to sleep in the house. He was told he could do so if he would throw away
his arms, and to this the Imam replied by an attempt to spear Lasam
through the window. The latter, however, seized the weapon, and with the
help of his son, wrested it out of the Imam’s hands, Lasam receiving a
stab in the face from the _gôlok_. During this struggle, the Imam had
forced himself halfway through the window, and Lasam seizing his own
spear, thrust it into the thigh of the murderer, who fell to the ground.
In the fall, the shaft of the spear broke off, leaving the blade in the
wound.
It was now pitch dark, and, as the people of the house did not know the
extent of the Imam’s injury or what he was doing, a man went out by the
back to spread the news and call the village headman. On his arrival the
light of a torch showed the Imam lying on the ground with his weapons out
of reach, and the headman promptly pounced upon him and secured him.
The Imam was duly handed over to the police and conveyed to Teluk Anson,
but he died from loss of blood within twenty-four hours of receiving his
wound.
Here is the official list of killed and wounded—
KILLED.
Alang Rasak, wife of Imam Mamat _aged_ 33
Bilal Abu, brother-in-law of Mamat ” 35
Ngah Intan, wife of Bilal Abu ” 32
Puteh, daughter of Bilal Abu ” 4
Mumin, son of Bilal Abu ” 7
Uda Majid ” 35
WOUNDED.
Kâsim, son of Bilal Abu _aged_ 14
Teh, daughter of Bilal Abu ” 6
Mat Sah ” 45
Lasam —
It is terrible to have to add that both the women were far advanced in
pregnancy.
Imam Mamat was a man of over forty years of age, of good repute with his
neighbours, and I never heard any cause suggested why this quiet, elderly
man of devotional habits should suddenly, without apparent reason,
develop the most inhuman instincts and brutally murder a number of men,
women, and children, his nearest relatives and friends. It is, however,
quite possible that the man was suffering under the burden of some real
or fancied wrong which, after long brooding, darkened his eyes and
possessed him with this insane desire to kill.
An autopsy was performed on the murderer’s body, and the published
report of the surgeon says: “I hereby certify that I this day made a
_post-mortem_ examination of the body of Imam Mahomed, and find him to
have died from hæmorrhage from a wound on the outer side of right thigh;
the internal organs were healthy except that the membranes of the right
side of brain were more adherent than usual.”
VII
THE JÔGET
Every footstep fell as lightly
As a sunbeam on the river
LONGFELLOW’S _Spanish Student_
Malays are not dancers, but they pay professional performers to dance
for their amusement, and consider that “the better part” is with those
who watch, at their ease, the exertions of a small class whose members
are not held in the highest respect. The spectacle usually provided
is strangely wanting in attraction; a couple of women shuffling their
feet, and swaying their hands in gestures that are practically devoid
of grace or even variety—that is the Malay dance—and it is accompanied
by the beating of native drums, the striking together of two short
sticks held in either hand, and the occasional boom of a metal gong. The
entertainment has an undoubted fascination for Malays but it generally
forms part of a theatrical performance, and for Western spectators it is
immeasurably dull.
In one of the Malay States, however, Păhang, it has for years been the
custom for the ruler and one or two of his near relatives to keep trained
dancing girls, who perform what is called the “Jôget”—a real dance with
an accompaniment of something like real music, though the orchestral
instruments are very rude indeed.
The dancers, _bûdak jôget_, belong to the Raja’s household, they may even
be attached to him by a closer tie; they perform seldom, only for the
amusement of their lord and his friends, and the public are not admitted.
Years ago I saw such a dance, and though peculiar to Păhang as far as
the Malay States are concerned, it is probable that it came originally
from Java; the instruments used by the orchestra and the airs played are
certainly far more common in Java and Sumatra than in the Peninsula.
I had gone to Păhang on a political mission accompanied by a friend,
and we were vainly courting sleep in a miserable lodging, when at 1
A.M. a message came from the Sultan inviting us to witness a _jôget_.
We accepted with alacrity, and at once made our way to the _astâna_, a
picturesque, well-built and commodious house on the right bank of the
Păhang river. A palisade enclosed the courtyard, and the front of the
house was a very large hall, open on three sides, but covered by a lofty
roof of fantastic design supported on pillars. The floor of this hall was
approached by three wide steps continued round the three open sides, the
fourth being closed by a wooden wall which entirely shut off the private
apartments save for one central door over which hung a heavy curtain. The
three steps were to provide sitting accommodation according to their rank
for those admitted to the _astâna_. The middle of the floor, on the night
in question, was covered by a large carpet, chairs were placed for us,
and the rest of the guests sat on the steps of the daïs.
When we entered, we saw, seated on the carpet, four girls, two of them
about eighteen and two about eleven years old, all attractive according
to Malay ideas of beauty, and all gorgeously and picturesquely clothed.
On their heads they each wore a large and curious but very pretty
ornament of delicate workmanship—a sort of square flower garden where all
the flowers were gold, trembling and glittering with every movement of
the wearer. These ornaments were secured to the head by twisted cords of
silver and gold. The girls’ hair, combed down in a fringe, was cut in a
perfect oval round their foreheads and very becomingly dressed behind.
The bodices of their dresses were made of tight-fitting silk, leaving the
neck and arms bare, whilst a white band of fine cambric (about 1½ inches
wide), passing round the neck, came down on the front of the bodice in
the form of a V, and was there fastened by a golden flower.
Round their waists were belts fastened with large and curiously worked
_pinding_ or buckles of gold, so large that they reached quite across the
waist. The rest of the costume consisted of a skirt of cloth of gold (not
at all like the _sârong_), reaching to the ankles, while a scarf of the
same material, fastened in its centre to the waist-buckle, hung down to
the hem of the skirt.
All four dancers were dressed alike, except that the elder girls wore
white silk bodices with a red and gold handkerchief, folded cornerwise,
tied under the arms and knotted in front. The points of the handkerchief
hung to the middle of the back. In the case of the two younger girls the
entire dress was of one material.
On their arms the dancers wore numbers of gold bangles, and their fingers
were covered with diamond rings. In their ears were fastened the diamond
buttons so much affected by Malays, and indeed now by Western ladies.
Their feet, of course, were bare.
We had ample time to minutely observe these details before the dance
commenced, for when we came into the hall the four girls were sitting
down in the usual[1] Eastern fashion, on the carpet, bending forward,
their elbows resting on their thighs, and hiding the sides of their
faces, which were towards the audience, with fans made of crimson and
gilt paper which sparkled in the light.
On our entrance the band struck up, and our special attention was called
to the orchestra, as the instruments are seldom seen in the Malay
Peninsula.
There were two chief performers, one playing on a sort of harmonicon,
the notes of which he struck with pieces of stick held in each hand. The
other, with similar pieces of wood, played on inverted metal bowls. Both
these performers seemed to have sufficiently hard work, but they played
with the greatest spirit from 10 P.M. till 5 A.M.
The harmonicon is called by Malays _chĕlempong_, and the inverted bowls,
which give a pleasant and musical sound like the noise of rippling
water, a _gambang_. The other members of the orchestra consisted of
a very small boy who played, with a very large and thick stick, on a
gigantic gong—an old woman who beat a drum with two sticks, and several
other boys who played on instruments like triangles called _chânang_.
All these performers, we were told with much solemnity, were artists of
the first order, masters and a mistress in their craft, and if vigour of
execution counts for excellence they proved the justice of the praise.
The Hall, of considerable size, capable of accommodating several hundreds
of people, was only dimly lighted, but the fact that, while the audience
was in semi-darkness, the light was concentrated on the performers added
to the effect. Besides ourselves I question whether there were more than
twenty spectators, but sitting on the top of the daïs near to the dancers
it was hard to pierce the surrounding gloom.
The orchestra was placed on the left of the entrance to the Hall, that
is rather to the side and rather in the background, a position evidently
chosen with due regard to the feelings of the audience.
From the elaborate and vehement execution of the players, and the want
of regular time in the music, I judged, and rightly, that we had entered
as the overture began. During its performance, the dancers sat leaning
forward, hiding their faces as I have described; but when it concluded
and, without any break, the music changed into the regular rhythm for
dancing, the four girls dropped their fans, raised their hands in the act
of _Sèmbah_ or homage, and then began the dance by swaying their bodies
and slowly waving their arms and hands in the most graceful movements,
making much and effective use all the while of the scarf hanging from
their belts.
Gradually raising themselves from a sitting to a kneeling posture,
acting in perfect accord in every motion, then rising to their feet,
they floated through a series of figures hardly to be exceeded in grace
and difficulty, considering that the movements are essentially slow,
the arms, hands and body being the real performers whilst the feet are
scarcely noticed and for half the time not visible.
They danced five or six dances, each lasting quite half an hour, with
materially different figures and time in the music. All these dances I
was told were symbolical; one, of agriculture, with the tilling of the
soil, the sowing of the seed, the reaping and winnowing of the grain,
might easily have been guessed from the dancer’s movements. But those of
the audience whom I was near enough to question were, Malay-like, unable
to give me much information. Attendants stood or sat near the dancers and
from time to time, as the girls tossed one thing on the floor, handed
them another. Sometimes it was a fan or a mirror they held, sometimes
a flower or small vessel, but oftener their hands were empty, as it is
in the management of the fingers that the chief art of Malay dancers
consists.
The last dance, symbolical of war, was perhaps the best, the music being
much faster, almost inspiriting, and the movements of the dancers more
free and even abandoned. For the latter half of the dance they each held
a wand, to represent a sword, bound with three rings of burnished gold
which glittered in the light like precious stones.
This nautch, which began soberly, like the others, grew to a wild revel
until the dancers were, or pretended to be, possessed by the Spirit of
Dancing, _hantu mĕnâri_ as they called it, and leaving the Hall for
a moment to smear their fingers and faces with a fragrant oil, they
returned, and the two eldest, striking at each other with their wands
seemed inclined to turn the symbolical into a real battle. They were,
however, after some trouble, caught by four or five women and carried
forcibly out of the Hall, but not until their captors had been made to
feel the weight of the magic wands. The two younger girls, who looked
as if they too would like to be “possessed,” but did not know how to
accomplish it, were easily caught and removed.
The band, whose strains had been increasing in wildness and in time,
ceased playing on the removal of the dancers, and the nautch, which had
begun at 10 P.M., was over.
The Raja, who had only appeared at 4 A.M., told me that one of the elder
girls, when she became “properly possessed,” lived for months on nothing
but flowers, a pretty and poetic conceit.
As we left the Astâna, and taking boat rowed slowly to the vessel waiting
for us off the river’s mouth, the rising sun was driving the fog from the
numbers of lovely green islets, that seemed to float like dew-drenched
lotus leaves on the surface of the shallow stream.
VIII
THE STORY OF MAT ARIS
I smote him as I would a worm,
With heart as steeled, with nerve as firm;
He never woke again
WHITTIER
It was in the year 1876 that a man named Mat Aris, of no occupation and
less repute, persuaded one Sâhit to take his wife Salâmah and start on a
journey through the jungle to a distant country. The interest of Mat Aris
in this couple was a desire to get rid of Sâhit and possess himself of
the woman Salâmah, for whom he had conceived an overmastering passion.
The travellers began their journey at a spot many miles up the Perak
River; their road lay along a jungle track, and so sparsely inhabited
was the country they were to pass through, that they could not even find
a habitation in which to pass the night. They had to look forward to
many days’ journey through the primæval forest, the home of wild beasts
and Sakai people, aboriginal tribes almost as shy and untamed as the
elephant, the bison and the rhinoceros, with which they share the forests
of the interior.
Sâhit and his wife started on their journey in the company of two
brothers of Mat Aris, but meeting him the brothers returned, Mat Aris
undertaking the part of escort. In the afternoon of the first day’s march
a Sakai named Pah Patin met the three, and, being known to Mat Aris, that
worthy ordered him to accompany them. Pah Patin did as he was told, and
when evening came on, as there was no dwelling within miles, a shelter
was built in the jungle wherein the night was to be passed.
It is as well to understand what a Malay jungle is like, for a good soil,
well watered, in one of the hottest and dampest climates in the world,
produces a forest that is not altogether the counterpart of all other
forests.
The reading public, no doubt, believes that the jungle of Darkest Africa
is a place of gloom, terror and difficulty without parallel. It may be
so, but few of those who know it have visited Malâya, and one is apt to
exaggerate one’s own troubles. Whatever gruesome peculiarities there
are about the African jungle, it seems possible for large bodies of
men and women to make their way through it at a fair pace without great
difficulty. In that respect at least it has the advantage of the Malay
forest.
To begin with there are the trees of all sizes, from the smallest shoot
to the giants of the jungle, towering to a height of 150 feet. I know
that is not excessive, but in this forcing climate there are an enormous
number of such trees, treading on each others roots and crowding the
older and feebler out of existence. These are nothing, they afford
a pleasant shade from the pitiless rays of the sun, and though this
mitigated light cannot by any stretch of imagination be called darkness,
it is possible to take off your hat without fear of sunstroke. If it were
only for the trees jungle walking would be pleasant enough.
Under them, however, there is an undergrowth so thick as to beggar
description. Every conceivable kind of palm, of bush, of creeper,
flourishes there with a luxuriance, with a prodigality of vegetable
life, that shows how richly Nature deserves her title of Mother. It is
a curious fact, remarked by every one who has been brought in contact
with the Malay forest, that a very large number of its shrubs, many of
its palms, and most of its creepers are armed with spikes of various
length, but all of about equal sharpness. Some are so formidable that the
thickest skinned beasts avoid contact with them, and no human apparel
has been devised, short of armour, that will resist their powers of
penetration and destruction. Under the creepers lie fallen trees, and the
ground is covered with ferns, rank grasses, and what is generally termed
undergrowth, so thick that the soil is often entirely hidden. It may be
added as a minor but unpleasant detail that this tangle of vegetation
harbours every species of crawling, jumping, and flying unpleasantness;
myriads of leeches that work their way through stockings and garments of
any but the closest texture; centipedes, scorpions, wasps, and stinging
flies, caterpillars that thrust their hairs into the skin and leave them
there to cause intolerable irritation, snakes poisonous and otherwise,
ants with the most murderous proclivities, and last, but not least,
mosquitoes that, when they find a human being, make the most of their
opportunity. I have not exhausted the catalogue of pests, but only given
a sample of what any traveller will meet in a day’s journey through a
Malay jungle. There is a wasp called “the reminder,” a thorn called
“Kite’s talons,” and an ant known as the “fire ant.” The names are as apt
as they are suggestive.
To force a way through such a place is an impossibility, even on all
fours it could not be crawled through, the only means of progress is by
cutting a path.
No one attempts to walk through virgin forest unless he be in pursuit
of game, or has some special object and the means to clear his way. All
Malay jungle is not as thick as that I have described, and as the beasts
sought by the sportsman naturally frequent the more open places, tracking
is possible, though severe enough work even at the slow rate of progress
necessary to enable the pursuers to approach the quarry without being
seen or heard.
The lower and more swampy the country the thicker the undergrowth, and I
have often noticed that, where a river flows between low banks clothed
with virgin forest, it would be almost impossible for even a strong
swimmer to force his way out of the water on to the land through the
thickly interlaced tangle of branches, rattans, and other thorny creepers
that stretch their uninviting arms from the bank far over the water of
the stream.
It will naturally be asked how travellers make their way through jungle
such as I have described. The reply is that there are existing tracks
(not worthy of the name of footpaths) which have been used for ages,
originally no doubt formed by the passing and repassing of wild beasts,
then adopted by the Sakais, and lastly by Malays. In other cases similar
means of passage have been formed by driving tame elephants through the
forest from place to place. For the pedestrian, especially if he be clad
in the garments and boots of western civilisation, progress through the
succession of holes filled with water and mud which marks the track of
elephants is neither rapid nor pleasant.
That is the jungle of daylight.
When once the sun has set darkness falls upon everything within the
forest, and it is a darkness so absolute as to give to wide-open eyes
the impression of blindness. Those who have been so unfortunate as to be
benighted in a Malay jungle without torches or lanterns know that there
is nothing to be done but to sit down and wait for day.
Such were the surroundings in which Sâhit and his wife found themselves
compelled to spend a night in the company of Mat Aris and his Sakai
acquaintance.
Mat Aris had a house in this neighbourhood, and on the day following the
events already narrated a Malay went to the Headman of his village and
said there was a woman in the house of Mat Aris sobbing and saying her
husband had been murdered. The Headman went to the place and saw Mat Aris
was there and a woman with him. Mat Aris had a reputation which probably
induced this Headman not to attempt to interfere with him further than to
keep a watch on his proceedings.
In places where there are no roads, and often when they do exist, Malays
live on or close by the bank of a river, and, on the following day, the
Headman observed Mat Aris and the woman in a boat going down the stream,
here a succession of rapids and very difficult to navigate. The Headman
followed by a jungle track, and getting near to a place called Kôta
Tampan, the first police station, he hurried on and gave the information
he possessed.
When Mat Aris arrived at Kôta Tampan he landed, and was at once arrested
by the native sergeant in charge of the station, who accused him of
murdering Sâhit. Mat Aris denied the charge, but the woman said her
name was Salâmah, and the sergeant said he must take them both to his
Divisional Headquarters at Kuala Kangsar, distant thirty miles or more by
river. Accordingly the sergeant and some police entered the boat and a
start was made for Kuala Kangsar. It shortly appeared that the police,
who were natives of India, were not very skilful in the management of the
boat, and, as Mat Aris offered his services to steer and there was no
doubt of his ability, this important post was given to him. Choosing a
convenient place where the stream was both deep and rapid, Mat Aris upset
the boat and threw every one into the water. Then seizing the woman, he
swam with her to the opposite bank and they both disappeared. The police
had enough to do, hampered by their uniforms, to get out of the river
with their lives.
For the next eight years Mat Aris eluded all attempts at capture. He
lived in the jungle beyond the jurisdiction of the Perak Government, and,
with his brothers, became the terror of the neighbourhood, levying black
mail on all who passed his way. Mat Aris was the ringleader, and even
more serious crimes were laid at his door.
The woman Salâmah was known to be living with Mat Aris as his wife, and
it was also known that she had a child by him. Of Sâhit nothing more was
seen or heard.
Meanwhile the Government of Perak had established a station in the
neighbourhood of the spot where Sâhit had disappeared, and complaints of
the lawless proceedings of Mat Aris were constantly made to the officer
in charge of it, but he was helpless, for the outlaw was beyond his reach.
Eight years is, however, a long time, especially to an Eastern,
and travellers worth robbing having grown scarce, Mat Aris, in the
consciousness of his own rectitude, went to the Perak officer and asked
for work. That mistaken step resulted in his arrest on the strength of
the warrant issued eight years before.
This time the prisoner was conveyed in safety to Kuala Kangsar, where he
was duly tried.
It is one thing to give information against a man who is free, willing,
and able to resent it, and quite a different thing to say what you know
when that man is in the toils. There was a witness who was likely to know
what had happened to Sâhit, and that was Pah Patin the Sakai, but Pah
Patin did not speak, and Mat Aris and Salâmah were the only other people
who knew what he could say. At least that appeared to be so, for who
else would be likely to know what happened at night in the depths of the
jungle miles from the nearest habitation?
As for Salâmah, like the Sabine women, she seemed to have reconciled
herself to her captor.
But the strange part of this story is that, impossible as it may seem,
there was a witness who saw what took place in that hut in the forest,
whither the unsuspecting Sâhit had been lured with his wife under the
escort of Mat Aris.
That witness was a Sakai man who had been collecting _gĕtah_
(gutta-percha), and, attracted by the firelight, noiselessly approached
the hut and, whilst wondering at the unusual sight of these strangers
sleeping in his wild and lonely jungle, he saw Mat Aris get up and stab
to death the man, who stood between him and the woman he had determined
to possess.
The Sakai saw more than that, but when once he had disclosed what he
knew, Pah Patin was found and induced to tell his tale, and other Sakais
completed the narrative.
It will be remembered that Sâhit and his wife, Mat Aris and the Sakai Pah
Patin had built a shelter where they proposed to spend the night. A fire
was lighted, food was cooked and eaten, and the four lay down to sleep.
On one side of the fire Mat Aris, next him Salâmah, and then Sâhit; on
the other was the Sakai.
The man and his wife slept, the other Malay pretended to sleep, and the
Sakai fell into that state which passes for sleep with creatures that are
always on the alert for possible danger.