the
butterflies
of Bali
By the same author
THE HAUGHN TOAD AND OTHER
TALES FROM BALI
SILIH DALIH TALE OF BALI
BALI HASH
BIRDS OF BALI
BALI BIRD WALKS
the
butterflies
of Bali
a novel by
VICTOR MASON
To Annie and Stephen
“These be the pretty genii of the flowers,
Daintly fed with honey and pure dew.”
Hood
Published by Periplus Editions (HK) Ltd.
Copyright © 1992 Victor Mason
Publisher
Eric M. Oey
Design
Allard de Rooi
Distributors
Singapore & Malaysia: Periplus (S) Pte. Ltd.
61 Tai Seng Avenue, #02-12 Singapore 534167
Indonesia: C.V. Java Books, Jl. Rawa Gelam IV No. 9
Kawasan Industri Pulogadung Jakarta 13930, Indonesia
[email protected] www.tuttlepublishing.com
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
ISBN 0-945971-61-3
ISBN 978-1-4629-1488-3 (ebook)
CONTENTS
the
butterflies
of Bali
PART I
Chapter I
A Curious Encounter
I CAN NO LONGER recall the exact date, but I retain the most vivid recollection of my first encounter with Hector.
It was on the night known as tilem, the name given by the Balinese to the black night which falls every thirty days or so between the old and new moons. The night of the black moon. Only the sounds of night and nature penetrated the potent stillness of the air; creaking of crickets and croaking of frogs, and intermittent hicket of the scops owl; and always the swish and gurgle of running water, and distant dinning of the dogs.
Descending the first short flight of steps in my path from paddy-field to main irrigation artery, I became on a sudden aware of another noise, quite apart from the nocturnal chorus and distinctly preternatural in quality, which seemed to emanate from the stream below. Its author was clearly human and in a condition of some discomfiture, since it consisted in a string of spluttered expletives and guttural interjections, the like of which I had seldom if ever heard before. I directed the beam of my flash-light to the source.
Floundering, half-immersed in the turbid flow, on hands and knees before me, was the figure of a man, clad in off-white shirt and gray trousers, seemingly somewhat the worse for wear. I hailed him;
“Hullo there! Do you want some help?”
The thrashing ceased, and upturned face peered, squinting in the light towards me. There was a discernible pause. Somewhere behind me, I could hear the scops owl call.
Then:
“Bloody hell no!” came the sputtered response, “I’m perfectly all right. But give us a hand anyway, would you?
The apparition held out a dripping palm, whilst I knelt down and leant over the steep embankment to proffer mine. The next thing I knew I was sitting in the water beside him. My torch must have fallen in with me. We remained there, motionless, in the swirling current and impenetrable inky blackness—I, in aggrieved and stony silence: he, choking with uncontrollable laughter. At length he calmed himself, then addressed me with no show of sympathy whatever.
“You clot!” he simply said, “what on earth did you do that for?”
“I was only trying to help,” I offered feebly. And as I spoke, it occurred to me that I ought to be enraged and that I should express myself accordingly. Yet there was nothing unkind or even condescending in his manner. In fact his next remarks failed altogether to surprise me.
“I know you were,” he said. “I think I must be a bit stoned,” which was merely stating what was manifest. “Since I don’t know you,” he continued, “I’m sure you will not object if I apologize. You