Holy Communion

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.