The Oriental Casebook of Sherlock Holmes (34 page)

With the greatest alacrity, I accepted his invitation, and we made arrangements to depart early the following morning. A tonga was arranged to pick us up at dawn, which was to take us with our supplies to the next large town, Bulayo. There we would begin the walk towards the fields themselves.

The ride to Bulayo proceeded without incident. We passed through wide paddy fields and then entered the town. There we were met by two porters who were to carry our supplies. It was now about ten in the morning, and the sun already beat upon us relentlessly. Having given instructions to our guide, we began the trek, upwards and eastwards towards the foot of the central mountains. We were to pass over this first range to the valley that lay on the other side. It was here that the field that Van Ruisdael had discovered lay.

The path that we took first went through a large and dense forest. It appeared to be a well-travelled track, for it was clear of obstacles, and the undergrowth had made no inroads in it. Our progress was rapid for the first three hours, and we reached a clearing near the top of the range at around one in the afternoon. There we rested, shaded by some large trees, and waited for the porters to prepare our food.

“Another hour or so upwards,” said Van Ruisdael, “and we shall be at the top. From there you will be able to see our destination, the richest field in the world.”

It was after we reached the top that I realised why Van Ruisdael had been so reluctant to return alone, for the descent lay along a steep and rocky path that passed along the valley that stretched some two thousand feet below. One misstep and one easily fell straight down into a deep gorge cut by an ancient river. The valley itself, however, was a lush lowland, forested in part, in others filled with large rocks of what I took to be basalt.

Van Ruisdael pointed to a yellowish patch on the side of the hills opposite to us. “There it is,” he said, “our destination. With luck we should be there by nightfall.”

The descent was arduous, Watson, and I remember several times feeling that I should rather not tempt the gods so often in steep places. Except for blistered feet, however, we made it to the bottom without incident. There, after a rather harrowing cross over the gorge on a narrow footbridge, we began our trek through the valley, proceeding always in an easterly direction. We passed through a thick forest, slashing our way through, until, towards dusk, we reached the place that Van Ruisdael had pointed out on the ridge. Yellow earth, patches of elephant grass—it was exactly how he had described it to me. Night came almost instantly as the sun flashed gold behind the blue mountains in the west that we had just traversed, and we could see no more. We decided to set up our camp and retire early. The porters cooked our simple dinner and we prepared for bed.

Van Ruisdael impressed me again with his physical energy and agility despite his great bulk. Silent for most of our journey, he now began to speak excitedly of his plans for the morrow.

“We have our work ahead of us,” he said happily. “Tomorrow we shall begin our investigations. I have already measured the field and laid out our plans. In the morning we shall discuss them in detail. Our workers should be here by five. Local villagers, they are the people who helped me on my initial visit. Let us now get some rest.”

In the early morning, just before five, the workers arrived, all residents of a local village save one, a fat, sweaty Javanese, who appeared to have engaged the others. We spent the next several hours with them, explaining the schedule of work, and the tasks that lay immediately ahead on the next day. The fat Javanese was named Uru, and it was he who acted as interpreter when needed. He spoke English, Javanese, and the nameless dialect shared by the others.

The next three days were days of deep engagement with the tasks at hand. Van Ruisdael had previously chosen the exact site where we were to work. It was promptly cleared and the excavation began. A trench was laid out, and the relentless work of marking each specimen as it came forth, noting its size, nature, and location, became immediately absorbing. The workmen, five in all, arrived each morning at daybreak, worked well, long, and in harmony, Uru giving the necessary directions to them. Van Ruisdael and I supervised, and he alone almost effortlessly organised the packing of the specimens that we were to take back with us. We took a long break from one to three during the heat of the day; otherwise we worked constantly until nightfall.

It was only after the first three days that Van Ruisdael and I began to discuss the pattern of the finds. It was clear to us that the site was a peculiar one indeed. “Disturbed” is the word often used, and the anomaly of many of the finds continued to perplex us. There were incomparable riches for science embedded in this field, of this there was no doubt, and much of it was destined to extend the frontiers of paleontological knowledge far beyond their present confines. But, my dear Watson, over and over we found the rather sinister problem that had presented itself in Van Ruisdael’s study: we had found again not only teeth, but various other remains of the large Sumatran rat in fossil form, in a variety of strata, together with a variety of other paleontological specimens. But in a group of surface finds, the exact same species of rat was met in unquestionably recent, and unchanged, form. In fact, the number of recent finds was far larger than the ancient ones.

“This large rat exists,” said Van Ruisdael one evening, “and continues to exist even now. This is the inescapable conclusion that we must face: the Sumatran rat has suddenly re-appeared after a long absence from the fossil record. But how can this be?”

“I remain as perplexed as you,” said I, “but we must continue to search for a rational explanation. It may be that its reappearance here is due to some recent event, and that the continuity of its record lies elsewhere and can be supplied from other sites. But the gap remains enormous. The oldest of these surface finds can be no older than a century at most. There is something else, however, that is equally if not more disturbing, my dear professor.”

“And what is that?” he asked.

“It is this: that the Sumatran rat, whether of the prehistoric or more recent record, was apparently always killed in the same way. Have you noticed? The available skulls record a blow to the head that despatched the giant rodent almost instantly. We are apparently in a killing field, where the rat and other animal corpses were brought after death. If that is the case, then we are faced with an even more insoluble problem: how and why were they killed, for killing them was no mean feat. This was a fiercesome creature, of the greatest agility and ferociousness. How was it killed? And, perhaps most perplexing of all, by whom?”

My words seemed to disturb him, and he seemed doubtful, ready to take my words as supporting his own theories and also unwilling to continue the discussion.

“Redfern, my dear Redfern, we are speculating without knowing, but your words tend to confirm my hypothesis. Is the rat wild, or domesticated? Perhaps it is both. If the oldest ones were killed in a uniform way, then perhaps they were killed by some early humans in sacrificial ritual after they were captured and raised for a time. Perhaps, as you say, we have stumbled upon a sacrificial field. It is in such ritual that we have the beginnings of religion—all later religion, the great temples, the great sculpture, and the great texts—all stem from these early original sacrifices. But enough, we must do our work, then analyse, and theorise, but only after we have all the evidence.”

“Nevertheless, the rat is with us now,” I said, “whatever its history. And it is not alone.”

“You are right,” said he quietly. He spoke no more, but rose up silently, and went to his tent.

I sat for a few moments longer at the fire.

It was cool now, and I watched the dying embers. What Van Ruisdael did not want to contemplate was the obvious: that nearby, perhaps, in some hidden place, the giant rat and the humans around it lived still, bound in some mysterious and as yet unknown relation.

Entering my tent, I lay down but could not sleep. I continued to be disturbed by the perplexities of the finds. Except for the usual jungle noises, it was quiet. It was only at about two in the morning that there was a complete silence except for the occasional rustle of the wind in the trees. Unable to fall asleep, I rose, thinking to read by my lantern for a while. But first, I thought, I must have a look round.

I could hear Van Ruisdael blissfully asleep. There were clouds and a few stars, and a moon covered with mist, but there was enough light to walk by. Our guides were sleeping softly and almost silently. The nearest path that I could see went up a hill in the direction opposite to the dig. It was a path that I had not taken so far and I decided to climb it.

It was only when I reached the top that I realised how close we were to the sea, perhaps less than half a mile. I found myself looking through a cleft in the mountains to a small cove over which the moon had spread its silver light. I could hear the faint sound of the moving sea as I stood watching.

It was then that I noticed a light blinking on shore. It flashed several times at regular intervals of a minute or two. Then I saw an answering signal, distant, on the ocean. I decided to go nearer.

As I approached the place of the first signal, the light at sea came closer, and I realised that a small boat had just landed. I head the splash as several people left the boat, and the low murmur of voices. Someone said in accented English, “Quiet, no lights now. Not until we reach the rocks. We are very close. Someone might hear.”

The group moved close to me, to some rocks just to my left, where they lit a fire and talked. There were five men: four Europeans and one native. The native I recognised as Uru, our foreman. It was he who spoke first.

“Tomorrow night, no later. That is the time. There will be no moon. Come in the dark. Wait.”

“Very well. How many will we be able to take?” said his interlocutor.

“Maybe two hundred, maybe more.”

The light moved towards the European speaker, obviously the leader of the group, and I recognised to my amazement the Swedish captain of the
Mathilde Briggs
, the ship on which I had travelled to Batavia.

“Good. We shall be here then. We shall come in plenty of time. Do not fail us, Uru. You have done well in the past.”

As he spoke, he handed Uru a bag of what appeared to be coins. Uru grabbed it greedily, and clutched it to his chest.

The captain and his men rose, went to their canoe, and began their return to their ship, now a dark shadow on the moonlit horizon. Uru slipped away into the night, and I made my way back to my tent.

In the early morning, the men were there, including Uru. They told us that they would work as usual that day, but only until four. When asked why, they answered that they had an important festival to attend that night. Van Ruisdael, disappointed at the delay, was forced to acquiesce.

“We shall spend the day speculating,” he said in jest.

Uru too said that he was busy, and that he would not work that day or the next. He left, and I was happy to see him go.

I had said nothing to Van Ruisdael about the events of the night before, and I continued my silence, for I had not wished to disturb him or his work. He moved to his tent, with his notes, and I remained at the site with the four workmen.

I had not tried in any way before to communicate with them, except in matters pertaining to the excavation. One of them, a young man by the name of Bulang, spoke some English, though he never spoke it in front of Uru. I motioned to him, and asked that he accompany me for a moment. We walked away from the site and the others, and I tried to question him about the festival.

He seemed concerned at first that I was merely trying to get him and the others to work on the festival day, for he repeated many times that it was a most important day for them. I reassured him, and told him that I was interested in his people and their history. That was all. He then began to talk, and though I understood only part of what he said, the main outline seemed clear: his tribe was a branch of the Batak of Sumatra, an ancient hill tribe that had tried to maintain its independence from the Dutch. They called themselves Norom-Batak, for they came from an area on Sumatra near Toba, called in their language Norom. His people were “sea gypsies,” nomads who had had many homes and had lived in many places. This was one of the main domiciles. They had been here for many generations, and had learned how to live both in the sea and in the jungle. At first, their life here on land was hard, for the wild animals were ferocious, particularly the giant rat, which attacked them. But their god, Kallo, entered the rat and he became their friend. Kallo was worshipped then as the giant black rat, who protected them, and whom they protected. One day, Kallo left and spoke to them from the sky, saying that they must return to Norom. And so, as they had done so many times in the past, the entire tribe left and returned to their ancestral home in Sumatra. At first, their meeting with their kinsmen was peaceful. Kallo reappeared and they were happy. But soon there was fighting, for Maharjo Dhirjo, the king of the main Batak clan, did not like Kallo. Kallo brought a curse on Maharjo, and Marjan came, a white man. The white man was Kallo’s friend, but Maharjo killed him in a dispute, and Kallo became angry. He said that they should take his two youngest children and return to Java. After Marjan’s death, he told them that he would no longer be black but white. And so the tribe took to the sea, with the two children of Kallo, one female, one male, and came once again to this place. Here they raised Kallo’s children, and succeeding generations. They worshipped Kallo daily, and tomorrow was the great festival for him.