He reached the gates of an old and neglected temple, the Pura Dalem, the Temple of the 
Dead. The ancient structure stood between a flaking-walled Dutch apartment house and the 
'Rumah Maka Rama,' the Rama restaurant. Its towers and arches were draped with dense, 
entangled creeper, and here it was darker and more silent than in any other part of the 
street. Along the front wall, stone carvings of devils and demons glared with hideous 
faces bearing long tusks. The gateway was guarded by the effigies of Rangda, the Witch 
Widow, and Barong Keket, the Lord of the Forests. Their grotesque bodies were thick with 
moss and their limbs were girded with flowering vines.
  The girl in the tight red satin skirt called across the street, 'Are you lonesome, 
young Charlie?'
  But Michael said, 'Tidak,' which meant 'No.'
  'Mungkin nanti, Charlie?' the girl asked in the same flat tone. 'Maybe later?'
  Michael nodded to show that he had heard her, but he walked without hesitation up to 
the corroded green copper gates of the Pura Dalem and turned the heavy handle. He pushed 
his bicycle inside and then closed the gates behind him. He was in deep silence here, 
except for the distant ripping echo of a moped. Oil lamps flickered and smouldered, 
although the outer courtyard through which Michael had entered remained shadowy and oddly 
dark. The temple had been looted during the grisly days of the puputan, the great 
suicidal struggle against the Dutch, and the few thatched pavilions that surrounded the 
courtyard had long since collapsed, leaving nothing but their white skeletal framework. 
The stone flooring was slippery with moss.
  Michael left his bicycle by the outer gate and crossed the courtyard until he reached a 
smaller gateway embossed with flowers and figures of beasts and guarded by the twin 
monkey giants of Hanuman. This was the paduraksa, the door to the inner courtyard, the 
gateway to the Kingdom of Death itself.
  There was no need for Michael to open the inner door, or even to knock. The high priest 
always anticipated his arrival and would toll the temple bell three times: three flat, 
dull, oval-shaped chimes that would reverberate through the temple like the disapproving 
voice of a demon. A flock of mynah birds scattered into the night from the overhanging 
frangipani trees and then quickly settled again.
  The gates opened and there stood thepedanda, the high priest, his smallness and frailty 
still surprising after five years. He wore a white headdress of knotted cotton, no 
grander than an ordinary temple priest would have worn, and he was wrapped in simple 
white robes, almost as if he were ready to be cremated. Michael had often tried to guess 
how old he was but it was impossible to say for sure; the little man was so thin and 
wizened, with eyes as impenetrable as pebbles and a wispy white beard. Beneath his 
wrappings his body seemed to have no substance at all, like the body of a fragile, 
mummified bird.
  'Selamat malam, Michael,' thepedanda nodded, lightly pressing the palms of his hands 
together. 'Good evening.'
  'Selamat malam, Pak,' Michael replied.
  The pedanda turned without ceremony and led the way into the inner courtyard. There 
stood four earthenware braziers, one set at each corner, smoking with incense. The priest 
appeared to almost float through the smoke as if his feet never touched the ground.
  'Ada sesuatu yang menjusahkan?' the pedanda asked without turning around. His voice 
betrayed a hint of amusement. He wanted to know if Michael felt there was anything wrong.
  'An old man tried to stop me when I was cycling along Jalan Kartini. He said some 
strange things.'
  'Ah,' said the pedanda. He raised one hand. His fingernails had grown so long that they 
twisted like corkscrews.
  His head was angled in an odd way, somehow indicating to Michael that he was pleased.
  'The old man sensed your readiness,' the pedanda explained.
  'Am I really ready?' Michael asked.
  'Do you have any doubts?'
  Incense wafted between them, rolling over in the heavy night air. Michael said, 'Yes, 
naturally I have doubts. Didn't you have doubts before you did it for the first time?'
  'Of course,' replied the pedanda. He had taught Michael to always question him. 'But I 
had to throw away my doubts. Just as you will have to throw away yours.' He paused for a 
moment and then said, 'Silakan duduk.'
  Michael obeyed, walking across to the centre of the courtyard where two frayed silken 
mats had been laid out. Carefully, so that he would not wrinkle the silk, he sat down 
cross-legged, his back rigidly straight and the palms of his hands held outward.
  'Tonight you will take your first steps into the world of the spirits.' said the 
pedanda. He did not join Michael straight away as he usually did, but stood watching him 
with stony eyes, his hands still lightly pressed together as if he were holding a living 
butterfly between them. What shall I do now? Release the butterfly, or crush it to death?
  Michael shivered, although he had always promised himself that when the pedanda 
announced that this evening had finally arrived, he would accept it without fear and 
without sentimental feelings. He had every right to feel afraid, however, because the 
culmination of his tutorship under the pedanda would mean that he could see and talk to 
any of the dead whom he chose to, just as clearly as if they were still living.
  He had every right to feel sentimental too, because once he had seen the dead - once he 
was able to enter that trancelike state that was the necessary vehicle to such difficult 
explorations - he would become a priest himself, and after that, he would never see the 
pedanda again. The pedanda had taught him everything he could. Now it would be Michael's 
turn to seek out evil and walk among the ghosts of Bali's ancestors.
  The pedanda had never shown him any fatherly affection, for all that Michael called him 
Pak. On the contrary, he had often been persnickety and brittle-tempered, and he had even 
given Michael penances for the slightest mistakes. And when Michael's father had died, 
the pedanda had been unsympathetic. 'He is dead? He is lucky. And besides, when you are 
ready, you will meet him again.'
  All the same, a strong unspoken understanding had grown up between them, an 
understanding that in many ways was more valuable to Michael than affection. It was 
partly based on mutual respect, this understanding, and partly on the mystical 
sensitivity they shared, a faculty that enabled them both to enter the dream worlds of 
the deities. They had experienced the reality of the gods at first hand through the 
trancelike state known in its less highly developed form as sanghyang, during which a man 
could walk on fire or stab himself repeatedly with sharp-bladed knives and remain unhurt.
  'You say nothing,' the pedanda told him. 'Are you afraid?'
  'Tidak,' Michael said. 'No.'
  The pedanda continued to stare at him without expression. 'I have told you what to 
expect. As you enter the world of the dead, you will also be entering the world of the 
demons. You will encounter the leyaks, the night vampires who are the acolytes of Rangda. 
You will see for yourself the butas and the kalas, those who breathe disease into the 
mouths of babies.'
  'I am not afraid,' Michael said. He glanced at the pedanda quickly, a sideways look, to 
see his reaction.
  The pedanda came closer and leaned over Michael so that the boy could smell the curious 
dry, woody smell the priest always seemed to exude.
  'Very well, you are not afraid of leyaks. But suppose you came face to face with Rangda