Butterflies of Bali. Victor Mason

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СКАЧАТЬ at the edge of a grove of gigantic cotton-trees, associated with the community’s pura dalem, Temple of the Dead. It was not an auspicious spot in which to seek refuge. Skirting the temple, a narrow, muddy track led through an enclosed area of cultivation towards the river valley. Before us lay the open fields. We could either retrace our steps to the nearest habitation or proceed along the way to the gorge, and thus in the general direction of home, finding presently some shed or projection in the rock which would afford protection from the storm, should such prove really necessary. As yet there was no hint of rain: our one immediate concern was to retreat from these trees in the event that lightening should strike again. We determined to press on.

      All I cared about was keeping my binoculars dry. Nothing else mattered. We hastened down the track.

      The way dipped down between moss-encrusted walls, ever more deeply and darkly, with scant room to admit anyone of above average stature. Emerging on a sudden from this claustrophobic passage, we found ourselves on the brink of an abyss. Below us the river churned and foamed in tumult, passing out of sight beneath our very feet; whilst the limit of its upper reach was shrouded in an impenetrable gray veil of advancing rain. A wooded eminence rose to obscure the southern horizon, our path descending abruptly under the sheer side of the craggy outcrop rearing ahead. There was no sign anywhere of hut or hole in which to hide. If we were to escape a soaking, then our only hope lay in making haste, the while keeping our eyes skinned for a suitable overhang or opening in the rock.

      Audible above the constant rush of river, raging in its headlong flight towards the sea, now was heard the ponderous roar of the approaching storm, relentless in its steady march and blotting out all form and movement between earth and sky. The first large spats hissed down like hail and kissed the dust.

      To the right of our path, the embankment fell away to, reveal a fault or hollow, forming a shallow valley of partly cultivated terraces. Bound on three sides by a scarp clad in dense vegetation, the lower end debouched at the river’s brink. A narrow ledge led down to the uppermost level, which appeared to terminate in a declivity hard under the overhanging cliff face. Of somewhat sinister aspect, this sunken enclave would not normally have invited closer inspection. I myself had passed it by previously, without giving it a backward glance or second thought. One had the definite feeling that it was a place to be avoided. On the other hand, our present situation was anything but normal, and with the rain now cascading around our ears, in all that rugged and remote terrain, it was the sole and more than likely last resort that seemed to offer some protection.

      “Quickly!” I shouted unnecessarily, edging slowly along the slippery, sloping ledge: “follow me, if you want to keep dry.” We were all already soaked. I had stuffed my binoculars in their purse and into my pocket: for the moment they were safe. We dropped down, on to even ground, planted with sweet potatoes. At least we were not alone in visiting this out-of-the-way spot.

      We raced over to the shelter of the concave rock, but here the ground fell away sharply at our feet, and the rain draining off the lip of the chasm fell in a cataract before us. Dodging under the stinging curtain, I had at last the satisfaction of finding myself in a space that was relatively dry. Hermione and Hector were right behind me. We stood for an indeterminate time, dripping and gasping.

      Behind us the water fell in a luminous sheet. Before us lay only a repellent and impermeable gloom. Gradually our eyes became accustomed to the dimness. A hundred feet below us, at the base of the sheer cliff face, yawned the entrance to a cave. We were perched on a steep slope, obstructed by rubble and the rotting trunks of toppled trees. Here and there naked saplings reached up from the sparse undergrowth toward the light, clinging to plausible life. Though there was no well-defined path, the way ahead was at worst negotiable.

      “What do you say?” Caves have ever held a fascination for me. They are there to be explored; and this one, for all its unappealing aspect, refused to be ignored. I turned to Hermione.

      “Rather,” she smiled at me, “I’m with you all the way.” Good girl.

      Then I noticed, with a start, the ragged bundle of bones and black feathers that had been a chicken, at my feet.

      Was this mere mishap, or sacrificial offering to appease the raksasa or demon that lurked within the cave? Hector made some crack about black magic, affecting a mockoccultist tone.

      “It is the sacred symbol of the Kabbalah for a ritual invocation,” he concluded. “Whatever you do, don’t step on it, for God’s sake, or rather that of his Satanic Majesty.”

      Whether it held some significance or not, and although it was quite plain that Hector was joking, I found myself unable to suppress a shudder. Even Hermione looked a bit grim. We threaded our way over and under and round various obstacles, until we were on a level with the mouth of the cavern.

      This was vast, far greater than it appeared when viewed obliquely from above. Roughly rectangular in shape, with apex finely vaulted, it must have been well over twenty feet in height by ten feet wide. And this was strange, the cave was evidently no natural phenomenon, but man-made. The walls and roof bore a pattern of grooves that were chiselled by the hand of man. They reminded one of the immense crayères, or quarries, now utilized as storage in Champagne, which were formerly carved from the calcareous rock by the Christian prisoners of the Roman legions two thousand years ago. Or were they—the walls of this cavern that confronted us—fashioned only by the agency of man? Had not the intervention of a superhuman force caused the sculpting of this rock? Local legend has it that each hermit’s cell and funerary tjandi in the land was originally gouged out and hollowed from the stone by the living fingernails or talons of the giant, Kbo Iwa, who was sent by Indra, Lord of Heaven, to punish mankind for its overweening arrogance, and who terrorized the earth and its inhabitants, killing and consuming them at will. Examining the structural scars and sheer dimensions of this awesome passage, it seemed a not unlikely tale.

      Surely no irrigation tunnel could have been constructed on such lines: the proportions were simply too large. Further the edifice was too meticulously sculpted, too exquisitely symmetrical: it exhibited no traces of erosion caused by water flowing through.

      To gain the entrance was no easy matter, for the lower portion of the approach became a scree, composed of fragments sheered off the cliff, and inclined at a gradient of two paces in every three or an angle of forty-five degrees. The slope seemed to terminate in a perpendicular drop of several feet; a measure that was hard to calculate precisely in a space so absolutely black. We hesitated on the edge of the void.

      Hermione broke the tangible and pregnant hush. “Watch me!” was all she said, as she slid down on her bottom, and disappeared over the side. What a gallant girl she was! Her lovely face beamed on the instant back at us, as she stood head and shoulders above the brink.

      “Piece of cake! Come on you wets!” she shouted.

      At once shamed and galvanized into action by Hermione’s taunting and salutary example, Hector and I sat down and let go simultaneously, careering down the slope to a soft landing on the cavern’s floor. The drop had been four feet at most. A minor avalanche of shale and soil, dislodged by our passage, rained down on our heads.

      “That wasn’t too terrible now, was it?” Hermione admonished. “Look ahead; there is light!”

      And indeed, peering into the recesses of that dark corridor, I perceived an area of illumination which appeared to have its source in an opening from above. Which was decidedly as well. I wondered aloud whether any one of us had had the presence of mind to bring along a flash-light. I certainly had not. Nor, it transpired, had the others. Then I remembered that I did have a box of matches in my pocket, although I knew before I attempted to strike one what the result would be. Of course the things were soaked.

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