His companion was a white man, tall, deeply tanned, perhaps thirty years of age, conventionally handsome, dressed in the yellow robe of a Buddhist monk. The incongruity between his appearance and his dress vanished in the fantastic contortions of the surrounding jungle.

The white man was seated cross-legged on the ground facing away from the clearing.

He was in a state of extreme relaxation. His grey eyes seemed to be focused inward.

Presently the native said, "Tuan, the man, Jamieson, has gone into his house."

"Yes," said the white man.

"Now he returns. He is carrying an object wrapped in burlap. It is not a large object—perhaps one-fourth the size of a young elephant's head."

The white man did not answer.

"Now he unwraps the burlap. Within, there is an object of metal. It is of a complicated shape."

The white man nodded.

"They have all gathered around the object," the native went on. "They are pleased, they are smiling. No, not all of them. The Arab has a strange expression on his face. It is not exactly displeasure. It is some emotion that I cannot describe. Yes, I can! The Arab knows something that the others don't. He is a man who thinks he has a secret advantage."

"So much the worse for him," the white man said. "The others have the safety of their ignorance. That one has the peril of his understanding."

"Do you foresee this, Tuan?"

"I read what is written," the white man said. "The ability to read is my curse."

The native shuddered, fascinated and repelled. A strange pity welled up in him for this man of strange talents and great vulnerabilities.

The white man said, "Now the fat man is holding the metal object. He gives money to Jamieson."

"Tuan, you are not even looking at them."

"Nevertheless, I see."

The native shook himself like a dog. The gentle white man — his friend — had power but was himself the victim of greater power. Yes, but it was best not to think of such things, for the white man's destiny was not his destiny, and he thanked his God for that.

"Now they are going inside Jamieson's house," the native said. "But you know that, do you not, Tuan?"

"I know. I am unable not to know."

"And you know what they are doing within the house?"

"This, too, I cannot avoid."

The native said, impulsively, "Tell me only what I must hear."

"That is all I ever tell you," the white man said. Then, without looking at the native, he said, "You should leave me, leave this place. You should go to another island, get a wife, go into business."

"No, Tuan. We are yoked together, you and I. There is no avoiding it. As you know."

"Yes, I know. But sometimes I hope I am wrong, just for once. I would give a great deal to be wrong."

"It is not in your nature."

"Perhaps not. Still, I can hope." The white man shrugged. "Now the fat man has put the metal object into a black leather satchel. They are all smiling and shaking hands and there is murder in the air. Come, let us go away now."

"Is there not a chance they will escape us?"

"It no longer matters. The ending is wrought in iron. We will go away and eat now and then sleep."

"And then?"

The white man shook his head wearily. "You do not need to know that. Come."

They moved into the jungle. The native prowled with the silent grace of a tiger. The white man drifted like a ghost.

70

Less than a mile from Jamieson's house, down a narrow path hacked through the jungle, one came to the native settlement of Omandrik. At first glance this was a typical Tamili village, identical to a hundred others that could be found perched precariously along the banks of the Semil River — that lost brown stream that seemed barely to have the energy to flow through the devouring sunburned country to the distant, shallow, reef-strewn waters of the East Java Sea.

But an observant eye, ranging across the village, would take in the small, unmistakable signs of neglect — thatch blown away on many of the huts, taro patches overgrown with weeds, broken-hulled praus scattered along the river-bank. One also noticed indistinct black shapes scurrying between huts — an infestation of rats grown bold enough to raid the forlorn gardens in daylight. This more than any other single thing demonstrated the apathy of the villagers, their weary state of demoralization. A proverb of the coast asserts that the presence of rats in daylight means that the land is abandoned of the gods.

In the centre of the village, in a hut nearly twice the size of the others, Amhdi, the headman, sat cross-legged in front of a battery-operated shortwave radio. The radio gave off a low hiss of static, and its green signal indicator glowed like a panther's eye caught in a moonbeam. This was all the radio was capable of, since it had lost its antenna long before old Amhdi had acquired it. But the static and the wavering green light were marvels enough for the old man. The radio had become his spiritual counsellor. He consulted it every few days and declared that the spirits of the dead whispered advice to him and that the spirit eye revealed marvels that could not be revealed.

Tanine, his priest, had never been able to determine whether the old chief actually believed this nonsense or whether he used the «magic» radio out of a previously unsuspected depth of guile to escape some of the more onerous mandates of the House of the Knife. Standing near the old chief, arms folded, clad in a sombre pegatu with the sacred monkey's skull fastened to his high forehead, the priest decided that the chiefs deception was largely unconscious: a will to escape domination and a will to believe neatly conjoined. Nor could the priest blame his headman, whatever his motive: the years had not been kind to Amhdi, and the House of the Knife had been unable to alleviate his sufferings. The old man's attitude was understandable, not that that would stop the priest from doing what he had to do, for an adept of the Snake-Redeemer had certain duties to fulfil no matter what violence they might do to his own emotions.

"Well, Chief?" the priest asked.

The old man looked up furtively. He turned off the radio; it was difficult to obtain batteries — the precious spirit food — from the violent trader in the big house by the river bend. Besides, he had heard the message, the thin voice of his father, nearly lost in the whispering of a thousand other spirits, pleading, cursing, promising, seeking communication with the living from their black house at the end of the world.

"My wise ancient one has spoken to me," Amhdi said. Never had he referred to his father by name or by relationship.

"And what did he say, O Chief?" the priest asked, no hint of irony evident in the low, controlled voice.

"He has told me what must be done about the strangers."

The priest nodded slowly: This was unusual. The headman detested making decisions, and his spirit voices usually advised him along the comfortable rut of inaction. So the old man was beginning to assert himself? Or could it be that his father, the legendary warrior… No, it could not be. It simply could not be.

The priest waited for his chief to tell him what the wise ancient one had advised about the strangers. But Amhdi seemed reluctant to talk. Perhaps he had sensed that he had gained a momentary advantage in a contest that the priest had thought long resolved.

Nothing could be read on the old man's face except its customary expression of baffled avarice and weak guile.