat recovered from her painful night-watch, she sat down and
enjoyed her rice, and a draught from the clear brook. Then with fresh
courage and renewed strength, she continued her journey.
The whole of that day she plodded along patiently until she came to
a guard-house, where she heard the joyful news that the next dessa
she would come to was Karang Anjer.
"How far is it from here?" she asked.
The man looked puzzled; for your Javanese is not much of a hand at
judging distances. However, after a few moments' reflection, he told
her that she would have to pass about fifty telegraph poles.
Next day, with fresh courage she resumed her journey, and, after a
good half-hour's walking, she reached the dessa.
She lost no time in inquiring for the house of Mrs. Steenvlak and,
having found it, she sent in her name to the njonja, adding that she
was the baboe of nonna Anna. During her stay with the Steenvlaks, Anna
had often, very often, spoken about her faithful servant, and always in
terms of the greatest kindness and affection, so that Dalima found the
most cordial reception. But, as regards the main object of her long
journey, the poor baboe could get no information whatever. Prayers
and entreaties were alike in vain. To all her questions she could
obtain no other answer than, "I do not know."
"But, njonjaa, Nana has been staying with you here," cried the
poor girl.
"Yes, Dalima, that is so."
"But where is she now, njaa?"
"She has gone away."
"Yes, njaa; but where is she?"
"That I cannot tell you."
The faithful young girl twisted and turned her questions in
every conceivable way--most plaintively she lengthened out her
"njonjaaa"--but she could get no answer.
Did Mrs. Steenvlak really not know what had become of Anna? That was
hardly probable. Might she perhaps have some suspicion that Dalima had
been sent on her errand by van Nerekool? That was precisely what the
lady did think probable. She knew that the girl was well aware of the
affection which existed between her mistress and the young lawyer, and,
moreover, Dalima had, in the course of conversation quite innocently
remarked, that Charles van Nerekool had visited her in the prison at
Santjoemeh, and that she had received money from him. Mrs. Steenvlak
was very far indeed from harbouring any sinister suspicions against
Dalima; she saw perfectly well that love for her mistress was
the only motive that had brought her all that distance. But yet,
she could not help thinking that this devotion to Anna was mingled
with some feeling of gratitude for the European gentleman who had
showed himself so kind to Dalima in her distress. And again, might
not the girl honestly imagine that in bringing the lovers together
she was promoting the happiness of both? These considerations made
Mrs. Steenvlak very guarded in her replies.
"Njonjaa," began Dalima again, "do tell me where I may find my Nana."
"I have told you already, and I tell you again, that I know nothing
about it," was the lady's answer.
"But, njaa, tell me, do you know where she has gone to?" cried Dalima,
wringing her hands.
"No, I tell you--how should I, baboe?"
"But you know at least in which direction she went?" asked the girl,
still sticking to her point.
"Of course," replied Mrs. Steenvlak, "I know that."
"Oh, then, tell me," cried the sobbing girl, with a ray of hope in
her swollen eyes.
"I may not, I cannot tell you, baboe."
"But why not, njaa?"
"Because, before Anna left me she made me promise her--"
"What, njaa?"
"That I would let no one know--no one, do you understand me, Dalima?"
"That does not apply to me, you may trust me, njaa."
"No, no," replied Mrs. Steenvlak, "I will trust no one--Anna was
particularly anxious that I should not speak."
"But, perhaps she is in need of my help, njaa. Where can she be? She
is not fit to take care of herself, she is not accustomed to it. Do
tell me," sobbed the poor girl again, "I must find my Nana."
"No," said Mrs. Steenvlak firmly, "a promise once made must not be
broken, you know that as well as I do, Dalima."
For all her firmness, the kind-hearted lady was deeply moved by the
devotion of the poor creature, who had already gone through so much
suffering in her little life, that it was a wonder her temper had not
been soured altogether by misfortune. She was half sorry that she had
given her word to Anna; but yet, until she was authorised to do so,
she did not feel justified in breaking silence.
"The best advice I can give you," she said at length, as she looked
with much compassion at the girl who sat sobbing at her feet, "is to
return at once to Santjoemeh, or better still to Kaligaweh. Can I do
anything for you to help you on your journey back?"
Baboe Dalima sadly shook her head.
"Come, come, you will want some money on the road, eh?" and opening her
purse she took out four rix-dollars and put them into the girl's hand.
Without uttering a word, Dalima accepted the gift, and carefully tied
up the money in her handkerchief. Then she rose, respectfully kissed
Mrs. Steenvlak's hand, and disappeared.
As soon as she got outside, she muttered, "That gives me so many more
days to look for Nana."
Dalima's wants were but few. A couple of pence for her lodging,
some twenty, or five and twenty cents for her food--that was all
she required. Instead of leaving Karang Anjer, she continued to
wander about the neighbourhood. She questioned, she inquired, she
managed to penetrate everywhere. She could do what van Nerekool,
as a European, and in his position as judge, was not able to do. She
would, for instance, sit down at every small fruit and coffee stall she
found on her way. At one place she would sit down and eat some rice,
flavoured with red pepper; at another place again she would purchase
some rasped cocoa-nut sweetened with the syrup of goela-areng; at
another little stall again she would sip a cup of coffee or eat a
bunch of ramboetans. These delicacies she could purchase for a very
few cents, sometimes they cost her nothing at all; for the woman who
kept the stall would look strangely at her, and when she produced her
money would quietly put it back, and say: "Never mind, keep that for
your baby, and take another cup of coffee, you are welcome to it."
But Dalima did not sit down at these stalls to enjoy herself--she did
so because it gave her an opportunity of asking questions and making
inquiries. But, alas, all her perseverance and all her endeavours
were, for a considerable time, fruitless. During the first few days
of her wandering, she learned absolutely nothing. She was beginning
to despair, and to give up all hope of success. She was, however,
soon to have her reward; for on a certain day, as she was slowly
walking through the dessa Prembanan, which is situated about three
miles to the southwest of Karang Anjer, she obtained some information
which seemed to point in the right direction.
A woman told her that, on a certain day, about two months ago,
one of the poles of a light litter suddenly snapped, and a fresh
pole had to be procured. The bearers put down the litter and, as a
bamboo of sufficient length and strength was not very easily found,
some considerable delay ensued. During this time of waiting, a nonna
had stepped out of the litter, and had taken a seat at the stall,
and called for a cup of coffee.
"A nonna, you say?" cried Dalima breathless with excitement: "are
you sure of that?"
"Oh, yes, quite sure," replied the woman. "She was dressed exactly
like all Javanese girls, in a very simple sarong and a plain cotton
kabaja, and she had sandals on her feet. But those feet had evidently
been but little exposed to the sun, they were very small, very white,
and not at all flattened out as our feet are. I fancy that not even
the princesses at Sala have fairer and tinier feet; but for that
matter she might perhaps have been a princess."
"Why do you think so?" asked Dalima.
"Well, she spoke Javanese; but entirely with the a sound so that I
had some difficulty in catching what she said."
"You spoke to her then, ma?"
"Yes, I did," replied the stall-keeper, "she spoke with something of
your accent."
"But what did she say to you, ma?"
"She first asked for coffee and then for ramboetans."
"Did she say anything more?--do try and remember."
"Oh, yes; she further asked me how far it is from here to the dessa
Sikaja, and I told her that it is about two miles off."
"Anything else?" cried Dalima impatiently.
"Then she asked how far Sikaja is from the dessa Pringtoetoel; but
I could not tell her that, as I know nothing of the country beyond
our own district."
"Did you hear her say anything more, ma?"
"No."
"But ma, did you see her face?"
"Certainly I did," replied the woman, "why not?"
"And?" asked Dalima, anxiously.
"Her features were those of a white woman, though rather dark. Her face
and hands, however, did not correspond in colour with her feet. In
fact I suspected at the time that she had stained them. But perhaps
the nonna had been running about a good deal in the sun."
"And her hair, ma?" asked Dalima.
"It was tied up in a knot."
"What colour was it, ma?"
"It was as black as yours; but much softer, it looked like silk and
was wavy. Oh, yes! now I feel sure she was a nonna."
"Yes," thought Dalima, "it is she;" and then she continued aloud:
"She asked you no other question, ma?"
"No, nothing else," replied the stall-keeper.
Dalima did not stay long--a quarter of an hour later she was on her
way to Sikaja. How she sped there, we shall see later on. The day
after, she reappeared in Karang Anjer; but it was only to fetch the
bundle she had left behind her. Then she disappeared, and no one saw
or heard anything more of her.
Mrs. Steenvlak sent a couple of oppassers to inquire what had become
of her; but they returned saying that the girl had gone away, no one
could tell whither.
"She must have gone back to Santjoemeh," thought Mrs. Steenvlak. "Was
I right after all in keeping my word to Anna? Time will show. Anna
did seem greatly attached to her baboe; and no doubt, in her present
lonely state, the girl would be a pleasant and useful companion."