Seen and Unseen ; The lesson

 

I could easily have ignored the text message, pretend I’d never seen it, and they would not have bothered me any further, but I had made a promise the night before and there could be no turning back now. 

It had started as a casual conversation in a bar with some of the locals. A few drinks were had, some snacks shared, news discussed. I don’t know if it was the boredom, the heat, or just the curiosity that drew me in, but when that word was mentioned, half whispered, it pulled at me, hinting at promises of unknown depths. Sometimes it’s better to stumble onto a truth, barge your way in to it and find out what it’s all about. It could turn out to be nothing much, or a nightmare scenario, at the wrong place at the wrong time, but there was only one way to find out.

At first they were reluctant, trying to dissuade me, laugh it off. I could see, by the movement of their eyes and the nervous lighting of clove cigarettes, that this was a serious matter to them. A foreigner had no place meddling here. There was talk of spirits, and not all of it was good. That was all I needed at the time to get me going, like a sort of challenge, a double dare if you like.  I was determined to investigate further, throw myself into the thick of it with reckless abandon. After all, I had nothing left to lose, and I can be annoyingly persistent when the mood takes me. Just for the hell of it, I thought. Just because you said I couldn’t. I promised that I was sincere, I meant what I said.

The way those guys were speaking about him though, there was a definite sense of danger, as if something was lurking in the shadows. I could sense the mix of respect and fear when they spoke about him, like the wisps of smoke than trailed from the tops of the volcanoes and silencing the dark jungle slopes below. Sensing my stubbornness they eventually relented and said they would text me tomorrow, and we left it at that. 

 

The ghosts came to me that night in my dreams, 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 as I slept fitfully, mocking me in a childish way, keeping me from deep slumber and reminding me of the promise made earlier.When I awoke, they came with me, invisible, allowing me to perform my chores for the day, yet always keeping the promise in the forefront of my mind.

Now here I am, waiting for someone to arrive and take me to an unknown destination, to begin I know not what. Soon I would meet him myself and I have to admit, I was intensely curious.It was impossible to be fully prepared, for I had no idea what to expect. Had I known the long path that lay ahead, beginning with this first step, I might have faltered, it’s hard to say.

In any case, I was at the appointed place and now it was time. A young man on a motorcycle detached himself from the swarms of riders on the busy thoroughfare and pulled up in front of me. He offered me a greeting, 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 adrenaline that comes with driving in the pandemonium of city traffic.

Truck horns blaring, voices shouting, 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 began to set on the Indian Ocean. Rush of warm air as we swerved and weaved across the city, joining the thousands trying to get away from the oppressive heat and squalor, into the welcoming darkness.

Ahead of us the traffic slowed momentarily, and I glimpsed through the hustle a man lying on the street, clutching his chest. His arm hung useless at his side, his scooter broken beyond repair. A crowd of passers-by were trying to drag him out of the way so the chaotic flow of vehicles could continue unabated. 

Now a spattering of warm rain wept from the skies, dampening the diesel fumes. The first mighty thunderclaps cut through the din and echoed around the outskirts of the city as we took to the backstreets. With the sun dipping low and fading, the deluge began in earnest.Soon we were leaving the city far behind, and through the sheets of rain I could just make out coconut trees dominating the skyline, then more padi fields flanked by jungle. Monkeys screeched from the treetops as we sped through small villages, and the traffic sparse now as the rain poured earnestly through the darkness.

For a while I could no longer see where we were going or what lay ahead, as the rain beat off my visor, obscuring my vision. I had to trust implicitly in the skill of the driver as he navigated potholes and flooded sections of the road with a deftness that was uncanny. Surely we can’t have much further to go, I thought, wondering what lay in store for me. Somehow I felt safe inside, despite the obvious dangers. I sensed the cackle of the ghosts as the rain eased up somewhat abruptly, and through the dim headlight of the motorbike I was able to make out sections of the potholed road up ahead. Suddenly, in a burst of adrenaline, a black chicken flashed in front of us. The driver reacted to avoid impact as we slewed this way and that, barely keeping our balance and narrowly missing a rambutan tree.

 

I breathed a sigh of relief when, less than five minutes later, we arrived at a rattan house in front of a cluster of bamboos, a fish farm and some padi fields.We freewheeled under a covered garage area containing two ancient motorbikes, a battered timeworn sofa, a small table, and a few fold-up chairs. There were light bulbs glowing and in the dim light I saw nobody there to greet us. I was removing my helmet when the driver gestured urgently, pointing with his chin towards the direction of the sofa.

I looked again and there he was, dark and lean, sitting cross legged on the sofa, looking like he had just materialised out of thin air as if by majik, looking like he had been sitting there forever. He wore long black trousers, a black shirt, black hat and a sarong draped casually over his shoulder. It was the uniform of one who practices Silat.

The more one knows the less visible one becomes, I thought.

Subconsciously the ghosts laughed in unison. I took a deep breath. I was face to face with a Silat Master. His jet black eyes glittered brightly in the dim light like starlight reflecting across the ocean, diamonds in a coalmine, and a feeling of power emanated from him like that of a tiger ready to pounce, a faint smile twinkling at the corners of his mouth.

I bowed deeply. Exhaled.

The lesson had already begun.