Sherlock Holmes and the Giant Rat of Sumatra (8 page)

It was with a heavy heart that I finally released Pritesh and Santi from their obligations to me. I insisted that they should return, by way of Singapore, to my benefactor on the Andaman Islands, Lieutenant John Sterling. Even at the last, both Pritesh and Santi proved to be as good as their word. Santi’s investigations on my behalf had revealed that a band of Indian liberationists were rumoured to have taken refuge amongst the ruined remains of a large Hindu temple that was to be found upon the banks of Lake Toba.

For his part Pritesh helped me garner whatever meagre supplies that my depleted funds would allow, although I ensured that these would run to a healthy supply of ammunition for my revolver. As I packed my bags aboard the boat, I was reassured by the sight of these rounds, for the tales of man-eating tigers and small isolated tribes that still practised forms of cannibalism, convinced me that before my journey’s end they could prove to be more valuable to me than any food and drink.

Finally, Pritesh informed me that the temple that I was seeking was undoubtedly the famed temple called Portibi or, as it was known from its Bartak translation, In This World. It was thought to have been built by workers from the Hindu kingdom of Panai in approximately 10 AD, and its style certainly hailed from southern India.

I shook his shoulders violently in the excitement of my realization that the circle of my voyage of discovery was all but
complete. Of course there would still be much danger and many hazards to endure before I would be able to reach my goal, but something told me that the temple of Portibi would prove to be the culmination of my journey.

After supplying me with a rough map and much heartfelt advice, Pritesh and Santi departed for the quay of Begawan harbour. As I watched them walk reluctantly away from me I realized that, for the first time since I had set off from Nirvana so many months ago, I was now to be totally alone.

This feeling of isolation was no more noticeable than when I eventually clambered aboard my sorry boat and stowed away my gear. My heart was full of trepidation, for I had no knowledge of what truly lay ahead, nor had I yet formulated a plan as to my course of action should I be successful in my search for the temple of Portibi, the supposed refuge of the Ghadar movement.

Perhaps no plan existed in my head because, in my heart of hearts, I did not really expect ever to reach Portibi, let alone retrieve the fabled beladau, my means of saving an empire! Should I fail in my attempt then surely this would indeed be my final journey and conceivably my quest would culminate in the way that I had always intended. Not withstanding these dark and portentous thoughts, I did push off from the bank and began rowing slowly upstream along one of a myriad of tiny tributaries that fed the Deli River delta.

Perusing Pritesh’s map, I realized that if I maintained my compass at a point of north by northwest, each tributary would lead me into another and then another until I should eventually cascade into Lake Toba through the series of waterfalls that were fed by the waters of the Barisan mountains and the Alas river.

As I moved slowly along my course I was left constantly amazed by the complexity and rich diversity of the terrain that I was travelling through. Mercifully the climate in northern Sumatra proved to be surprisingly temperate, so therefore the
lush and impenetrable forests did not have the humid, debilitating effect of so many that I had encountered in other parts of the world. Indeed, as I passed through one of the many limestone gorges that ripped a tear through this carpet of green the temperature became uncomfortably chilly, to the extent that it left me longing for a swift return to the cover that the forest afforded me.

That is not to say that my labours at the oar were rendered any less arduous by the absence of humidity and before too long it became obvious to me that the forty or so miles that made the distance from Medan to Lake Toba, would seem considerably longer than that by the time that I had completed them. Furthermore, the lake itself was fully fifty miles in length and I had no means of knowing how many of those miles I would have to cover before I came upon the temple of Portibi somewhere along its shores.

By the time that I decided to stop for the night I estimated that I had covered no more than four or five miles. I soon realized that at my current rate of progress, both my strength and supplies would be exhausted long before I had completed my journey. It was a sobering thought and one that made me grateful for the full bottle of whisky that was nestling safely underneath the rest of my supplies.

Before I tied up my boat for the night, I ensured that there was a comfortable distance between myself and any of the numerous tiny Bartak villages that seemed to pepper the course of the river. I hurriedly assembled a small shelter from a collection of light timber and tarpaulin that I had brought along for that purpose and before long a small fire was illuminating my humble campsite.

Once I had consumed a light supper of corned beef and bread it occurred to me that the lack of company would not be the only disadvantage to my being alone. The jungle in which I was
encamped was positively teeming with a variety of potentially hostile wild life. It was, therefore, imperative that the size and intensity of my fire was maintained throughout the night, to ward off any threats. Yet who was there to stoke it while I took a few hours sleep? Who was there to keep my revolver cocked and ready to fire at a moment’s notice? The answer to both of these questions was the same. Each night I was destined to maintain a long and sleepless vigil.

My slow progress was also causing me some concern. I decided to abandon one of my oars the following morning and to continue my journey by paddling with only one, in a
canoe-like
fashion. These continuing thoughts, a substantial swig from my bottle of whisky and the glow from my essential fire eventually lulled me into an most reluctant and dangerous slumber.

I awoke with a start and a severe crick in my neck, as I had slept in an upright position, and I realized how perilous my lack of consciousness might well have proved to be. I looked about me as the earliest traces of dawn were encroaching upon the domain of the dark and treacherous night. I decided that the centre of the stream might prove to be the safest place for me to obtain some rest.

I fashioned an anchor from a piece of cord and a
medium-sized
boulder, then let it drop once I was certain that my boat was equidistant from the river’s banks. There I was to sleep until the noon sun awoke me with its intense glare, which was only relieved by the shadows of the overhanging trees. Now fully refreshed I immediately put my paddling theory into practice and soon realized that it was to be borne out. Assisted by a bubbling downstream current, I doubled my rate of progress of the previous day and continued my journey with a renewed optimism.

As I progressed further, the width of the stream appeared to be gradually lessening. This surprised me somewhat, as I had
actually been expecting the stream to broaden as I drew closer to Lake Toba. Was I on the intended tributary? Was I even moving in the right direction? I could not be sure. My only certainty was that the thickening jungle was gradually closing in upon the diminishing water, way in front of me. It was as if I was being sucked inexorably into the very womb of Mother Nature herself!

That evening, as I lay on the bottom of my little boat, exhausted by my day’s efforts, it occurred to me that there was a lesson for all of us to be learned from the vast, primeval forest that now surrounded me. When viewed individually the lotus flower is undoubtedly a creation of extraordinary beauty, whereas the humble weed or nettle is surely something to be avoided and shunned. However, when seen as tiny components of this vast green tapestry, neither the lotus flower nor the weed are distinguishable from the whole and each appears to be as beautiful as the other.

I could not help but wonder how much hatred could have been avoided and how many lives would have been saved had mankind ever seen itself in this manner. Sadly, there are too many of us who see themselves as lotus flowers and therefore perceive everyone else as nettles. That is mankind’s greatest folly and the cause of all of its miseries.

My dear boy, please forgive the deterioration in both my writing style and coherency. As you might well imagine, my present conditions are far from conducive to good writing and I am certain that by now you are finding the task of deciphering my ramblings somewhat trying. If, indeed, you are still reading them at all!

In the hope that you are, I have decided to précis each of my day’s events and experiences and set them out in the form of a diary. My surroundings seem to remain unchanged for days on end and as I have no scientific means of calculating the distances that I am covering, it is becoming increasingly difficult for me to distinguish one day from the next. My proposed diary format will help me maintain some cohesion and chronology to my life and to monitor the passing of time since the day of my departure from Medan. I am certain that no more than forty-eight hours have passed since I bade farewell to Pritesh and Santi and as I put my pen down, for the night, I now look forward to my third day upon the river.

My improved progress of yesterday has slowed considerably today as I battle against a current bound for Medan. I suppose that my reduced stroke rate may also be due to my dwindling supplies that are now barely sufficient to bind body and soul
together. I have resorted to plunging a sharpened shaft of wood into the river in the hope that I might extract an edible fish. Worryingly, the fast-running, shallow waters have produced nothing larger than the size of my hand and my only sustenance is provided by the nuts and fruit from the overhanging trees.

As a last recourse I have thrown my fears and caution to the wind and decided to land at the very next Bartak village that I come to. Whatever my fate might be at their hands, it cannot be worse than the slow withering decline and death that can be the only conclusion to my continuing to remain drifting in midstream.

What a revelation the charming people of the village have proved to be. The majority of its inhabitants spoke a smattering of English, as a result of their brief contact with European missionaries in the early nineties, before the fighting in Aceh intensified. Despite their forbidding appearance and reputation, I discovered that the people of the Bartak were both friendly and courteous and practised nothing more ferocious than the writing of romantic and sentimental songs, the rendering of which they frequently treated me to during my extended stay there.

Their chief allowed me to share his hut with his entire family and graciously allowed me a share of every provision that came their way. The next day they invited me to accompany them upon one of their all-important hunting trips and they promised me a feast of succulent boar meat the following evening.

The villagers were as good as their word and, at break of dawn on the following morning, all the able-bodied men set off together, brandishing their hunting sticks. As we drew closer to our quarry these were rattled loudly together as a means of
harrying the boars into the direction of the ‘throwers’. The march was long and arduous, through the densest part of the forest, yet it afforded me the opportunity to observe a family of the elusive orang-utan apes who ignored us as we marched past them.

It was astonishing to see how much of their behaviour and how many of their mannerisms are shared with their human cousins and neighbours. It is hardly surprising, therefore, that the Bartak name for them translates to ‘The Man of the Forest’. I also had my first view, though thankfully from some distance, of the feared and unique Sumatran tiger. It was clearly stalking us from a grassy ridge and as soon as it came into view, the Bartak began to beat their sticks together ferociously. Once I had realized that this was not having the desired effect, I fired off two overhead shots from my revolver. The tiger immediately disappeared and I had further ingratiated myself with my hosts, who were most impressed by my ‘weapon of thunder’.

When we eventually returned to the village the following evening, it was as conquering heroes, with our bag of two magnificent beasts as evidence of our total triumph. The women immediately set to work on building a large roaring fire and preparing the vegetables, while we set the boars up on spits and prepared large jugs of a most potent and pungent brew, fermented from a strange-looking orange root vegetable that grew throughout the jungle in great abundance.

My hosts knew that it was my intention to take my leave of them on the following morning and they were, evidently, as reluctant to see me go as I was to resume my journey. Nevertheless, by the
time that I had managed to rouse myself from my stupor, I discovered that my boat had been loaded with as much roasted boar meat and fresh fruit as it could possibly hold.

With renewed strength I pushed my boat hard that day and I was able to continue with my efforts until well after twilight. By the time that I had dropped my makeshift anchor for the night, every nocturnal beast of the jungle was in full chorus and yet, as I was quietly chewing on my meat, I felt sure that I could hear the sound of an immense body of moving water somewhere further down the stream. After I had completed my meal, I drained the last drop from my whisky bottle and, as I watched it bobbing its way gently back towards Medan, I wondered with excitement what lay ahead of me round the next bend of the river.

The expectations that I had been harbouring throughout the long night soon evaporated once I realized that the sound of rushing water had undoubtedly been nothing more than a creation inside my sore, intoxicated head. As I moved further inland there was certainly no doubt that the river was gradually widening and quickening. However, the large body of water that I had envisaged drawing me into the magnificence of Lake Toba still would not reveal itself to me.

The number of bends that I had rounded that day had been countless and each time that the river had straightened I had expected to find the water falling away directly in front of me. It was dark again before at last I gave up all hope of success for that day and I flung down my oar in frustration as I despaired of ever reaching the accursed lake! My temper was not lightened when I realized that the cigarette that I had enjoyed after my supper was to be my last. I strained my ears for even a trace of the sound that I had thought that I had heard the night before, but again I
was to be disappointed. When at last I did fall asleep it was in a state of great anxiety.

I began the day by consuming the last of the fruit that the Bartak had kindly given to me, although I must confess that I set off that morning with very little enthusiasm. My progress was slow once more and as the river continued to widen I realized that I was losing the blessed shelter from the afternoon sun that the overhanging trees had formerly provided me with. On this stretch of the river the water was now clear and fresh so that thirst was no longer a problem. However this endless meandering was causing me to question the validity of my reasons for being here and, indeed, my very motives for desiring the recovery of the beladau.

Potentially this ancient and sacred weapon could be used as a means to incite rebellion. Yet who was I to condemn the cause of political freedom. A patriotic Englishman? Certainly. The saviour of an empire that stood upon the remains of a proud and ancient civilization?

I was left to ponder upon that principle, which was of my own creation. Who was I to say that the existence of the lotus flower was any more deserving than that of the thorn? Indeed, who was the lotus flower and who was the thorn? Which was the occupier and which the occupied? These questions were constantly hammering away inside my burning head.

At the conclusion of another fruitless day of toil, I decided to set up my small camp once more, upon the bank of the river. No longer being fearful of the Bartak, it seemed to me that the advantages far outweighed the disadvantages. Delicious fresh fruit was plentifully available and I had become indifferent to the threat posed by the elusive renegade tiger. Admittedly, I still established my precautionary fire, but on this occasion I did not worry unduly about maintaining it throughout the night.

Ultimately it was my own thoughts, constantly nagging at me and harassing me, that prevented me from sleeping that night and not the threatening roar that echoed in the distance.

I suppose that I must have finally succumbed to exhaustion some time just before dawn, because the next thing that I was aware of was the glare of the climbing sun striking down upon my sore and heavy eyes. Before long I was to realize that the glare was about to be obliterated.

I was at once alerted to an unnatural and all embracing silence that seemed to have affected every living creature within the forest. Their instincts were heedful of an imminent natural disturbance and one glance towards the north confirmed to me the source of their fear. An enormous bank of dark and ominous clouds had been seated above the Barisan mountains for the past few days. They had been motionless, as though they were attached to the very peaks themselves, and they had posed no immediate threat.

However, as I looked towards them now, I could see that they had shifted dramatically and that they were virtually overhead!

The first rolls of thunder were enough to convince me that now was the time to break up my camp with all speed. I placed my belongings in the base of my boat underneath the tarpaulin and a further covering of oilskin. Once I was certain that my papers and equipment were secure and strapped down, I made good my moorings and then crawled in after them. There, with God’s grace, to ride out the storm.

The tempest continued, unabated, for many hours and as it turned out, well into the night. Never before had I felt as if my own destiny was out of my hands and would be determined by a
higher force. As I lay there for an interminable length of time, I could feel my craft being continually buffeted by the maelstrom that the river had now become. Time and again I was convinced that my moorings had been wrenched free and that I was to be sent hurtling into oblivion. Yet somehow they held fast. The sound of the rain as it crashed down upon my shelter was deafening and I felt as if I was being attacked by a thousand hammers!

Then it was over, as I always knew it would be, and I made my first few tentative advances from beneath my shelter. Miraculously my craft and I had escaped intact, although the transformation that had taken place amongst my surroundings was dramatic. The level of the river had risen by several inches and it was running now rather than meandering as before. I was not alone either. The creatures that had hitherto remained hidden in a stunned silence, now rediscovered their voices. The chattering of the monkeys, the shrill calls of a thousand tropical birds all blended into a cacophony of expressed joy.

A small herd of deer joined me at the water’s edge and further downstream I could see a family of elephants enjoy a bath in the cooling and fast-running stream. Then I heard it! The sound that had been haunting me for the past few days. It was rising above that wondrous symphony and sounding much closer that it had done two nights before. The roar of water crashing down in force into an unfathomable abyss.

I could only assume that the course of the river was so tortuous and its bends so extreme that when I had first heard the sound of the falls they were then lying parallel to my own location. This time there was no mistaking their sound nor their close proximity. The falls of Sipiso-Piso at Tonggino and potentially my gateway to Lake Toba were, undoubtedly, just a few bends of the river away from me!

I collected a handful of the foul-smelling, but beautiful tasting, durian fruit, which seemed to be in such plentiful
supply, and decided to take advantage of the fast-running waters by setting off immediately towards the falls. My papers were still safe and secure from the night before and I was as prepared as I possibly could be for my descent into the unknown.

The bends of the river shunted and diverted me this way and that; however the roar of those majestic falls remained undiminished. The river widened noticeably as I cut my way through one final limestone gorge, and as I emerged back into the sunlight I realized that barely one hundred yards ahead, the river suddenly seemed to vanish!

I subsequently discovered that the falls were three hundred and sixty feet deep and yet the mist from the crashing waters below surged back upwards and towards me with a howl. The speed of the water was such that my oar was now rendered useless and I would not have been able to stop myself had I wanted to. I stowed away my oar, leant back as far as I could and clung on as hard as I could to the strapping. Not for the first time my life was in the hands of another, and with a rush I tipped over the edge.

The spray clouded my vision of the foot of the falls and the descent was steeper than I had imagined it to be. For a few moments my life hung in the balance as I veered downwards. However, with immense relief I found that my boat remained as straight as an arrow and ploughed smoothly into the deep pool below. Upon making impact with the water I was unable to avoid a jagged rocky outcrop that protruded from the depths and its edge caught the side of my head, close to the temple. I was still conscious when the boat temporarily submerged, then righted itself again and then …

Oblivion!

I could not tell for how long I had been lying in the bottom of my boat in a state of unconsciousness. It might have been for a
few hours, or it might have been days. Upon awakening I discovered that my new surroundings were so surreal compared with those that my hazy memory could recall that I was not certain whether I had entered the gates of paradise itself, if that was indeed to be my final port of call.

If it is, well then the island of Samosir, positioned in the centre of Lake Toba, would be its perfect setting. As a point of interest, Samosir is all that remains of the summit of a gigantic, volcanic mountain that erupted millions of years ago. Its destructive power was of such magnitude as to produce the vast lake upon which I was now floating.