“But then I don’t see of what use I can be.”
“Well, a Pangareran never goes on his errand without being accompanied by a priest, who recites prayers; and, my dear Arab, that branch belongs to you now.”
The Walloon gave a pull to his turban, meditated for a few seconds and said,
“But I thought the Dayaks were heathen. A Mohammedan prayer will be quite out of place.”
“Most Pangarerans are Malays, consequently Mohammedans. You know that no Dayak is allowed to catch a crocodile.”
“Why not?”
“Because Djata, brother to Mahatara, the god of Dayaks, is [[68]]the father of all crocodiles. Not for all the riches in creation would a Dayak kill one of these monsters unless compelled to do so by blood-vengeance, that is, when one of his relatives, friends or neighbors has been devoured. Then he pays a Malay to kill the culprit.”
“But how do they discover the real culprit? In these waters there is no lack of crocodiles.”
“It is quite certain that in such a hunt many an innocent son of Djata does perish, but the Dayaks don’t seem to mind that so much. They don’t abandon the hunt until they have caught one in whose interior they find some of the remains of the victim. Do you remember the time when that dear little Dayak girl, little Biengies, was taken away by a crocodile at Fort Kwala Kapoeas? I think we killed about fifty of these monsters then, until at the end of six weeks we caught a huge fellow in whose stomach was found a closely packed tuft of human hair and the brass bracelets which the girl had worn. That brought the hunt to a conclusion.”
“Don’t I remember it? Did I not assist the Javan soldiers to boil the fat out of their carcasses to burn in their lamps at night? And how soft that fat was, even softer than the finest lard. I meant to save a little for my chilblains.”