II Haydn slowly walked towards three youths who were sitting under the shade of a huge mango tree. All three of them, well tanned youths of about twenty, smiled and one of them bekoned him to sit on the log. He did so. The Tuai Rumah was walking by, but when he saw them, he made a sharp turn and came towards them. He seated himself on the sandy ground beside Haydn.         "These three young men," he said, pointing a finger at them, "are the ones who need you, Mr. Haydn."         Hyadn nodded in agreement.         "It is going to be a hot day today, Mr. Haydn," one of the youths said, "we haven't had any rain for amany weeks. Even the river gets low."         "I agree with you."         "Ah, but when the rains ocme Jelai will complain," asserted a curly-haired youth.         "It is in such weather that people lose their temper easily," said the Tuai Rumah. "I can will remember last year when the land was dry and no rain fell, not even one drop. One of our people, a father of four children, went amok and killed his wife and doughter. He was a craftsman and he was at that time carving a figure out of blian wood. Its body had been finished, and only the head was left. That day he decided to finish it, but then the wood split in two-and just because of that, he suddenly went mad and took out his parang. It was silly."         "What happened to him in the end?" Mr. Haydn asked, interested.         "Oh, he jumped into the river when he realised what he had done. Everyone was sorry for him because he was a kind man and our best artist."         "Mr. Haydn," one of the youths said, breaking the slience which ensued, "you are going to tell us something about your belief?"         "Oh yes, perhaps I'd better start now."         The Tuai Rumah stood up and, with an apologetic look, said, "I am sorry, Mr. Haydn, but I have to go to my farm. My cucumber plants need watering or else they will die. Please carry on without me, Mr. Haydn."         When the Tuai Rumah had walked out of sight, disapperaing into the bushes, Haydn turned to the three youths.         "I'm going to tell you a short story. One day a man, a farmer, goes out to sow padi on his plot of land. As he scatters the padi seeds, some fall on the path, some on the rocky ground, some among the thorns and some into fertile soil. Which particular group of seeds do you think will grow to be harvested in the season?"         "The padi seeds which fall into the good soil, of course," one of the youths replied aloud.         "Wuite right," Haydn said. "The birds will eat the ones which fall on the path, while the ones which fall on the rocks will perhaps grow for only a while and then die. Those which fall among thorns will be choked and killed. Only those in fertile soil will grow."         He paused for a wile, looking at the interested face of his listerners, and then continued, "The padi seed is the word of God, and you must let it grow in you. You must choose to be the fertile soil."         "Ah, that is a good story. It has good meaning," the curlyhaired youth commented.         "Yes, think about it for a while."         The youths nodded. The thoughtful silence which followed was suddenly broken by the thudding sound of running feet. They looked up to see men and women and children running past them excitedly towards the other side of the longhouse.         One of the men running by called out to them, "Hey, a fight, a fight there!"         The youth Jelai immediately stood up, say, "Hey, Mer Haydn, Mr. Haydn, there is a fight going on. Come on, let's go and see it!" With that he ran off in the direction of the fight, followed by the others.         Haydn could do nothing but follow them. These youths have little patience, he thought to himself as he walked towards the scene of the fight; this is what they have been waiting for, something to break the tenseness caused by the toermenting weather.         Haydn was apparently the last person to reach the scene of the fight; a huge crowd had already gathered there. Men were talking excitedly to each other, voicing their theories and betting on who the victor will be. Children ran about, as usual, trying to penetrate the thick shield of men and women. Haydn, much taller than the rest of the spectators, found this an obvious advantage.         Inside the ring of excited spectators were two tough looking youths struggling and raining blow on each other, their brown backes wet and shining with perspiration. They rolled on the ground, legs kicking, the sand flying and the tenseness of their muscles showing. The crowd was getting more and more excited. This was no ordinary game, but a fight of life and death, Haydn decided.         Then one of the youth fell back with a thud; the other had kicked him right in the face. The fallen lad tried to raise himself up again, but his opponent was immediately on top of him. Then the Englishman realised with horror that the victor had put his hands around the loser's neck and was trying to strangle him. He was amazed when he saw that no one in the crowd would make any attempt to put an end to the violence; in fact, they were encouraging him!         Haydn knew what he had to do. He acted quickly. Without any further thought, he pushed the people in front of him aside and rushed into the ring. With the edge of this hand, he dealt the murderous youth a hard blow on the neck which sent him sprawling. Then Mr. Haydn quickly knelt beside the semi-conscious yout lying limp on the ground who was weakly gasping for breath, his chest heaving up and down. When he saw taht the youth was all right, Mr. Haydn walked towards the other youth, who had been revivied by the people and was sitting on the ground, nursing a bruise on one arm. The missionary was stunned when he saw who the youth was.         "Mawat!" he cried, after a few incredulous, speechless moments.         "I am sorry, Mr. Haydn." Mawat answered quietly. It seemed that he had just emerged from a trance.         "Why did you do it, Mawat? You... you almost... killed him!"         Mawat nodded and then said softly, "I will tell you why one day, when we are alone."         "Who is the other boy?"         "Radang, the son of the Tuai Rumah."         Once again Haydn was shocked. "The Tuai Rumah's son? Are you sure? He didn't tell me he had a son."         "Well, at least he has a father," Mawat replied sarcastically.         "Now, that's enough, Mawat. Dont't say anymore, just go and wash yourself up. Please don't"         "What is the matter here, Mr. Haydn? A fight?" a loud voice interrupted Hayd. It was the Tuai Rumah.         Haydn replied quickly, "Yes, a fight-between your son and Mawat. I'm sorry, Bertelai."         "Radang again? Where is he?"         Haydn turned. Radang was walking in the direction of the longhouse, his hand rubbing away the sand which coayed his sweat-covered body. The Tuai Rumah looked at the distant figure for a while and then turned to Haydn.         "You can carry on with your work, Mr. Haydn. I can only blame Radang for this fight."         "Your never told me you have a son, Bertelai."         "That is because I am sorry to have for may son." [Back] [Index] [Next]