Ghost Night

Midnight.

Wildly drives Si Dòlak Dòlai, the Evil Wind, through the deep ravines of the Marápi.

He came from across Lake Singkarak, where wild, short waves still trace his trail. He had gone hunting up Fire Mountain, wiping away the plume of steam above the crater, red with reflections blaze of fire, and now he wheels down the mountain into the plain of Agam.

He drives before him the lashing rain, the savage who the roots of the ficus break off like thread, which the humblest herb who digs up the grain, who lifts the nuts from the rice granaries of men...


In the deep, dark night the kampong sleeps motionless and silent,
Hidden in bamboo forests and palm crowns.
But whipping, lashing, wild hunt, comes roaring wind and rain,
And suddenly a flash of lightning flashes through the black
That all lights up the darkness of just now.

The bamboo bends and groans, old coconut leaves fall dully,
In the dark house all was quiet, but the rooster crows horribly,
Who thought lightning was the glow of the sun.

Scared groan of waking girl
And presses himself against mother...
“Oh, mother, mother, listen to these terrible sounds...
“Listen, mother, dear mother, why does our rooster crow?”

“Quiet child, sleep tight, and snuggle up against your mother;
“And do not be afraid of what you hear,
“In our kintjir [11] they pound rice... the Orang Boenian...”

Sei ruhig, bleibe ruhig, mein Kind,
In the wind blowing through the wind...

"Oh, mother, listen! That deep sound, what can it be?
“That which shouts and screams above in the ravine?”

“Be quiet, my dear, and press yourself against Mother...
“Over there they are celebrating and the gong is ringing... the Orang Boenian”.

My father, my father, and my heart?
Sei ruhig, bleibe ruhig, mein Kind...