CHAPTER XXXII
We landed next morning at Tumpat, thus far justifying faith, for nothing noteworthy was visible from our anchorage. Tumpat is on the present main channel of the delta of the Kelantan, a river which changes its mind about its channels now and then; and from Tumpat crossed the river to Kota Bharu, the capital of the native state of Kelantan, where its Sultan resides. To have such a name, and a Sultan, and to be placed on the shore of the China Sea in such a light, should be enough for any town. From what I could see of it, one might do well at Kota Bharu. It has a rest-house, a rambling and capacious building of timber, where I thought it would be easy to stay for so long that one might forget to go. Near my bedroom wild bees had a home behind a beam, and I could sit and watch a living brown fresco moving its pattern on the planks of the wall. Next door to the bees was a colony of wasps. No courtesies were exchanged. The bees never went to the wasps, though the wasps occasionally came to look at the bees, but never stayed long, for the disapproval of the bees was instant, though they did not appear to resent some little tricks I played on them. While watching the bees one afternoon a chichak, a small gecko who lives on the walls and ceilings of every house and attends to the flies and moths, slid out of a crack about a yard from the bees. He seemed astonished by so great a number of flies, and lifted himself on his hands to get a better view of them. He was obviously puzzled, and instead of his usual lightning dash he made a slow and careful approach to within a few inches of a bunch of the bees. Then he remained as still as the graining of the wood, till a bee happened to walk toward him. He fled back to his crack like the flick of a whip.
My friend I had found in the ship, whose name may be Smith, told me, however, that this was no time to watch flies. I must go to a Chinese shop and buy frying pans and provender, while he went to the Sultan’s prime minister, or chancellor, or caliph, to obtain a mandate which would require the local chiefs to regard us friendly-wise.
That afternoon, by invitation, we saw a bull-fight, at which the Sultan and his court were present. The Malays of Kelantan, their disposition being entirely happy, delight in the fighting of bulls, buffaloes, rams, cocks, and fish. The Sultan, it was whispered, keeps registers of all the fighting animals in the state, is regularly informed of their condition, and arranges the tournaments. This was one. It was a sparkling festival. But for those fighting bulls, I should never have seen so many of the ladies of Kota Bharu. The massed colors of their silk sarongs and head scarfs were emphatic and influential. Each bull seemed to be hidden within the ambush of a rainbow; from his happy seclusion he sent out his distracting shrill challenges. They were humped cattle, small but athletic, with brass or silver guards to the points of their horns. Their hoofs were polished. Their coats played like satin with the light. They were haughty. To the caresses which would have won the coldest rajah they were massively indifferent. They appeared to know that their part in the show was not love, and to sternly reject it. The favorite was a little black animal. He was quiet, even sleepy. He submitted to the shampooing of his coat and the massaging of his limbs with the proud nonchalance of a popular champion. Children might play with him, and they did. And while the children played, the bookmakers gave the picture a familiar touch of Epsom Downs. Malays are dour and irreclaimable gamblers, and I found that to share this human failing no knowledge of the vernacular is necessary. The betting was two to one on the champion.
The two bulls for the first round were led by their men into a large inclosure. There for a space they were fondled in opposite corners, while, so far as I could see, good advice was whispered earnestly into their ears. The guards to their horns were removed, and a man from each went over to inspect the sharp horns of the other animal, probably for poison. Then a gong droned, and the comely gladiators were marched to face each other at a distance of about fifty yards. The gong crashed, and the crowd raised the shrill and fearful Malay war cry. Each bull exploded in a cloud of dust.
The Fighters Stood with Horns Interlocked, Waiting for Each Other to Move
I felt at that moment a spasm of apprehensive indignation at the cruelty of it; but the bulls understood each other. It was all right. Anyhow, one bull understood the other. The little champion appeared to be outmatched. He kept carefully his front on feet as nimble as a cat’s, but was pushed about the field. I felt I could only wait for his end. There were sharp convulsive onsets, or the fighters stood with horns interlocked, waiting for each other to move. But I noticed each time that it was the big aggressive fellow who moved first. Once the two fighters separated—gazed round calmly at us while their flanks heaved—ignored each other—showed clearly that this was fun and that they had had enough of it. But the war cry aroused them, and the cry rose an octave when they met in the shock of another charge. The champion stumbled at the impact. His opponent instantly became distinctly savage and more active, and the bookmakers thereupon raced round the inclosure, offering three to one on the champion, which I thought was ridiculous logic. The champion was bleeding at the shoulder. He was tired and was in retreat. Once or twice now, when their horns were mingled and they stood with their muzzles to the ground for a breathing space, like statues, watching each other, I thought I observed that the little fellow experimented with his challenger. He appeared to test him with a modest feint or two. Yet this only inflamed to fury his enemy, who drove him backward again straddle-legged over a dozen yards or so.
This happened once too often. At the end of one of these retreats the little champion played some caper. I do not know what. I could not see it. It was instantaneous. But there the big bull was, on his ribs, and his enemy’s armed front was prodding his belly, daring him to move. The beaten bull, lately so aggressive, did not move. Once he raised his head, and if there was not in his eyes a pathetic appeal to let him off, then I do not know that expression. The champion understood it, like the gentleman he was. He turned away his head, as though he had forgotten something, and on the instant the defeated gladiator was on his feet and trotting away briskly to his corner.