The Silat Master part1 - The meeting

I could have ignored the text message but I was drawn to reply by something unknown and deep within me.The words were out of my mouth before I realised what they meant, which happens after a few drinks sometimes, but the truth often manifests itself in this way.Now it had become a promise, there was no going back.

My curiosity was piqued, the sense of danger lurking in the shadows of my restless spirit was more than enough to subdue the boredom that comes with the oppressive heat and humidity.

The ghosts came to me that night, not to disturb or terrify me, but only to make me aware of their presence in my vicinity, as if I could forget. I could hear their breathing echoing mine, mocking me in a childish way, keeping me from deep slumber and reminding me of the promise made the day before. When I awoke, they came with me, allowing me to perform my chores for the day, always keeping the promise in the forefront of my mind.

It was impossible to be ready, for I had no idea what to expect, but I was at the appointed place at the right time. The promises had been made, by the soul of one artist to another. It was time. A young man on a motorcycle arrived, speaking a local dialect I did not understand. His eyes showed me he was a messenger, and I had no choice but to trust him.

I jumped on the back, put on a spare helmet, and steadied my nerves against the rush of adrenalin that comes with the experience of driving in a pandemonium of city traffic.

Truck horns were blaring, smoke and diesel fumes filled my nostrils, animal noises and strange dialects mixing with the sights of the exotic seascape sped by, as the sun set on the Indian Ocean.

Ahead of us, the traffic slowed momentarily, as a man on the street lay clutching his chest, his arm hanging useless at his side, his moped broken beyond repair. A crowd of passers-by dragged him out of the way so the mayhem could continue unabated.

A spattering of warm rain wept from the skies as the first thunderclap cut through the clamour and echoed around the city. Weaving through the crowded rush hour with the light fading rapidly, we took to the backstreets as the deluge began in earnest.

Soon, we were leaving the city far behind, coconut trees dominating the skyline, passing through areas of rice paddies, monkeys screeching from the treetops as we sped through small villages, the traffic thinning now as the rain poured through the darkness.

I could no longer see where we were going or what lay ahead, as the rain beat off my visor, obscuring my vision. I trusted in the skill of the driver as he navigated potholes and flooded sections of the road with a deftness that was uncanny. Surely he must be a local.

The rain eased up somewhat and through the dim headlight of the motorbike I was able to make out sections of the road just ahead.

Suddenly a black chicken flashed in front of the bike, the driver reacting to avoid impact as we slewed this way and that, narrowly missing a rambutan tree, and barely keeping our balance. 

Less than a minute later we arrived at a rattan house, and pulled abruptly into a covered area containing two ancient motorbikes, a battered timeworn sofa, a small table and a few fold-up chairs. There were lights on but I saw nobody there to greet us.

I removed my helmet as the driver gestured towards the direction of the sofa. I looked around again and there he was, dark and lean, sitting cross legged on the sofa, having materialised as if by majik out of thin air, wearing long black trousers, black shirt, black hat, the uniform of one who practices silat. His black eyes glittering brightly in the dim light like starlight reflecting across the ocean, diamonds in a coalmine, a feeling of power emanating from him like a tiger ready to pounce, a faint smile twinkling at the corners of his mouth.

The more one knows the less visible one becomes, I thought. The ghosts laughed in unison. I was face to face with the Silat Master. I bowed deeply. The lesson had already begun.