Holy Communion

By Sitor Situmorang

It was three o' Clock in the morning. Our Land Rover crawled in the dimness of the dying moon over the steep and winding road towards Prapat. The huge island in the middle of the lake looked like a reclining giant. Prapat sits on a promontory, her electric lights blending with the moonlight flickering off the restless waters -- an ocean liner at anchor.

Emotion welled up within me -- home! -- but there was no joy or happiness.

By the Padang food stall, which was open around-the-clock, several large trucks loaded with rubber were waiting for their drivers and helpers who were inside eating plates of hot rice. The men's weather-bitten bodies were wrapped in heavy clothes. They were heading toward the Aceh east coast border, toward the harbors notorious as smuggling and bartering centers with Singapore and Penang. They were hauling rubber from the Pakan Baru area, a distance of a thousand kilometers to the south, not following economic rules exactly but, instead, the winding roads of the black market, black like the roads to the lake at night.

"A tire now costs forty thousand rupiah," someone remarked though no one had asked the question.

I wondered what the rental would be for a truckload and what they would be carrying on the return trip from the smuggling area.

My brother, who had been driving the borrowed Land Rover since Medan, was also a truck operator. While eating he talked about the process and ended up asking for a jerrican can of gasoline from one of the drivers.

I knew that we still had some gas in reserve, but we had to go clear around the lake, across the whole southern area, to get to our village in the west. We would need as large a supply as possible. The rest of the road, especially early in the morning, would be desolate -- wide grasslands alternating with heavy forests -- and there would be no place to buy gas.

All through the night, till the early morning when we were beyond Prapat, my brother had not said a single word. He concentrated on his driving, going at such a speed it was as if he was chasing after something. He had been driving that way since leaving Medan the day before.

It was not until around five in the morning that we encountered our first obstacle: a group of women pounding pandan leaves, the raw materials for mat, on the roadbed. Then at another spot along the road, a group of silent farmers on their way to the fields with farming tools in their hands forced us to slow down.

Even without an exchange of words, I knew the same picture occupied my brother's mind as it did mine: Father's face. Would I still see him alive? The same question haunted us. The doctor had estimated Father's age, based on his jawbone and teeth, at one- hundred thirteen years. The Old-Age Ceremony had already been held for him several times in the last few years. Each time Father had assumed that his death was near -- yet he had kept on living.

But what was that to me? I didn't come for another ceremony but because my brother came to Jakarta specifically to fetch me. He said: "Father is suffering too much. He's run out of strength. It would be better if he rested for ever. But that's not likely to happen till he sees you for the last time."

After my brother had finalized the purchase of a truck we left Jakarta for Sumatra.

Towards daybreak we reached the high plateau of wide open fields. The plain, which looked golden in the early sunlight, looked even brighter now because of the glittering morning dew.

"Where are the herds of horses now?" I asked myself. The neighing of horses, which symbolized the freedom of the plains and the strength of these mountains, became louder in my memories. We had traveled for tens of kilometers, yet we had not seen a single horse. Times had changed but the road was still not asphalted. It was only hardened with rocks.

Horses, the lake, the wilderness, hills soaring to the sky, sunburnt humans counting the passing ages by generations, measuring their suffering against their happiness in making sacrifices for their children and weighing their love by the viscidity of the mud in the rice field. Father was determined not to die until he had seen me.

We stopped at a village in the middle of a forest and I was introduced to the residents. Family. Blood relatives, descendants of the nth generation from the same ancestor. Welcome.

I gave a child a ball that I had actually bought for the children of my relatives in the village.

"Any news about Father?" my brother asked them.

"Nothing yet," several of them answered.

"But luckily he's here now," one of them remarked, with a glance in my direction.

We came across a lumber truck in the middle of the forest, but no one was around. My brother hit the horn of the Land Rover. From somewhere in the forest, axes resounded several times in acknowledgement. Ships in the mist calling out to each other, a melody carrying a message. We drove on without comment.

A little while later my brother said, "That was what's-his- name's truck. Father's alright," he then added.

"How do you know?" I asked.

"That truck wouldn't be up into the mountains if something were the matter with him," he answered. "The whole western area and Samosir Island are also ready for Father's celebration."

He meant Father's death and the great funeral ceremony that would be held after.

"It will last four days and four nights," he said. "Seven days is too long for a celebration nowadays. Four days should be enough time for all the relatives from all over Batak Land to come to the party. A telephone-courier system has been set up so that when Father dies the news of his death can be spread quickly."

As we descended to the valley by the lake we saw some villagers carrying firewood and lumber.

"That is the shopkeeper who is in charge of building the temporary shelters," my brother commented. "It will be like a fair with thousands of people coming from all over."

*****

"All six of you are now here in front of me," Father said after the evening meal.

My youngest brother translated Father's words after reading the mumbling lips of his toothless mouth. Anything we had to say to Father had to be spoken into his ear slowly and loudly.

We sat cross-legged in a semicircle around him, we brothers awaiting Father's words.

"This is the first time that you are all here together," he then said, referring to my presence. "I will present you with a feast. So find one of the buffaloes of our forefathers from the mountains."

We brothers looked at one other in silence, muted not only by the solemnity of the message, but also by a practical question: how was one to capture a wild buffalo in the mountain wilderness, in the space of only one night?

Father was referring to the tens of wild buffaloes, remnants of the herd of hundreds of our forefathers had bequeathed to him. The herd was a source of draught animals and of meat for feasts. But to capture one was difficult and usually took several days. First you had to search the jungle to find the herd, then you had to find the animal most suitable for the purpose.

Father had made it clear that our ceremonial feast must take place the next day.

My eldest brother suggested allowing another day, but when this was passed on to Father, he curtly answered "I said tomorrow."

Father then asked to be put to bed. He was tired.

The next morning Father smoked the cigar I had bought for him and he drank the milk sent by a relative from Jakarta. On that day, like on any other day, people came from near and far to see him. Some brought an offering of food for Father, to reciprocate for blessings received, just as if Father were a holy man. Father signaled his acceptance of the offerings with a touch of his hand, but ate nothing. When babies were placed in his lap to be blessed, he caressed their headbands and smiled happily.

He requested a boiled egg from one old woman. A bottle of sulfur water from somebody else. Limes to make his bath water fragrant from yet another person. Everybody set out to fulfill his requests. They ran home to their villages, happy that they were able to fulfill Father's final requests. It was only later that I realized that their happiness was due to Father's generosity. Father knew that the villagers were poor and he made it possible for them to ask for his blessings by requesting things that were still within their ability to give. He did not ask for expensive rituals.

Later that afternoon we heard cheering on the mountain slope, echoing with the sound of the Land Rover. The men had managed to find and shoot a young buffalo cow, just as Father had requested, for the offering in the sacred meal he wished to share with us, his children.

The leader of the hunt proudly reported his success to Father.

From his resting place Father cut in, "Who said that my wishes will not be fulfilled? It is you people who have no faith." Then he went to sleep.

Father was awakened that evening after the ceremonial food was ready. It consisted of all the parts of the head, chopped up and cooked together in blood: tongue, ears, brains, meat, skin, bones and the eyes. The liver was cooked whole.

My brother's daughter, the one who usually took care of him, roused him. "Grandpa, the food is ready." He was helped up from his bed and placed on the floor, leaning against the wall with a pillow supporting his back. "Are you all here?" he asked while moving his hand from left to right as if inspecting us.

"Yes, Father," said my eldest brother, already a grandfather himself.

"Where is the liver?" Father asked. One of his grandchildren pushed the plate with the steaming liver toward him. Father's favorite sharp knife was also on the plate.

"Now divide this liver into six parts," he ordered while touching the hot meat. His grandson cut the buffalo liver.

"Done, Grandpa," the grandson said. Father reached for the plate and took a piece.

"Come here," he said to us. My eldest brother came forward, then the second, the third, until finally it was my turn as the fifth son, to receive a piece of the liver of the sacrificial meat.

After waiting for each of us to finish eating our share, Father said: "You have eaten my gift of food. The six of you are my blood. And to you I command..." He paused like a minister at a religious ceremony. "To you I command what was taught by my forefathers to my grandfather, by my grandfather to my father, and by my father to me: to love one other, especially you as brothers, to help one other and to aid one other, to be united, to share your burdens..."

"Remember that there are times when one who is younger or poorer might be a better leader than you. Follow him. This is my message to you." Then he signaled that he wished to lie down again.

All present were moved by Father's words and fell silent. The local minister, who was also present, commented, "Just like in the Bible." The look on the pastor's face was one of obvious relief. He must have concluded that there had been no superstitious elements in the ceremony, something he had previously feared.

The meal proceeded cheerfully, livened up by conversation and bursts of laughter. There was happiness, harmony and peace. In the evening Father asked for hasapi players to play his favorite melodies. But when they began to play traditional songs with a modern beat, Father got angry. He asked for help to get up and go to bed. With guilty looks on their faces, the musicians shifted to playing the tunes in traditional way. Father nodded happily as he listened to the sound of the lutes. But after a while he suddenly commanded the players to stop. He lifted his face as if he were going to pronounce another message. And he did: "Tomorrow...I want to offer a prayer to the god of Pusuk Buhit!"

Everybody was startled. The prayer to the god of Pusuk Buhit, the quintessence of Batak pagan rituals, was condemned by Christian law. Imagine, paying homage to the gods of the Holy Mountain.

"Call the gondang players from Limbong," he demanded. He asked for the most famous ceremonial drum player by name, supposedly the only musician in the region still capable of correctly playing the music for the ceremony of homage to Pusuk Buhit.

Like all of Father's requests or messages, this one, too, was a command shrouded with magic overtones to people around him. And although it was difficult to ignore religious considerations, the command was nonetheless obeyed.

That night Father called for me specifically to come and sit by his resting place. He had a message for me: "The day after tomorrow you will return. Go. I know you have lots of work."

The next night, after the gondang players arrived, preparations were made for the Pusuk Buhit ceremony. A number of people, at the behest of the pastor, had tried to dissuade Father but to no avail.

The ceremony -- which I myself had never seen before and had only heard about -- was very solemn and at the same time, like all pagan rituals, frightening. Though Father himself did not eat pork, the sacrifice for the ceremony was a pig, dressed and cooked in a special way as befitting an offering to the gods.

During the ceremony all fires and lights in the village were to be extinguished. No one was allowed to cross the grounds or to go in and out of houses. All doors and windows had to be tightly closed.

The villagers knew about the ritual and, by evening, no one dared to leave his house.

At exactly seven o' clock, the gondang sounded. The darkness seemed to emphasize the eerie, mystical quality of music. Inside the house, Father, outfitted in full traditional dress, was helped to stand and lift the platter containing the sacrificial pig. He was now ready for his mystical devotion: to meet and to be united with the spirits of his forefathers, creatures far beyond the reach of earthly eyes, beyond words, even feelings, on top of Pusuk Buhit.

The next morning I took leave from Father who was lying on his sleeping place. It seemed as if Father had become a stranger to me since the previous night but, at the same time, he seemed quite close. When I took my leave I whispered in his ear, "Father, I am leaving." He nodded and dozed off again.

I started my journey home by taking the shortcut across the lake. Arrangements had been made for the boat to pick me up in the cove of the valley of the village where I was born. The boat trip would end in Prapat, a stop for busses bound for Medan.

When the boat reached the middle of the bay I looked back towards the village, which was still asleep in the haziness of the early morning.

To the right Pusuk Buhit soared clearly into the grayish blue sky. As I lit a cigarette to ward off the cold wind, it struck me for all my adult life Father had never spoken to me except for that night when he sent me off. "Go," he had said. "I know that you have lots of work."

Translated by Toenggoel P. Siagian

Sitor Situmorang was born in Harianboho, North Sumatra in 1942. He now resides in the Netherlands. His short story Holy Communion (Perjamuan Kudus) was taken from Danau Toba, Dunia Pustaka Jaya, Jakarta, 1981 and is published here by courtesy of The Lontar Foundation.