Holy Communion<\/p>\n
By Sitor Situmorang<\/p>\n
It was three o' Clock in the morning. Our Land Rover crawled
\nin the dimness of the dying moon over the steep and winding road
\ntowards Prapat. The huge island in the middle of the lake looked
\nlike a reclining giant. Prapat sits on a promontory, her electric
\nlights blending with the moonlight flickering off the restless
\nwaters -- an ocean liner at anchor.<\/p>\n
Emotion welled up within me -- home! -- but there was no joy
\nor happiness.<\/p>\n
By the Padang food stall, which was open around-the-clock,
\nseveral large trucks loaded with rubber were waiting for their
\ndrivers and helpers who were inside eating plates of hot rice.
\nThe men's weather-bitten bodies were wrapped in heavy clothes.
\nThey were heading toward the Aceh east coast border, toward the
\nharbors notorious as smuggling and bartering centers with
\nSingapore and Penang. They were hauling rubber from the Pakan
\nBaru area, a distance of a thousand kilometers to the south, not
\nfollowing economic rules exactly but, instead, the winding roads
\nof the black market, black like the roads to the lake at night.<\/p>\n
\"A tire now costs forty thousand rupiah,\" someone remarked
\nthough no one had asked the question.<\/p>\n
I wondered what the rental would be for a truckload and what
\nthey would be carrying on the return trip from the smuggling
\narea.<\/p>\n
My brother, who had been driving the borrowed Land Rover since
\nMedan, was also a truck operator. While eating he talked about
\nthe process and ended up asking for a jerrican can of gasoline
\nfrom one of the drivers.<\/p>\n
I knew that we still had some gas in reserve, but we had to go
\nclear around the lake, across the whole southern area, to get to
\nour village in the west. We would need as large a supply as
\npossible. The rest of the road, especially early in the morning,
\nwould be desolate -- wide grasslands alternating with heavy
\nforests -- and there would be no place to buy gas.<\/p>\n
All through the night, till the early morning when we were
\nbeyond Prapat, my brother had not said a single word. He
\nconcentrated on his driving, going at such a speed it was as if
\nhe was chasing after something. He had been driving that way
\nsince leaving Medan the day before.<\/p>\n
It was not until around five in the morning that we
\nencountered our first obstacle: a group of women pounding pandan
\nleaves, the raw materials for mat, on the roadbed. Then at
\nanother spot along the road, a group of silent farmers on their
\nway to the fields with farming tools in their hands forced us to
\nslow down.<\/p>\n
Even without an exchange of words, I knew the same picture
\noccupied my brother's mind as it did mine: Father's face. Would I
\nstill see him alive? The same question haunted us. The doctor had
\nestimated Father's age, based on his jawbone and teeth, at one-
\nhundred thirteen years. The Old-Age Ceremony had already been
\nheld for him several times in the last few years. Each time
\nFather had assumed that his death was near -- yet he had kept on
\nliving.<\/p>\n
But what was that to me? I didn't come for another ceremony
\nbut because my brother came to Jakarta specifically to fetch me.
\nHe said: \"Father is suffering too much. He's run out of strength.
\nIt would be better if he rested for ever. But that's not likely
\nto happen till he sees you for the last time.\"<\/p>\n
After my brother had finalized the purchase of a truck we left
\nJakarta for Sumatra.<\/p>\n
Towards daybreak we reached the high plateau of wide open
\nfields. The plain, which looked golden in the early sunlight,
\nlooked even brighter now because of the glittering morning dew.<\/p>\n
\"Where are the herds of horses now?\" I asked myself. The
\nneighing of horses, which symbolized the freedom of the plains
\nand the strength of these mountains, became louder in my
\nmemories. We had traveled for tens of kilometers, yet we had not
\nseen a single horse. Times had changed but the road was still not
\nasphalted. It was only hardened with rocks.<\/p>\n
Horses, the lake, the wilderness, hills soaring to the sky,
\nsunburnt humans counting the passing ages by generations,
\nmeasuring their suffering against their happiness in making
\nsacrifices for their children and weighing their love by the
\nviscidity of the mud in the rice field. Father was determined not
\nto die until he had seen me.<\/p>\n
We stopped at a village in the middle of a forest and I was
\nintroduced to the residents. Family. Blood relatives, descendants
\nof the nth generation from the same ancestor. Welcome.<\/p>\n
I gave a child a ball that I had actually bought for the
\nchildren of my relatives in the village.<\/p>\n
\"Any news about Father?\" my brother asked them.<\/p>\n
\"Nothing yet,\" several of them answered.<\/p>\n
\"But luckily he's here now,\" one of them remarked, with a
\nglance in my direction.<\/p>\n
We came across a lumber truck in the middle of the forest, but
\nno one was around. My brother hit the horn of the Land Rover.
\nFrom somewhere in the forest, axes resounded several times in
\nacknowledgement. Ships in the mist calling out to each other, a
\nmelody carrying a message. We drove on without comment.<\/p>\n
A little while later my brother said, \"That was what's-his-
\nname's truck. Father's alright,\" he then added.<\/p>\n
\"How do you know?\" I asked.<\/p>\n
\"That truck wouldn't be up into the mountains if something
\nwere the matter with him,\" he answered. \"The whole western area
\nand Samosir Island are also ready for Father's celebration.\"<\/p>\n
He meant Father's death and the great funeral ceremony that
\nwould be held after.<\/p>\n
\"It will last four days and four nights,\" he said. \"Seven days
\nis too long for a celebration nowadays. Four days should be
\nenough time for all the relatives from all over Batak Land to
\ncome to the party. A telephone-courier system has been set up so
\nthat when Father dies the news of his death can be spread
\nquickly.\"<\/p>\n
As we descended to the valley by the lake we saw some
\nvillagers carrying firewood and lumber.<\/p>\n
\"That is the shopkeeper who is in charge of building the
\ntemporary shelters,\" my brother commented. \"It will be like a
\nfair with thousands of people coming from all over.\"<\/p>\n
*****<\/p>\n
\"All six of you are now here in front of me,\" Father said
\nafter the evening meal.<\/p>\n
My youngest brother translated Father's words after reading
\nthe mumbling lips of his toothless mouth. Anything we had to say
\nto Father had to be spoken into his ear slowly and loudly.<\/p>\n
We sat cross-legged in a semicircle around him, we brothers
\nawaiting Father's words.<\/p>\n
\"This is the first time that you are all here together,\" he
\nthen said, referring to my presence. \"I will present you with a
\nfeast. So find one of the buffaloes of our forefathers from the
\nmountains.\"<\/p>\n
We brothers looked at one other in silence, muted not only by
\nthe solemnity of the message, but also by a practical question:
\nhow was one to capture a wild buffalo in the mountain wilderness,
\nin the space of only one night?<\/p>\n
Father was referring to the tens of wild buffaloes, remnants
\nof the herd of hundreds of our forefathers had bequeathed to him.
\nThe herd was a source of draught animals and of meat for feasts.
\nBut to capture one was difficult and usually took several days.
\nFirst you had to search the jungle to find the herd, then you had
\nto find the animal most suitable for the purpose.<\/p>\n
Father had made it clear that our ceremonial feast must take
\nplace the next day.<\/p>\n
My eldest brother suggested allowing another day, but when
\nthis was passed on to Father, he curtly answered \"I said
\ntomorrow.\"<\/p>\n
Father then asked to be put to bed. He was tired.<\/p>\n
The next morning Father smoked the cigar I had bought for him
\nand he drank the milk sent by a relative from Jakarta. On that
\nday, like on any other day, people came from near and far to see
\nhim. Some brought an offering of food for Father, to reciprocate
\nfor blessings received, just as if Father were a holy man. Father
\nsignaled his acceptance of the offerings with a touch of his
\nhand, but ate nothing. When babies were placed in his lap to be
\nblessed, he caressed their headbands and smiled happily.<\/p>\n
He requested a boiled egg from one old woman. A bottle of
\nsulfur water from somebody else. Limes to make his bath water
\nfragrant from yet another person. Everybody set out to fulfill
\nhis requests. They ran home to their villages, happy that they
\nwere able to fulfill Father's final requests. It was only later
\nthat I realized that their happiness was due to Father's
\ngenerosity. Father knew that the villagers were poor and he made
\nit possible for them to ask for his blessings by requesting
\nthings that were still within their ability to give. He did not
\nask for expensive rituals.<\/p>\n
Later that afternoon we heard cheering on the mountain slope,
\nechoing with the sound of the Land Rover. The men had managed to
\nfind and shoot a young buffalo cow, just as Father had requested,
\nfor the offering in the sacred meal he wished to share with us,
\nhis children.<\/p>\n
The leader of the hunt proudly reported his success to Father.<\/p>\n
From his resting place Father cut in, \"Who said that my wishes
\nwill not be fulfilled? It is you people who have no faith.\" Then
\nhe went to sleep.<\/p>\n
Father was awakened that evening after the ceremonial food was
\nready. It consisted of all the parts of the head, chopped up and
\ncooked together in blood: tongue, ears, brains, meat, skin, bones
\nand the eyes. The liver was cooked whole.<\/p>\n
My brother's daughter, the one who usually took care of him,
\nroused him. \"Grandpa, the food is ready.\" He was helped up from
\nhis bed and placed on the floor, leaning against the wall with a
\npillow supporting his back. \"Are you all here?\" he asked while
\nmoving his hand from left to right as if inspecting us.<\/p>\n
\"Yes, Father,\" said my eldest brother, already a grandfather
\nhimself.<\/p>\n
\"Where is the liver?\" Father asked. One of his grandchildren
\npushed the plate with the steaming liver toward him. Father's
\nfavorite sharp knife was also on the plate.<\/p>\n
\"Now divide this liver into six parts,\" he ordered while
\ntouching the hot meat. His grandson cut the buffalo liver.<\/p>\n
\"Done, Grandpa,\" the grandson said. Father reached for the
\nplate and took a piece.<\/p>\n
\"Come here,\" he said to us. My eldest brother came forward,
\nthen the second, the third, until finally it was my turn as the
\nfifth son, to receive a piece of the liver of the sacrificial
\nmeat.<\/p>\n
After waiting for each of us to finish eating our share,
\nFather said: \"You have eaten my gift of food. The six of you are
\nmy blood. And to you I command...\" He paused like a minister at a
\nreligious ceremony. \"To you I command what was taught by my
\nforefathers to my grandfather, by my grandfather to my father,
\nand by my father to me: to love one other, especially you as
\nbrothers, to help one other and to aid one other, to be united,
\nto share your burdens...\"<\/p>\n
\"Remember that there are times when one who is younger or
\npoorer might be a better leader than you. Follow him. This is my
\nmessage to you.\" Then he signaled that he wished to lie down
\nagain.<\/p>\n
All present were moved by Father's words and fell silent. The
\nlocal minister, who was also present, commented, \"Just like in
\nthe Bible.\" The look on the pastor's face was one of obvious
\nrelief. He must have concluded that there had been no
\nsuperstitious elements in the ceremony, something he had
\npreviously feared.<\/p>\n
The meal proceeded cheerfully, livened up by conversation and
\nbursts of laughter. There was happiness, harmony and peace. In
\nthe evening Father asked for hasapi players to play his favorite
\nmelodies. But when they began to play traditional songs with a
\nmodern beat, Father got angry. He asked for help to get up and go
\nto bed. With guilty looks on their faces, the musicians shifted
\nto playing the tunes in traditional way. Father nodded happily as
\nhe listened to the sound of the lutes. But after a while he
\nsuddenly commanded the players to stop. He lifted his face as if
\nhe were going to pronounce another message. And he did:
\n\"Tomorrow...I want to offer a prayer to the god of Pusuk Buhit!\"<\/p>\n
Everybody was startled. The prayer to the god of Pusuk Buhit,
\nthe quintessence of Batak pagan rituals, was condemned by
\nChristian law. Imagine, paying homage to the gods of the Holy
\nMountain.<\/p>\n
\"Call the gondang players from Limbong,\" he demanded. He asked
\nfor the most famous ceremonial drum player by name, supposedly
\nthe only musician in the region still capable of correctly
\nplaying the music for the ceremony of homage to Pusuk Buhit.<\/p>\n
Like all of Father's requests or messages, this one, too, was
\na command shrouded with magic overtones to people around him. And
\nalthough it was difficult to ignore religious considerations, the
\ncommand was nonetheless obeyed.<\/p>\n
That night Father called for me specifically to come and sit
\nby his resting place. He had a message for me: \"The day after
\ntomorrow you will return. Go. I know you have lots of work.\"<\/p>\n
The next night, after the gondang players arrived,
\npreparations were made for the Pusuk Buhit ceremony. A number of
\npeople, at the behest of the pastor, had tried to dissuade Father
\nbut to no avail.<\/p>\n
The ceremony -- which I myself had never seen before and had
\nonly heard about -- was very solemn and at the same time, like
\nall pagan rituals, frightening. Though Father himself did not eat
\npork, the sacrifice for the ceremony was a pig, dressed and
\ncooked in a special way as befitting an offering to the gods.<\/p>\n
During the ceremony all fires and lights in the village were
\nto be extinguished. No one was allowed to cross the grounds or to
\ngo in and out of houses. All doors and windows had to be tightly
\nclosed.<\/p>\n
The villagers knew about the ritual and, by evening, no one
\ndared to leave his house.<\/p>\n
At exactly seven o' clock, the gondang sounded. The darkness
\nseemed to emphasize the eerie, mystical quality of music. Inside
\nthe house, Father, outfitted in full traditional dress, was
\nhelped to stand and lift the platter containing the sacrificial
\npig. He was now ready for his mystical devotion: to meet and to
\nbe united with the spirits of his forefathers, creatures far
\nbeyond the reach of earthly eyes, beyond words, even feelings, on
\ntop of Pusuk Buhit.<\/p>\n
The next morning I took leave from Father who was lying on his
\nsleeping place. It seemed as if Father had become a stranger to
\nme since the previous night but, at the same time, he seemed
\nquite close. When I took my leave I whispered in his ear,
\n\"Father, I am leaving.\" He nodded and dozed off again.<\/p>\n
I started my journey home by taking the shortcut across the
\nlake. Arrangements had been made for the boat to pick me up in
\nthe cove of the valley of the village where I was born. The boat
\ntrip would end in Prapat, a stop for busses bound for Medan.<\/p>\n
When the boat reached the middle of the bay I looked back
\ntowards the village, which was still asleep in the haziness of
\nthe early morning.<\/p>\n
To the right Pusuk Buhit soared clearly into the grayish blue
\nsky. As I lit a cigarette to ward off the cold wind, it struck me
\nfor all my adult life Father had never spoken to me except for
\nthat night when he sent me off. \"Go,\" he had said. \"I know that
\nyou have lots of work.\"<\/p>\n
Translated by Toenggoel P. Siagian<\/p>\n
Sitor Situmorang was born in Harianboho, North Sumatra in 1942.
\nHe now resides in the Netherlands. His short story Holy Communion
\n(Perjamuan Kudus) was taken from Danau Toba, Dunia Pustaka Jaya,
\nJakarta, 1981 and is published here by courtesy of The Lontar
\nFoundation.<\/p>",
"url": "https:\/\/jawawa.id\/newsitem\/holy-communion-1447899208",
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