The courtyard of Datuk Long Mahmud’s house had been transformed into a vast open stage with a raised platform to seat more than a hundred guests. Young coconut palms and cut banana trees laden with bunches of half-ripened fruit lined the sides of the platform. Long garlands of coconut fronds, intricately woven with white jasmine, pink frangipani and red hibiscus, were strung between the trees, their scents mingling with the bold pungency of curry and spices. Large earthern pots of spicy beef rendang, lemony fish assam, peppery chicken soto and rice were being cooked over open fires.
The day before, the courtyard had been the scene of a mass slaughter of goats and fowl, with the women shooing away eager curious children. Kampong folk from miles around had come to help in the wedding of the Datuk’s daughter, pounding chillies, chopping onions and grinding spices. Now they were stirring cauldrons of curries and fragrant rice, all the while chatting with friends and neighbours, joking with the menfolk and screaming at the urchins. Young maids, teased by young men, fanned the fires and sweated over vats of hot oil frying banana fritters and other savouries.
Glints of the morning sun danced among the coconut fronds as a warm breeze wafted through this busy happy scene in the compound. The women’s chatter and the children’s shouts of boisterous laughter danced up the steps of the Datuk’s residence, waltzed through the doorways and down the woodpanelled corridors, wriggling through the wooden shutters, till the sounds of their merriment brought a smile to the Datuk’s lips. His bedroom was an oasis of peace and quiet compared to the rest of the house. He had completed his morning prayers hours ago when the muezzin’s call to prayer rang out from the mosque.
“Allah is great. Allah is merciful. Blessed be His name,” he murmured under his breath, thinking what a great match he had made for the daughter of his first wife.
“Send for Datuk Ibrahim,” he ordered the maid kneeling patiently by the doorway. “For you,” he added, handing her a trinket of gold for her services the night before.
“Thank you, my lord! Thank you for your generosity! Your unworthy slave thanks her lord and master!” The girl, overwhelmed by his gift, kissed his hand and hurried off to search for Ibrahim.
He leaned back against the cushions on the matted floor with an air of complete satisfaction. His daughter’s wedding to the son of the menteri of Larut would be the start of a grand alliance. Insya Allah, may it lead to an increase in his influence in the royal court for the good of Perak!
From the window of his bedroom, the future of Bandong Valley appeared bright and sunny, filled with the bounty of the land. The fragrance of aromatic spices wafted in on a light warm breeze. His satisfaction was immeasurably heightened at the sight of Musa Talib walking into the compound with the headman of the White Cranes. The handsome sum he was about to receive from Tai-kor Wong would defray the cost of the wedding and pay for his own ambition. He was worried about the intense rivalry between the White Cranes and the Black Flags. These Chinese leaders were no fools, he thought. Like the barbaric white men, they would grab what they could for themselves. He felt the pressure to do the same, or else he would lose out to other chiefs. Yet he was a descendant of Bugis warriors, not a man of greed. He hoped Bandong Valley would continue to prosper in peace with the tin mined by the Chinese, the taxes collected by his penghulus and the harvests brought in by his farmers and slaves, every man knowing his place under the sun so that the English would have no excuse to take over his beloved valley.
Reports had reached him from the south about how English gunships had bombarded the forts of many Malay chiefs, to stop them from collecting taxes from English-owned vessels passing through their stretch of the river. He had no intention of letting those thieves and their mighty cannons rob him of his heritage. A chief had the right to collect taxes as he pleased, where he pleased and from whom he pleased. A right granted by the sultan! Which almighty spirit had given the English thieves the right to interfere in this country? To take over the land in the name of peace?
By the time Ibrahim entered the bedroom, the Datuk’s air of satisfaction and contentment had fled.
“Honoured Father, please accept your unworthy son’s greeting. May Allah shower His blessings and grace upon your lordship.” Ibrahim’s lips lightly brushed his extended hand.
“Thank you, my son. May Allah bless you. Sit down. I’ve something important to tell you, because one day, Insya Allah, you’ll take my place.”
“My honourable Father will live for many years, I hope,” Ibrahim murmured, his dark eyes following his father.
Datuk Long Mahmud took out a rolled parchment from a wooden chest and handed it to Ibrahim.
“Read it before you accompany your sister to Larut tomorrow.”
Ibrahim unrolled the document which bore the seals of the sultan of Negeri Perak and his heir, the raja muda.
Be it known that, after due consideration and deliberation with our princes and chiefs, we confirm our bestowal of Bandong Valley, a Province of this Negeri Perak, which we had previously bestowed upon his father, and which we now bestow upon Datuk Seri Long Mahmud and his heirs, to be governed by them and to become their property.
Ibrahim looked up and saw that his father was watching him closely.
“Read on so that you’ll know that this valley is ours forever.”
A cockfight was about to begin in the compound, and his friends were waiting for him. His cockerel, a ferocious male with the talons of a killer, was going to win the fight today. But a well-bred warrior should never reveal his feelings. So Ibrahim hid his impatience, finished reading and handed the document back to his father.
His father rolled up the document and returned it to the chest. Then he spoke in a soft measured voice, like an old seer who had just seen the future.
“I fear there will be unrest in our land. Blood will be spilled and honourable men will die. It’s bound to be so when more than one covets the throne of our land. But I didn’t call you in here to speak to you about trouble. I wish to speak to you about learning.”
Ibrahim fixed his dark eyes upon his father’s face. The Datuk had never spoken to him like this before. He sensed the portentous nature of this talk and listened intently.
“Our world is changing, my son. Ever since the Portuguese set foot on Malacca, the white men have spread like a white disease up and down our land. The Portuguese and the Dutch have departed, but the English predators have taken their place. Their traders are full of greed and lies, and they’ve ships armed with guns and cannons. Many chiefs had to give up their rights to land and mines before such a mighty power. The sultan will not and cannot fight the white predators. My son, we have the blood of warriors and chiefs coursing through our veins. This land is our land. Even if the world changes, this will not change. But a menteri these days cannot hold his own against the white predators. Many have learned to speak our tongue and turn our words against us. My son, I would like you to learn their tongue and read their writings. So we will know for sure that what they say to us in our tongue is the same as what they write into their books in their own tongue.”
“Where will I learn this?”
“In Pulau Pinang. Musa Talib and Che’ Wong of the White Cranes are our good friends. They will take you there. Che’ Wong’s father-in-law, Baba Wee, will make all the necessary arrangements. You’ll stay with his family and attend school with his grandchildren. He’s given me his word that he will look after you.”
“Sparrows live with sparrows; hornbills live with hornbills. If it pleases my honoured Father, your son would rather stay here with you and his own people. Pulau Pinang belongs to the white men now.”
“But it’s important for my son to learn the ways of the white people so that he can guard the land of his forefathers.”
“Honoured Father, your son understands you completely,” Ibrahim answered with a sinking heart.
“May Allah bless and protect you always. We’ll receive our visitors. Come.”
They went out to the airy covered verandah and settled down on the cushions. Ibrahim, his heart heavy with the news he had just received, longed to run off and join the other boys in the compound. He could see that his younger stepbrothers were already up to their monkey tricks, kicking up the dust and chasing one another. How he envied them!
He was going to miss Bandong Valley. The valley with its jungles was his playground. He knew every pond, stream and river by name. Every aged teak or jelutong tree, every big rock or promontory had a story which he had heard from childhood. He had grown up knowing every jinn and spirit that might harm or help him. With one or two companions, he had often pursued the thrill of the hunt, joined in the singing of the winds from the hills and crouched with the silence of the bush waiting for his prey.
“I know you will miss home, my son,” Datuk Long Mahmud said softly.
He turned to watch the antics of his younger sons by his two young wives who were commoners of no consequence; for them he need not plan anything. They and their kind would depend on the generosity of the future menteri, like so many others before them. He did not give them another thought and laughed heartily when one of the boys fell to the ground.
“The boy’s never still. Like a monkey.”
The boy who had fallen was soon howling for vengeance. He punched one of his brothers, and a fight broke out. Ibrahim stood up.
“Let them fight, my son. These boys fight one another as often as they play.”
Like their mothers, he thought. These commoners would squawk and scratch like fowl in a coop, but not the daughter of a raja bendahara. Her blood was noble and her breeding superior. He had to admit that his first wife had brought up Ibrahim well. Ibrahim would never roll in the dust with the other boys. His mother had taught him to carry himself like a leader and a warrior of noble blood. His heart swelled with pride when he thought of how, one day, Ibrahim would speak to the English in their own tongue and hold his own against their scheming and plotting.
“Come, let’s eat.”
He gave the serving girl a smile and was pleased when she lowered her eyes most becomingly and blushed. Slave girls appeared charmingly delicate from afar, like a bloom up in the tree. But when one had picked them, their charm wilted, and they turned coarse like his two commoner wives, who quarrelled daily over their sons.
A sudden crash in the next room cut short his musing. He looked up, his face an ugly scowl.
“Who dares make such a racket while I’m eating?”
Before any of his slaves could reply, there were screams and shouts in the compound.
“The Chinese are killing us!”
Ibrahim sprang to his feet. He had caught the gleam of metal through the bushes. “Run!” he yelled at his siblings.
“Guards! Guards!”
Ibrahim sprinted down the steps of the verandah. Women were rushing around in the compound like hens gathering chicks before an attacking hawk. Ibrahim spied Musa Talib and Tai-kor Wong running towards his father just as the crack of a gunshot rang out from the bushes. Musa Talib lurched forward, ran a few steps and fell, arms and legs splayed out.
Tai-kor Wong plunged into the dense vegetation for cover. Then he ran into one of the nearby houses and out again through the back, yelling at the top of his voice in Malay.
“Black Flags! The Hakka Black Flags are attacking us!”
He dived for cover again just as a spear whistled inches from his face. He fell to the ground and crawled on his belly through the thick lallang. Another spear found its mark and a Malay guard crashed heavily onto him.
Armed Hakka miners were smashing through the Datuk’s defences and swarming into the compound. The Malay villagers and guards were fighting back with whatever weapons they could lay their hands on.
The White Crane miners, caught by surprise, were joining in the melee. But in the noise and confusion, it was hard to tell White Cranes and Black Flags apart. In their panic, the Malay villagers were hacking at all Chinese in their path.
Down by the river, a group of the Datuk’s warriors were storming through a Chinese mob, their gleaming parangs slicing the grass shields of the miners. But a boatload of Black Flag coolies soon outnumbered and overwhelmed the Malay soldiers. They fired volley after volley of gunshots from the boat and set fire to the jetty.
In the village centre, another Black Flag mob surrounded Kuala Bandong’s only police station. The beleaguered police guards tried to fend off their attacks, but a fiery arrow hissed through the air and landed on the station’s attap roof in a burst of flames. The policemen fled. More Black Flags fanned out and set fire to several houses along the waterfront.
“Kill the rapists!” the Black Flag leader roared.
“Kill the pigs!” the captain of the Malay guards rallied his soldiers as they fended off their attackers valiantly.
Swords and parangs clashed amidst the overturned pots of curries and open fires. The leader of the Black Flags charged up the steps to the verandah. Without a moment’s hesitation, the Datuk pulled out his dagger and hurled it in an arc. It hit the Black Flag leader in the neck and he fell, rolling down the steps. Two other fighters immediately leapt up the steps to take their leader’s place. They lunged at the Datuk with their swords. He leapt backwards out of their way, but not before one of them had stabbed him in the shoulder as he fought off the other with his long kris. Ibrahim rushed to his father’s aid. The Datuk shoved him aside.
“Go save your mother and sister!”
Several Black Flags were climbing over the balustrade. The Datuk swung around with the sharp instinct of a warrior. Swiftly he threw himself to one side of the sword coming at his throat but was knocked off balance. An arrow ripped into the Black Flag’s back. The Datuk tried to scramble away, but the fallen fighter caught hold of his leg and brought him crashing to the ground. With a violent kick, he broke free. A second Black Flag lunged at him with axe held high. Another arrow whistled through the air and hit him in the chest. The man dropped his axe and howled with rage and pain as he tore at the arrow’s shaft. A second arrow pierced the Black Flag in the throat. Blood gushed out of his mouth. Eyes wide with fear and shock, he choked and crashed forward. A third Black Flag jumped into the battle and slashed the Datuk on the arm. His kris fell out of his hand. The Black Flag hacked down wards, but a timely spear pierced him in the belly. Tai-kor Wong pulled the Datuk out of the way.
“Follow me!” he shouted in Malay.
A roar of gunfire burst forth from the mosque. Hundreds of Malay warriors poured into the compound. The Black Flags, seeing that they were outnumbered, fled from the scene.
“Praise be to Allah, Che’ Wong! These are the soldiers of my son-in-law!”