The average stay-at-home Englishman knows very little about the Malay, and cares less. Any fragmentary ideas that he may have concerning him are, for the most part, vague and hopelessly wrong. When he thinks of him at all, which is not often, he conjures up the figure of a wild-eyed, long-haired, blood-smeared, howling and naked savage, armed with what Tennyson calls the 'cursed Malayan crease,' who spends all his spare time running Âmok. As a matter of fact, Âmok are not as common as people suppose, but false ideas on the subject, and more especially concerning the reasons which lead a Malay to run Âmok, are not confined to those Europeans who know nothing about the natives of the Peninsula. White men, in the East and out of it, are apt to attribute Âmok running to madness pure and simple, and, as such, to regard it as a form of disease, to which any Malay is liable, and which is as involuntary on his part as an attack of smallpox. This, I venture to think, is a mistaken view of the matter. It is true that some Âmok are caused by madness, but such acts are not peculiar to the Malays. Given a lunatic who has arms always within his reach, and the result is likely to be the same, no matter what the land in which he lives, or the race to which he belongs. In independent Malay States everybody goes about armed; and weapons, therefore, are always available. As a consequence, madmen often run Âmok, but such cases are not typical, and do not present any of the characteristic features which distinguish the Âmok among Malays, from similar acts committed by people of other nationalities. By far the greater number of Malay Âmok results from a condition of mind which is described in the vernacular by the term sÂkit hÂti—sickness of liver—that organ, and not the heart, being regarded as the centre of sensibility. The states of feeling which are described by this phrase are numerous, complex, and differ widely in degree, but they all imply some measure of anger, excitement, and mental irritation. A Malay loses something he values; he has a bad night in the gambling houses; some of his property is wantonly damaged; he has a quarrel with one whom he loves; his father dies; or his mistress proves unfaithful; any one of these things causes him 'sickness of liver.' In the year 1888, I spent two nights awake by the side of RÂja Haji Hamid, with difficulty restraining him from running Âmok in the streets of Pekan, because his father had died a natural death in SelÂngor. He had no quarrel with the people of Pahang, but his 'liver was sick,' and to run Âmok was, in his opinion, the natural remedy. This is merely one instance of many which might be cited, and serves to illustrate my contention that Âmok is caused, in most cases, by a condition of mind, which may result from either serious or comparatively trivial causes, but which, while it lasts, makes a native weary of life. At such times, he is doubtless to some extent a madman—just as all suicides are more or less insane—but the state of feeling which drives a European to take his own life makes a Malay run Âmok. All Malays have the greatest horror of suicide, and I know of no properly authenticated case in which a male Malay has committed such an act, but I have known several who ran Âmok when a white man, under similar circumstances, would not improbably have taken his own life. Often enough something trivial begins the trouble, and, in the heat of the moment, a blow is struck by a man against one whom he holds dear, and the hatred of self which results, causes him to long for death, and to seek it in the only way which occurs to a Malay—namely, by running Âmok. A man who runs Âmok, too, almost always kills his wife. He is anxious to die himself, and he sees no reason why his wife should survive him, and, in a little space, become the property of some other man. He also frequently destroys his most valued possessions, as they have become useless to him, since he cannot take them with him to that bourne whence no traveller returns. The following story, for the truth of which I can vouch in every particular, illustrates all that I have said:In writing of the natives of the East Coast, I have mentioned that the people of TrenggÂnu are, first and foremost, men of peace. This must be borne in mind in reading what follows, for I doubt whether things could have fallen out as they did in any other Native State, and, at the time when these events occurred, the want of courage and skill shown by the TrenggÂnu people made them the laughing stock of the whole of the East Coast. To this day no TrenggÂnu man likes to be chaffed about the doings of his countrymen at the Âmok of BÎji Derja, and any reference to it, gives as much offence as does the whisper of the magic words 'Rusty buckles' in the ears of the men of a certain cavalry regiment.

When Baginda Ümar ruled in TrenggÂnu there was a Chief named To’ BentÂra Haji, who was one of the monarch's adopted sons, and early in the present reign the eldest son of this Chief was given the title of DÂto’ KÂya BÎji Derja. At this, the minds of the good people of TrenggÂnu were not a little exercised, for the title is one which it is not usual to confer upon a commoner, and JÛsup, the man now selected to bear It, was both young and untried. He was of no particular birth, he possessed no book-learning—such as the TrenggÂnu people love—and was not even skilled in the warrior's lore which is so highly prized by the ruder natives of Pahang. The new To’ KÂya was fully sensible of his unfitness for the post, and determined to do all that in him lay to remedy his deficiencies. He probably knew that, as a student, he could never hope to excel; so he set his heart on acquiring the Ëlemu hÛlubÂlang or occult sciences, which it behoves a fighting man to possess. In TrenggÂnu there were few warriors to teach him the lore he desired to learn, though he was a pupil of Tungku Long PendÊkar, who was skilled in fencing and other kindred arts. At night-time, therefore, he took to haunting graveyards, in the hope that the ghosts of the mighty dead—the warriors of ancient times—would appear to him and instruct him in the sciences which had died with them.

Women are notoriously perverse, and To’ KÂya's wife persisted in misunderstanding the motives which kept him abroad far into the night. She attributed his absences to the blandishments of some unknown lady, and she refused to be pacified by his explanations, just as other wives, in more civilised communities, have obstinately disregarded the excuses of their husbands, when the latter have pleaded that 'business' has detained them.

At length, for the sake of peace and quietness, To’ KÂya abandoned his nocturnal prowls among the graves, and settled down to live the orderly domestic life for which he was best fitted, and which he had only temporarily forsaken when the SultÂn's ill-advised selection of him to fill a high post, and to bear a great name, had interrupted the even tenor of his ways.

One day, his father, To’ BentÂra Haji, fell sick, and was removed to the house of one Che’ Äli, a medicine man of some repute. To’ KÂya was a dutiful son, and he paid many visits to his father in his sickness, tending him unceasingly, and consequently he did not return to his home until late at night. I have said that this was an old cause of offence, and angry recriminations passed between him and his wife, which were only made more bitter because To’ KÂya mistook a stringy piece of egg, in his wife's sweetmeats, for a human hair. To a European, this does not sound a very important matter, but To’ KÂya, in common with many Malays, believed that a hair in his food betokened that the dish was poisoned, and he refused to touch it, hinting that his wife desired his death. Next night he was also absent until a late hour, tending his father in his sickness, and, on his return, his wife again abused him for infidelity to her. He cried to her to unbar the door, which, at length, she did, using many injurious words the while, and he, in his anger, replied that he would shortly have to stab her to teach her better manners.

At this she flew into a perfect fury of rage, 'Hei! Stab then! Stab!' she cried, and, as she shouted the words, she made a gesture which is the grossest insult that a Malay woman can put upon a man. At this To’ KÂya lost both his head and his temper, and, hardly knowing what he did, he drew his dagger clear and she took the point in her breast, their baby, who was on her arm, being also slightly wounded. Dropping the child upon the verandah, she rushed past her husband, and took refuge in the house of a neighbour named Che’ Long. To’ KÂya followed her, and cried to those within the house to unbar the door. Che’ Long's daughter Ësah ran to comply with his bidding; but, before she could do so, To’ KÂya had crept under the house, and he stabbed at her savagely through the interstices of the bamboo flooring, wounding her in the hip. The girl's father, hearing the noise, ran out of the house, and was greeted by To’ KÂya with a spear thrust in the stomach which doubled him up, and, like Abner Dean of Angel's, 'the subsequent proceedings interested him no more.' Meanwhile, To’ KÂya's wife had rushed out of the house, and returned to her home. Her husband pursued her, overtook her on the verandah, and stabbed her through the breast, killing her on the spot.

He then entered his house, which was still tenanted by his son, and his mother-in-law, and set fire to the bed curtains with a box of matches. Now, the people of KuÂla TrenggÂnu dread fire more than anything in the world; for, their houses, which are made of very inflammable material, jostle one another on every foot of available ground. When a TrenggÂnu man deliberately sets fire to his own house, he has reached the highest pitch of desperation, and is 'burning his ships' in sober earnest. At the sight of the flames, To’ KÂya's son, a boy of about twelve years of age, made a rush at the curtains, pulled them down, and stamped the fire out. To’ KÂya's mother-in-law, meanwhile, had rushed out of the house, seized the baby who still lay on the verandah, and set off at a run. The sight of his mother-in-law in full flight was too much for To’ KÂya, who probably owed her many grudges, and he at once gave chase, overtook her, and stabbed her through the shoulder. She, however, succeeded in making good her escape, carrying the baby with her. To’ KÂya then returned to his house, whence his son had also fled, and set it afire once more, and this time it blazed up bravely.

As he stood looking at the flames, a Kelantan man named Äbdul Rahman came up and asked him how the house had caught fire.

'I know not,' said To’ KÂya.

'Let us try to save some of the property,' said Äbdul Rahman, for, like many Kelantan natives, he was a thief by trade, and knew that a fire gave him a good opportunity of practising his profession.

'Good!' said To’ KÂya, 'Mount thee into the house, and lift the boxes, while I wait here and receive them.'

Nothing loth, Äbdul Rahman climbed into the house, and presently appeared with a large box in his arms. As he leaned over the verandah, in the act of handing it down to To’ KÂya, the latter stabbed him shrewdly in the vitals, and box and man came to the ground with a crash. Äbdul Rahman picked himself up, and ran as far as the big stone mosque, where he collapsed and died. To’ KÂya did not pursue him, but stood looking at the leaping flames.

The next man to arrive on the scene was Pa’ Pek, a TrenggÂnu native, who, with his wife Ma’ Pek, had tended To’ KÂya when he was little.

'Wo’,' he said, for he spoke to To’ KÂya as though the latter was his son, 'Wo’, what has caused this fire?'

'I know not,' said To’ KÂya.

'Where are thy children, Wo’?' asked Pa’ Pek.

'They are still within the house,' said To’ KÂya.

'Then suffer me to save them,' said Pa’ Pek.

'Do so, Pa’ Pek,' said To’ KÂya, and, as the old man climbed into the house, he stabbed him in the ribs, and Pa’ Pek ran away towards the mosque till he tripped over the prostrate body of Äbdul Rahman, fell, and eventually died where he lay.

Presently, Ma’ Pek came to look for her husband, and asked To’ KÂya about the fire, and where the children were.

'They are still in the house,' said To’ KÂya, 'but I cannot be bothered to take them out of it.'

'Let me fetch them,' said Ma’ Pek.

'Do so, by all means,' said To’ KÂya, and, as she scrambled up, he stabbed her as he had done her husband, and she, running away, tripped over the two other bodies, and gave up the ghost.

Then a TrenggÂnu boy named JÛsup came up, armed with a spear, and To’ KÂya tried to kill him, but he hid behind a tree. To’ KÂya at first emptied his revolver at JÛsup, missing with all six chambers, and then, throwing away the pistol, he stabbed at him with his spear, but in the darkness he struck the tree. 'Thou art invulnerable!' he cried, thinking that the tree was JÛsup's chest, and, a panic seizing him, he promptly turned and fled. JÛsup, meanwhile, made off in the opposite direction as fast as his frightened legs would carry him.

Seeing that he was not pursued, To’ KÂya returned, and went to Tungku Long PendÊkar's house. At the alarm of fire, all the men in the house—Tungku Long, Tungku Îtam, Tungku Pa, Tungku Chik, and Che’ Mat Tukang—had rushed out, but all of them had gone back again to remove their effects, with the exception of Tungku Long himself, who stood looking at the flames. He was armed with a rattan-work shield, and an ancient and very pliable native sword. As he stood gazing upwards, quite unaware that any trouble, other than that involved by the conflagration, was toward, To’ KÂya rushed upon him and stabbed him with his spear in the ribs. For a long time they fought, Tungku Long lashing To’ KÂya with his little pliable sword, but only succeeding in bruising him. At length, To’ KÂya was wounded in the left hand, and almost at the same moment he struck Tungku Long with such force in the centre of the shield that he knocked him down. He then jumped upon his chest, and, stabbing downwards, as one stabs fish with a spear, pinned him through the neck. Tungku Îtam, who had been watching the struggle as men watch a cock-fight, without taking any part in it, then ran away. To’ KÂya passed out of the compound, and Che’ Mat Tukang, running out of the house, climbed up the fence and threw a spear at To’ KÂya, striking him in the back. Che’ Mat then very prudently ran away too.

To’ KÂya, passing up the path, met a woman named Ma’ Chik—a very aged, bent, and feeble crone—and her he stabbed in the breast, killing her on the spot. Thence he went to the compound of a pilgrim named Haji Mih, who was engaged in getting his property out of his house in case the fire spread. Haji Mih asked To’ KÂya how the fire had originated.

'God alone knows,' said To’ KÂya, and so saying, he stabbed Haji Mih through the shoulder.

'Help! Help!' cried the pilgrim, and his son-in-law Saleh and four other men rushed out of the house and fell upon To’ KÂya, driving him backwards in the fight until he tripped and fell. Then, as he lay on his back, he stabbed upwards, striking Saleh through the elbow and deep into his chest. At this, Saleh and all the other men with him fled incontinently. To’ KÂya, then picked himself up. He had not been hurt in the struggle, for Saleh and his people had not stayed to unbind their spears, which were fastened into bundles, and, save for the slight wounds in his hand and on his back, he was little the worse for his adventures.

He next went to the Makam Lebai SalÂm—the grave of an ancient Saint—and here he bathed in a well hard by, dressed himself, and eat half a tin of Messrs. Huntly and Palmer's 'gem' biscuits, which he had brought with him. Having completed his toilet, he returned to Haji Mih's house and cried out:

'Where are those my enemies, who engaged me in fight a little while agone?'

It was now about 3 A.M., but the men were awake and heard him.

'Come quickly!' he shouted again, 'Come quickly, and let us finish this little business with no needless delay.'

At this, ten men rushed out of Haji Mih's house, and began to throw spears at him, but though they struck him more than once they did not succeed in wounding him. He retreated backwards, and, in doing so, he tripped over a root near a clump of bamboos and fell to the earth. Seeing this, the men fancied that they had killed him, and fear fell upon them, for he was a Chief, and they had no warrant from the SultÂn. Thereupon they fled, and To’ KÂya once more gathered himself together and returned to Lebai SalÂm's grave, where he finished the tin of 'gem' biscuits.

At dawn he returned to Haji Mih's house. Here he halted to bandage his wounds with the rags of cotton that had been bound about some rolls of mats and pillows, which Haji Mih had removed from the house at the alarm of fire. Then he shouted to the men within the house to come out and fight with him anew, but no one came, and he laughed aloud and went on down the road till he came to Tungku Pa's house. Tungku Pa and a man named SemÄil were in the verandah, and when the alarm was raised that To’ KÂya was coming, Tungku Pa's wife rushed to the door, and bolted it on the inside, while her husband yammered to be let in.

When To’ KÂya saw him, he cried to him as he would have cried to an equal:

'O Pa! I have waited for thee the long night through though thou camest not. I have much desired to fight with a man of rank. At last we have met, and I shall have my desire.'

SemÄil at once made a bolt of it, but To’ KÂya was too quick for him, and as he leaped down, the spear took him through the body, and he died. Then Tungku Pa stabbed down at To’ KÂya from the verandah and struck him in the groin, the spear head becoming bent in the muscles, so that it could not be withdrawn. Now was Tungku Pa's opportunity, but instead of seizing it and rushing in upon To’ KÂya to finish him with his kris, he let go the handle of the spear, and fled to a large water jar, behind which he sought shelter. To’ KÂya tugged at the spear, and at length succeeded in wrenching it free, and Tungku Pa, seeing this, broke cover from behind the jar, and took to his heels. To’ KÂya was too lame to attempt to overtake him, but he cried out:

'He, Pa! Did the men of old bid thee fly from thy enemies?'

Tungku Pa halted and turned round. 'I am only armed with a kris, and have no spear as thou hast,' he said.

'This house is thine,' said To’ KÂya. 'If thou dost desire arms, go up into the house, and fetch as many as thou canst carry, while I await thy coming.'

But Tungku Pa had had enough, and he turned and fled at the top of his speed.

'Hah! Hah! Hah! Ho! Ho! Ho!' laughed To’ KÂya. 'Is this, then, the manner in which the men of the rising generation fight their enemies?'

Seeing that Tungku Pa was in no wise to be tempted or shamed into giving battle, To’ KÂya went past the spot where the body of Ma’ Chik still lay, until he came to the pool of blood which marked the place where Tungku Long PendÊkar had come by his death. Standing there, he cried to Tungku Îtam who was within the house:

'O Tungku! Be pleased to come forth if thou desire to avenge the death of Tungku Long, thy cousin. Now is the acceptable time, for thy servant has still some little life left in him. Hereafter thou mayst not avenge thy cousin's death, thy servant being dead. Condescend, therefore, to come forth and fight with thy servant.'

But Tungku Îtam, like Gallio, cared for none of these things, and To’ KÂya, seeing that his challenge was not answered, cried once more:

'If thou will not take vengeance, the fault is none of thy servant's,' and, so saying, he passed upon his way.

The dawn was breaking grayly, and the cool land breeze was making a little stir in the fronds of the palm trees, as To’ KÂya passed up the lane, and through the compounds, whose owners had fled hastily from fear of him. Presently, he came out on the open space before the mosque, and here some four hundred men, fully armed with spears and daggers, were assembled. It was light enough for To’ KÂya to see and mark the fear in their eyes. He smiled grimly.

'This is indeed good!' cried he. 'Now at last shall I have my fill of stabbing and fighting,' and, thereupon, he made a shambling, limping charge at the crowd, which wavered, broke, and fled in every direction, the majority rushing into the enclosure of Tungku Ngah's compound, the door of which they barred.

One of the hindermost was a man named Genih, and to him To’ KÂya shouted:

'Genih! it profits the RÂja little that he gives thou and such as thee food both morning and evening! Thou art indeed a bitter coward.[10] If thou fearest me so greatly, go seek for guns and kill me from afar off!'

Genih took To’ KÂya's advice. He rushed to the BÂlai, or State Hall, and cried to Tungku MÛsa, the SultÂn's uncle and principal adviser:

'Thy servant To’ KÂya bids us bring guns wherewith to slay him.'

Now, all was not well in the BÂlai at this moment. When the first news of the Âmok had reached the SultÂn, all the Chiefs had assembled in the palace, and it had been unanimously decided that no action could be taken until the day broke. At dawn, however, it was found that all the Chiefs except Tungku PanglÎma, To’ KÂya DÛyong, PanglÎma DÂlam, ImÂm Prang LÔsong, and PahlÂwan, had sneaked away under the cover of the darkness. Tungku MÛsa, the SultÂn's great uncle, was there to act as the King's mouthpiece, but he was in as great fear as any of them.

At last the SultÂn said:

'Well, the day has dawned, why does no one go forth to kill To’ KÂya BÎji Derja?'

Tungku MÛsa turned upon Tungku PanglÎma, 'Go thou and slay him,' he said.

Tungku PanglÎma said, 'Why dost thou not go thyself or send PahlÂwan?'

PahlÂwan said, 'Thy servant is not the only Chief in TrenggÂnu. Many eat the King's mutton in the King's BÂlai, why then should thy servant alone be called upon to do this thing?'

Tungku MÛsa said: 'ImÂm Prang LÔsong, go thou then and kill To’ KÂya.'

'I cannot go,' said ImÂm Prang, 'for I have no trousers.'

'I will give thee some trousers,' said Tungku MÛsa.

'Nevertheless I cannot go,' said ImÂm Prang, 'for my mother is sick, and I must return to tend her.'Then the SultÂn stood upon his feet and stamped.

'What manner of a warrior is this?' he asked, pointing at Tungku PanglÎma. 'He is a warrior made out of offal!'

Thus admonished, Tungku PanglÎma sent about a hundred of his men to kill To’ KÂya, but after they had gone some fifty yards they came back to him, and though he bade them go many times, the same thing occurred over and over again.

Suddenly, old Tungku DÂlam came hurrying into the palace yard, very much out of breath, for he is of a full habit of body, binding on his kris as he ran. 'What is this that men say about To’ KÂya running Âmok in the palace? Where is he?' he cried.

'At the Mosque,' said twenty voices.

'Ya Allah!' said Tungku DÂlam, 'They said he was in the palace! Well, what motion are ye making to slay him?'

No one spoke, and Tungku DÂlam, cursing them roundly, sent for about forty guns, and, leading the men himself, he passed out at the back of the palace to Tungku Chik PÂya's house near the mosque, where To’ KÂya still sat upon the low wall which surrounds that building. When he saw Tungku DÂlam, he hailed him, saying:

'Welcome! Welcome! Thy servant has desired the long night through to fight with one who is of noble birth. Come, therefore, and let us see which of us twain is the more skilful with his weapons.'

At this, Mat, one of Tungku DÂlam's men, leaped forward and said, 'Suffer thy servant to fight with him, it is not fitting, Tungku, that thou shouldst take part in such a business.'

But Tungku DÂlam said: 'Have patience. He is a dead man. Why should we, who are alive, risk death or hurt at his hands?' Then he ordered a volley to be fired, but when the smoke had cleared away, To’ KÂya was still sitting unharmed on the low wall of the mosque. A second volley was fired, with a like result, and then To’ KÂya cast away the spear he still held in his hand, and cried out: 'Perchance this spear is a charm against bullets, try once more, and I pray thee end this business, for it has taken over long in the settling.'

A third volley was then fired, and one bullet struck To’ KÂya, but did not break the skin. He rubbed the place, and leaped up crying: 'Oh! but that hurts me, I will repay thee!' and, as he rushed at them, the men fell back before him. With difficulty Tungku DÂlam succeeded in rallying them, and, this time, a volley was fired, one bullet of which took effect, passing in at one armpit and out at the other. To’ KÂya staggered back to the wall, and sank upon it, rocking his body to and fro. Then a final volley rang out, and a bullet passing through his head, he fell forward upon his face. The cowardly crowd surged forward, but fell back again in confusion, for the whisper spread among them that To’ KÂya was feigning death in order to get at close quarters. At length a boy named SÂmat, who was related to the deceased Ma’ Chik, summoned courage to run in and transfix the body with his spear. Little cared the DÂto’ KÂya BÎji Derja, however, for his soul had 'past to where beyond these voices there is peace.'He had killed his wife, Che’ Long, the Kelantan man Äbdul Rahman, Pa’ Pek, Ma’ Pek, Tungku Long PendÊkar, Ma’ Chik, Haji Mih, and SemÄil; and had wounded his baby child, his mother-in-law, Che’ Long's daughter Ësah, and Saleh. This is a sufficiently big butcher's bill for a single man, and he had done all this because he had had words with his wife, and, having gone further than he had intended in the beginning, felt that it would be an unclean thing for him to continue to live upon the surface of a comparatively clean planet. A white man who had stabbed his wife in the heat of the moment might not improbably have committed suicide in his remorse, which would have been far more convenient for his neighbours; but that is one of the many respects in which a white man differs from a Malay.

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