During our stay at Simanggang I saw, as usual, a great many natives,
and being interested in the legends of the place, I persuaded my
visitors to relate some of these to me. It should be remembered that
none of these legends have been written down by themselves, since the
Dyaks possess no literature, with the result that they vary in the
telling. I cannot say positively that the following legends have not
already appeared in print; to my mind, however, their interest lies
in their slight difference; every variation goes to show how strongly
these legends are embedded in the minds and lives of the people, and
should, in their way, help to unfold the secret of their origin.
I found that the strange idea of people becoming petrified by storms
and tempests, through laughing or ill-treating animals, was universal
amongst the inhabitants of this district. The following are two stories
regarding this belief, told me by my friends.
Many years ago there was a little village called Marup, far up the
Batang Lupar River. It stood on the banks near its source, and below
the village the water rippled over pebbles under the shade of great
trees. There were deep pools here and there between the rocks, where
fish could be seen swimming about, and these the village boys caught
in their hands. It was a happy little place, too poor to be attacked
by robbers, and out of the reach of the terrible head-hunters living
nearer the coast. The orchards round the village were full of fruit,
and the rice-crops were never known to fail. The women passed their
time weaving cloths made from the cotton growing on the trees round
their dwellings, or working in the rice-fields, whilst the men fished,
hunted, or went long journeys in their canoes in search of certain
palms, which they brought home to their women, who worked them into
mats or plaited them into baskets. One day a young girl went down to
the river with her net. She filled her basket with fish called by the
people “Ikan Pasit.” The girl took them home, and as she was preparing
them for supper, the smallest fish jumped out of the cooking pot and
touched her breast. “What are you doing?” she said to the fish. “Do
you imagine that you are my husband?” and at this joke she laughed
heartily. The people who were watching her prepare the meal joined in
the laugh, and the peals of laughter were so loud that the villagers,
hearing the noise, rushed to see what was the matter, and they too
began to laugh. Suddenly, a great black pall was seen to rise over the
western hills, and spread over the sky. A mighty wind blew accompanied
by flashes of lightning and detonations sounding like the fall of great
hills. Then a stone-rain (hail-storm) began, and soon a terrible
tempest was in progress. The torrents of rain and hail were so dense
that day turned to night. After a time the rain ceased, but great
hailstones beat pitilessly down on the village until every man, woman,
and child, and every animal, even the houses themselves, were turned
to stone and fell into the river with a loud crash. When the storm
subsided, a deep silence lay over the valley, and the only traces of
that once happy settlement were great boulders of rock lying in the bed
of the stream.
The girl who had been the first to mock at the fish was only partly
petrified, for her head and neck remained human and unchanged. She,
also, had fallen into the river, and was embedded like a rock in the
middle of the stream. Thus she lived for many years, with a living
head and neck, and a body of stone. Whenever a canoe paddled by she
implored its inmates to take their swords and kill her, but they could
make no impression whatever on her stone body or on her living head.
They could not move the rock, for it was too big, and although they
hacked at her head with axes, swords, and various other implements, she
bore a charmed life, and was doomed to remain alive. One evening a man
paddled by, carrying his wife’s spindle in the bottom of his canoe. He
heard the girl’s cries, and tried all means possible with his axe and
his sword to put her out of her misery; at length in a fit of impotent
despair he seized hold of the spindle and struck her over the head
with it. Suddenly her cries ceased, and her head and neck slowly turned
to stone. This legend is known to a great many of the Dyaks living up
the Batang Lupar River, and the group of rocks was pointed out to me
when we passed by them, if I remember rightly, not far from Lobok Antu.
The other legend is known as the Cat story, and is supposed to have
happened to a tribe who lived not far from the lady turned to stone
by a spindle. This village was also built on the banks of one of the
little streams flowing into the Batang Lupar River. The chief was a
proud, haughty man, whose tribe numbered one thousand men, women, and
children. He was given the title of “Torrent of Blood,” whilst his
more famous warriors were also distinguished by similarly splendid
names. His house was so large that it had seventy-eight doors (meaning
seventy-eight families lived under the same long roof). He was indeed
a great man: when he consulted the birds, they were favourable to his
wishes, and when he led his warriors to battle, he always returned
victorious, with his boats laden with heads, jars, sacks of paddy, and
plunder of various kinds. No tribe in Borneo could equal the noise
made by his warriors when they gave vent to the terrible head yells,
by which they made known to the countryside that they were returning
from some successful expedition. Practice had made them perfect, and
the mountains, rocks, and valleys resounded with their shouts. When
an expedition returned, the women and children stood on the banks
to watch the arrival of the boats. The most distinguished warriors’
helmets were decorated with hornbill’s plumes, and their war-jackets
were a mass of feathers. None but renowned head-hunters were allowed to
wear the hornbill’s plumes, for they were a token of the wearer having
captured heads of enemies in battle.
But there was one poor individual who could take no part in either
these warlike expeditions, or in the “Begawai Antu” (head feast) given
in honour of heads of enemies taken in their wars. Some years before,
the poor man’s parents had accidentally set fire to one of the houses
in the village, and, according to the custom of these Dyaks, such a
misfortune entailed the whole of the culprit’s family being enslaved.
One by one the relations of the poor man had died, until he remained
the only slave of the tribe. Indignities were heaped upon him, he
was looked upon with great contempt, and made to live in the last
room of the village where the refuse was thrown. One day, feeling
more desolate than usual, he made friends with a cat belonging to the
tribe. He enticed the animal into his miserable room and dressed it
up in a scarlet waistband, a war-jacket made of panther’s skin, and a
cap decorated with hornbill’s plumes: in short, in the costume of a
distinguished Dyak warrior. He carried the animal to the open verandah
in sight of the chiefs and elders who were discussing plans for a
fresh expedition, and of the women and young girls husking the paddy.
There, before them all, the friendless creature hugged the cat and held
it to his heart. He was nearly weeping and tears stood in his eyes,
but hard-hearted and scornful, the people pointed at him in derision
for owning such a friend, and laughed loudly. The warriors forgot
about their war plans and the women about their paddy, in their keen
enjoyment of the poor man’s misery. Suddenly, he let the cat jump out
of his arms, and as it touched the ground it ran like a mad thing in
and out of the crowd, dropping here and there the cap, the jacket, and
the scarlet waistband. Freed from these trappings, the cat leapt out of
the house and disappeared. Then a great storm arose and the stone-rain
fell upon the people. The chief of the village, together with all his
tribe, were hurled by Antu Ribut into the stream, and they and their
houses were turned into those great rocks which anyone can see for
himself if he will take the trouble involved in a journey up those many
reaches of the Batang Lupar River. The poor despised man found rest and
shelter in the general confusion, for he crept inside a bamboo growing
near the house, and there he has remained ever since, embedded in its
heart.
Dr. Hose has told me that Bukitans and Ukits also believe in the danger
of laughing at animals, for he once had a baby maias[13] which learnt
to put its arms into the sleeves of a small coat, until it quite got
to like the coat. When visiting Dr. Hose at the Fort these people
sometimes saw the creature slowly putting on his coat, when they hid
their faces and turned away their heads, for fear the animal should see
them laughing at it. When Dr. Hose asked them why they were afraid to
be seen laughing, they replied, “It is ‘mali’ (forbidden) to laugh at
an animal, and might cause a tempest.”
Here is another legend about people being turned to stone on account
of ingratitude and disrespect to their parents. Not far from the mouth
of the Batang Lupar River, some miles up the coast, are rocks standing
on the shore and which, according to my friends, were remains of an
ancient village, in which a man, his wife, and their son once lived.
The parents were exceedingly fond of the boy and brought him up with
especial care. The father taught him how to make schooners, how to
fashion canoes, and to make nets in order to obtain a large haul of
fish: indeed, he taught the boy all he knew. When the lad grew up, he
started from his village on a trading expedition in a schooner built
by his father and himself. The parents parted regretfully with their
child, but in their unselfishness they were only too glad he should
go forth in the world outside their little settlement and make a name
for himself. After many years the son managed to amass a considerable
fortune from his trading expeditions, and returned to the place of
his birth to visit his father and mother who had never for a moment
forgotten the boy so dear to them. But, so the story goes, when he
realized the poverty of their surroundings and their position in the
world, his heart grew hard towards them, and he felt ashamed of their
low estate. He spoke unkind words to the old couple, who had almost
given their life’s blood to build up his fortune. One day, after
insulting them more than usual, a great storm arose, and father,
mother, and son, together with the whole of the inhabitants of the
village and their houses, were tossed into the sea and turned into
stone.
The Batang Lupar district is rich in legends, and I will tell yet
another as related to me by a fortman’s wife in Simanggang. Every one
living in Simanggang knows the great mass of sandstone and forest,
called Lingga Mountain, and all those who have travelled at all (so
said the fortman’s wife) have seen this Lingga Mountain and know how
high and difficult it is to climb, and how a great stretch of country
can be seen from its flat and narrow top with the wide expanse of sea
stretching from the shores of the Batang Lupar across the great bay
of Sarawak to the mountains beyond the town of Kuching. A young Dyak,
named Laja, once resided in a village at the foot of this mountain.
A beautiful lady, the Spirit of the mountain, one night appeared to
him in his dreams, and told him he must rise early the next morning,
before the trees on the banks of the river had emerged from the mists
of night, and climb Lingga Mountain, where he would find the safflower
(that blossom which has since become so great a blessing to the Dyak
race) at the top. The vision went on to explain that this plant would
benefit Laja’s tribe, for it could cure most illnesses, more especially
sprains and internal inflammation. Laja obeyed the orders of this
beautiful lady and started off the next morning before dawn had broken
over the land. He had climbed half-way up the mountain when he saw,
just above the fog, the fragment of a rainbow, like a gigantic orchid
painted in the sky, its rose colour gleaming through the mist and
melting away in the most wonderful moss-green hue. Seeing the coloured
fragment, Laja knew at once that the Spirit of the mountain, a king’s
daughter, was about to descend by the rainbow to bathe in the mountain
stream. When the colours had faded from the sky, Laja went his way,
until he reached the top, where he had some difficulty in finding the
safflower on account of its diminutive size. After searching for some
time, he found the root and carried it back to his village. He then
pounded it up and gave it to people who were sick. But the plant was
capricious, for, whilst it cured some, others derived no benefit from
it and died. Its successes, however, proved more numerous than its
failures, and every member of the tribe became anxious to procure a
root for himself, although no one ventured to undertake the journey at
the time as the farming season was in full swing, necessitating the
villagers working hard at their paddy; moreover, the place where the
plant grew was a long way off and the climb up the mountain was a
somewhat perilous one.
Notwithstanding, a young man, named Simpurei, started off one day in
search of the safflower, without telling anyone of his intentions. When
he reached half-way up the mountain he saw the rainbow glittering in
the sky, but instead of its being a fragment, its arch was perfect,
both ends resting on the sides of a hill opposite the mountain.
Simpurei realized that the king’s daughter must be bathing in the
neighbourhood; nevertheless, he still went on. He heard the sound of
water and rustling leaves close by, and, pushing aside a great branch
of foliage, peered through, when he saw a woman most divinely beautiful
bathing in a pool. She was unclothed, her hair falling down her back
until it touched her feet. She threw the water over her head from a
bucket of pure gold, and as Simpurei stood staring at this beautiful
vision, one of the twigs in his hand broke off. At the sound the girl
looked up, and seeing the youth, fled to a great bed of safflowers near
which her clothes were lying. As she sped away, one of her hairs became
entangled in the bushes and was left hanging there. Simpurei saw it all
wet and glistening, like a cobweb left on a branch after a dewy night,
and rolling the fragile thread up carefully, put it with the beads,
pebbles, pieces of wood, seeds, etc., which he carried about with him
as charms, in his sirih bag.
He hastened home, having forgotten the safflower in the excitement
of this unexpected meeting, but he had scarcely reached his house
when he was seized with violent illness. He lingered for some hours,
for he had time before he died to relate his adventures to the whole
of the village who had immediately come to his house on hearing of
his illness. Medicine men were called in, but their remedies were of
no avail, and the elders of the tribe showed their wisdom when they
decided that his death was a just punishment sent him by the Rajah,
the Spirit of the Sun:--for had not Simpurei stood and gazed at his
daughter when she was unclothed?
Another legend, which I had from the fortman’s wife, telling how the
paddy was first brought to Borneo, is a general one all over the
country, and is related by many of our people with certain variations.
Some generations ago a man dwelt alone by the side of a river in a
small hut. One day, after a succession of thunder-storms and heavy
rains, he was watching snags and driftwood hurrying down the stream
after heavy freshets, owing to which the upper districts of the river
had been submerged and a number of people drowned in the flood. A snag,
on which perched a milk-white paddy bird, was hurrying to the sea,
followed, more leisurely, by a great tree torn up by its roots. This
tree got caught in a sandbank and swung to and fro in the current with
a portion of its roots above water. The man noticed a strange-looking
plant entangled in its roots, and unfastening his canoe from the
landing-place near by, he paddled to the spot and took the plant home.
It was a delicate-looking thing with leaves of the tenderest green,
but thinking it of no use, he threw it in a corner of his hut and soon
forgot all about it. When evening came on he unfolded his mat, put up
his mosquito-net, and was soon fast asleep. In his dreams, a beautiful
being appeared to him and spoke about the plant. This phantom, who
seemed more like a spirit than a man, revealed to him that the plant
was necessary to the human race, but that it must be watched and
cherished, and planted when seven stars were shining together in the
sky just before dawn. The man then woke up and, pulling his curtains
aside, saw the plant lying in the corner of the hut shrivelled and
brown. There he left it, and went to visit a friend living in the
neighbourhood, to whom he related what had happened, and went on to say
that the spirit of his dreams must be very stupid in telling him to
look for seven stars when there were always so many shining in the sky.
But his friend was a wise man and able to explain the meaning of his
dream. He told him that Patara himself had appeared to him, and that
the seven stars were quite different from other stars, as they did not
twinkle, but remained still in the heavens, and as they chose their own
season for appearing in the sky no one could tell for certain, without
their help, when the new plant was to be put in the ground. The friend,
being also versed in the law of antus, or spirits, said that the plant
found in the roots of the tree was paddy (rice), and that Patara had
taken the trouble to say so himself.
After this explanation the man went home, picked up the plant and put
it away carefully until another dream should reveal when he was to look
out for the seven stars. In due time, under Patara’s guidance, the man
noticed the “necklace of Pleiades” appearing in the sky. The little
plant was then put in the ground, where it grew and multiplied. The
people in neighbouring villages also procured roots to plant in their
farms, so that the paddy now flourishes all over the country and the
people of Sarawak have always enough to eat.
Sarawak people have very beautiful ideas about paddy, and their
mythical tales about the food-giving plant remind one of the many
legends all over the world relating to Demeter and other earth-mother
goddesses. Amongst some tribes, indeed, I fancy, nearly all over
Sarawak, the people plant the roots of a lily called Indu Padi (or wife
of the Paddy, by Sea Dyaks) in their paddy fields. They treat this
flower as though it were the most powerful goddess, and every paddy
field belonging to the Dyaks of the Rejang, of the Batang Lupar, of
the Sadong, and also of the Land Dyaks near Kuching, possesses a root
of this flower.[14] They build little protecting huts over it, and
treat its delicate and short life with the utmost care and reverence.
I have often tried to get a glimpse of this flower, but have never
succeeded. However, a good many of the Rajah’s officers, who have
lived some time in native houses, and who have witnessed the people’s
harvest festivals, have given me a description of it. I have always
thought it such a beautiful superstition of theirs that of caring for
and nurturing the delicate petals of a flower as though its fragile
existence were a protection to the well-being of their race. They
greatly fear anything happening to the plant, for should it die or
shrivel up before the paddy is husked and garnered, it is thought to
bode disaster to their tribe.
[Illustration: PANAU--A SEA DYAK CHIEF]
A chief named Panau, who had a considerable following, often paid
me visits in our bungalow at Simanggang. I had known him for years,
and, like all Dyaks, he was fond of talking, and a shrewd observer
of men and things. He was a reader of character, and when he trusted
anyone became their loyal friend. His dark, restless eyes, his smiling
face, his swagger, his conceit, his humility, and his kindness always
interested me. He had a sense of humour, too, and cracked many jokes
of which I did not always catch the sense; this was perhaps fortunate,
as Dyak jokes are sometimes Rabelaisian in character. He was greatly
interested in my camera, and thought the manner in which I fired at the
landscape and caught it in the box nothing short of miraculous. One
day I took his portrait, attired in his war-dress. He kept me waiting
for some minutes adjusting a warlike pose before I pulled off the cap.
“Let those who look upon my picture tremble with fear,” he said, as
he grasped his spear in one hand and his shield in the other. I took
him into the dark room arranged for me in our bungalow to see me
develop the picture. He looked over my shoulder as I moved the acid
over the plate, and when he saw his likeness appear, he gave a yell,
screamed out “Antu!” tore open the door, and rushed out, slamming the
door behind him. On that account his picture is somewhat fogged. It
took some time before he recovered from his fright, but he eventually
accepted one of the prints. A great reason I had for enjoying Panau’s
company was his devotion to my eldest son, Vyner, who had visited
Sarawak the previous year. At the time of Bertram’s and my stay in
Sarawak, Vyner was finishing his education at Cambridge. Panau confided
to me that he longed for the time to come when his Rajah Muda would be
amongst his people again. It appeared that Vyner had made many peaceful
expeditions up the Batang Lupar River with Panau and his tribe. On one
occasion Panau informed me he had saved Vyner from being engulfed by
the Bore. When, on my return to England, I asked Vyner for details,
he told me he did not remember the incident, and thought it must have
existed only in Panau’s imagination. I daresay Panau, having so often
related this imaginary adventure, had come to look upon it as true.
At any rate, the Chief was devoted to him, and, knowing how deeply my
eldest son appreciates the natives, it was pleasant to realize how much
he was esteemed by them in return.
I do not think it would be amiss to relate in this connection a
subsequent adventure that befell Vyner some years after my stay at the
Batang Lupar River, up one of its tributaries. The Rajah found himself
obliged to send an expedition against a tribe who had committed many
murders in these inland rivers. The expedition started from Simanggang,
with Mr. Harry Deshon in charge of a force of Dyaks and Malays
numbering about eight thousand, whilst Mr. Bailey and Vyner accompanied
them. For some unexplained reason, cholera broke out amongst the force
just before it had reached the enemy’s country. It was impossible
to turn back on account of the bad impression such a course would
have made on the enemy, so that, in spite of losing men daily, the
expedition had to push on. When the force reached the enemy’s country,
a land party was dispatched to the scene of action. A chosen body of
men, led by Malay chiefs, started on foot for the interior, leaving
the Englishmen and the body of the force to await their return. During
those days of waiting, the epidemic became most virulent. The three
white men had encamped on a gravel bed, and the Dyak force remained
in their boats close by. As the days wore on, the air was filled with
the screams and groans of the stricken and dying. Out of six or seven
thousand men who remained encamped by the shores of the river, about
two thousand died of the plague, and to Vyner’s great grief and mine
our old friend Panau was attacked with the disease, and died in a few
hours.
Mr. Deshon and Mr. Bailey have since told me that Vyner’s presence
helped to keep discipline and hope amongst the force during the awful
time. He was always cheerful, they said. It appears that Vyner and his
two friends used to sit on the gravel bed and with a grim humour point
out to one another where they would like to be buried, in case at any
moment they might be carried off by the plague.
When, after having conquered the head-hunters, the attacking party
returned to camp, they found the gravel bed strewn with the bodies of
the dead and dying. The return journey to Simanggang was terrible, for
all along those many miles of water, corpses had to be flung from the
boats in such numbers that there was nothing to be done but to leave
them floating in the stream. The enemy, subsequently hearing about the
catastrophe, hurried to the place where the Rajah’s force had been
encamped, and finding there so many dead bodies, proceeded to cut off
their heads and to carry them home. These people, however, fell victims
to their detestable habit, for they caught the cholera and spread it
amongst their tribe, with the result that it was almost annihilated. A
great stretch of country became infected, and the little paths around
Simanggang were littered with the corpses of Chinese, Dyaks, and
Malays. Nothing apparently could be done to stop the disease, which
disappeared as suddenly as it had come, but this calamitous epidemic
destroyed nearly one-quarter of the population.
Happening to be in Italy at the time, I read in an Italian paper that
the Rajah’s son had died of cholera in Sarawak, as he was leading an
expedition into the interior. I hurried to England with my younger
son, Harry, who was staying with me at the time, and when we arrived
at Dover, placards at the station confirmed the report. Telegrams,
however, soon put us out of suspense, but I had spent a terrible day.
FOOTNOTES:
[13] Orang-outang, a species of monkey.
[14] I believe it to be a species of _Crinum_.