Koyala's Ultimatum
The house of Lkath, chief of the Sadong Dyaks, stood on a rocky eminence at the head of Sabu bay. The bay is a narrow arm of the Celebes Sea, whose entrance is cunningly concealed by a series of projecting headlands and jealously guarded by a triple row of saw-tooth rocks whose serrated edges, pointed seaward, threaten mischief to any ship that dares attempt the channel.
Huge breakers, urged on by the southeast monsoon, boil over these rocks from one year's end to the next. The headlands drip with the unceasing spray, and at their feet are twin whirlpools that go down to the very bowels of the earth, according to tradition, and wash the feet of Sangjang, ruler of Hades, himself. Certain it is that nothing ever cast into the whirlpools has returned; certain it is, too, say the people of Bulungan, that the Sang-sangs, good spirits, have never brought back any word of the souls of men lost in the foaming waters.
In their rocky citadel and rock-guarded harbor the Sadong people have for years laughed at their enemies, and combed the seas, taking by force when they could, and taking in trade when those they dealt with were too strong for them. None have such swift proas as they, and none can follow them into their lair, for only the Sadong pilots know the intricacies of that channel. Vengeful captains who had permitted their eagerness to outrun discretion found their ships in the maelstrom and rent by the rocks before they realized it, while the Sadongers in the still, landlocked waters beyond, mocked them as they sank to their death.
Two days after Koyala had reported the murder of the Sadonger to Peter Gross a swift proa approached the harbor. Even an uncritical observer would have noticed something peculiar in its movements, for it cut the water with the speed of a launch, although its bamboo sails were furled on the maze of yards that cluttered the triangle mast. As it neared the channel its speed was reduced, and the chug-chug of a powerful gasoline motor became distinctly audible. The sentinel on the promontory gesticulated wildly to the sentinels farther inland, for he had distinguished his chief, Lkath, at the wheel.
Under Lkath's trained hand the proa skipped through the intricate channel without scraping a rock and shot the length of the harbor. With shouts of "salaamat" (welcome) the happy Sadongers trooped to the water-front to greet their chief. Lkath's own body-guard, fifty men dressed in purple, red, and green chawats and head-dresses and carrying beribboned spears, trotted down from the citadel and cleared a space for the voyagers to disembark from the sampans that had put out for them.
As the royal sampan grounded, Lkath, with a great show of ceremony, assisted out of the craft a short, heavy-jowled Chinaman with a face like a Hindoo Buddha's. A low whisper of awe ran through, the crowd—this was the great Datu himself. The multitude sank to its knees, and each man vigorously pounded his head on the ground.
The next passenger to leave the sampan was the Rajah Wobanguli, tall, a trifle stoop-shouldered, and leering craftily at the motley throng, the cluster of houses, and the fortifications. A step behind him Captain Van Slyck, dapper and politely disdainful as always, sauntered along the beach and took his place in one of the dos-à-dos that had hastened forward at a signal from Lkath. The vehicles rumbled up the hill.
When they neared the temple that stood close to Lkath's house at the very summit of the hill an old man, dressed in long robes, stepped into the center of the band and lifted his hand. The procession halted.
"What is it, voice of Djath?" Lkath asked respectfully.