‘In the confrontation between the stream and the rock, the stream always wins – not through strength but by perseverance.’
– H. Jackson Brown Jr (1940 – Present); an American author best known for his book ‘Life’s Little Instruction Book’, which is a collection of advice, observations, and life lessons aimed at guiding readers to lead more fulfilling lives.
In my recollections stretching back to the 1950s, the life of my people, particularly the men, revolved around the harmony of two contrasting yet indispensable pursuits: hunting and farming.
Their days began before the sunrise when the sky was a canvas of muted blues and pinks. Deprived of firearms due to government restrictions, they relied on their trusty machetes (and occasionally spears), during their hunts in the forest for elusive game.
But they were not just hunters; they were also farmers, tending to the soil that yielded sustenance for their families. From dawn till dusk, they toiled in the fields, nurturing the crops that would feed their loved ones through the changing seasons.
Central to both their roles was a humble yet essential tool — their sharpening stones. Passed down through generations, these weathered stones were their constant companions, their surfaces worn smooth from years of use. With skilled hands, they meticulously sharpened their hunting knives and farming implements, ensuring they remained keen and ready for their respective tasks.
Without their sharpening stones, their lives would have been fraught with difficulty. Dull blades were next to useless in the unforgiving wilderness; a blunt knife could mean the difference between a successful hunt and returning empty-handed, or worse, injured. Similarly, in the fields, blunt tools would slow their work to a crawl, diminishing their yield and threatening the livelihood of their families.
My father epitomised the farmer-hunter during my upbringing from the 1950s to the early 1970s. I recall one crisp morning when I accompanied him on a brief hunt, not as a full participant, but as a learner. He informed my mother that I was “still too young and too small” to do a man’s job.
Midway to one of his favourite trapping grounds, disaster struck. His knife slipped from his grasp, fell down a slope and hit a rock, chipping and blunting the blade. Reflexively, he let out some choice expletives as he realised the gravity of his predicament. He explained without looking at me that without a sharp blade, we could neither hunt nor fend off potential dangers in the jungle.
Without hesitation, he scrambled down the slope and scoured the forest floor for his lost knife. Just when hope seemed fleeting, his eyes caught sight of a glimmer amidst the dead leaves on the forest floor. There, nestled among the roots of an ancient tree, lay his knife.
Further along the jungle path, by a trickling spring, he retrieved his sharpening stones from his backpack and set to work. With practised precision, he restored the edge of the blade until it gleamed once more, ready for action. With renewed determination, we resumed our hunt and set traps.
As the seasons cycled, I observed how my father continued to walk the delicate balance between his dual roles as hunter and farmer. Through bountiful harvests and lean seasons, his sharpening stones remained his steadfast allies, ensuring that his blades remained sharp and his tasks achievable.
Amidst the ebb and flow of life on the farm and in the jungle, the bond between him and his sharpening stones endured, which from time to time evoked an ancient tale of a “mother” rock that only adepts, who possessed special knowledge and skills, could chip or split for making sharpening stones. A blade honed on such a stone could maintain its edge for an exceptionally long time, impervious to rust.
During my childhood in the late 1950s, an elderly visitor to our farmhouse, situated deep within the jungle, recounted this mystical tale. He claimed his great-grandfather knew a wizard guarding the location — a cave — where these stones were found.
It eventually came to light that the rock in question was not a solitary entity. The cave was nestled within this special rock’s heart, yielding the coveted sharpening stones. However, the rock’s formidable hardness prevented easy splitting or breaking into smaller pieces suitable for crafting such stones.
Legend has it that only the wizard knew the precise words required to petition permission from the mystical forces to extract pieces of the rock, one at a time. Without this permission, all endeavours were destined to fail. It was said that despite determined efforts, no one had located the cave. This was attributed to some mystical force concealing it. It was visible only to the guardian wizard.
Just before his demise, the wizard entrusted the secret to his most senior apprentice, purportedly an acquaintance of the great-grandfather of the elderly man who visited our farm. Regrettably, this keeper of the spell hailed not from our village but from a nearby one. In his youth, he frequented our village, particularly during Gawai Dayak, to socialise with friends. However, as time went by, his visits dwindled.
Sadly, the spellkeeper met a sudden tragic end. Nobody was with him when he died. Those who found his body deduced that he fell upon a knife that he had just sharpened with one of the special stones. The knife was stuck to his chest when they found him outside his farm hut, already cold and stiff.
Upon collecting his belongings, his friends did not find any of his sharpening stones. They were baffled because he always had at least one of them ready for use. Years later, rumours surfaced about a young man in another village who was said to own a similar stone, albeit a miniature one, worn around his neck as a pendant. However, no one that I knew could verify whether there was a kernel of truth in the rumours.
For me, the tale did not just fade into obscurity easily for I was once close to a woodworker who had many sharpening stones. While I was in elementary school, I used to spend many late afternoons, weekends, public holidays, and school holidays observing and helping the rather reclusive man who spent an awful lot of time sharpening his tools. Due to his almost obsessive love for woodworking, I nicknamed him Uncle Wood.
At times, he seemed to spend as much time sharpening his tools as working on his projects. He had a special tool-sharpening corner where he kept various kinds of stones that he collected from various places.
One day, when I jokingly said that surely, he had at least one of the mystical sharpening stones, he smiled and countered by saying that if I looked hard enough, I might find one at the sharpening station.
After lunch and while enjoying a homemade cigarette, he suddenly said, “I suspect that the spellkeeper was murdered.”
“What!?” I replied, shocked but all ears at the same time. “Do you think that the story is true?”
“Of course, it is true,” he said.
“How come nobody found the cave till today?”
“Maybe people have been looking in the wrong places,” he said.
“Or maybe it never exists. But why do you think the spellkeeper was murdered?”
“Someone took his stones,” he said. “How come all his stones disappeared?”
“Were the stones worth killing for?” I asked.
Instead of answering, he took out from inside a large wooden chest a smaller box, inside of which were the most beautiful slabs of rock I had ever seen in my life. Using my thumb, I estimated the size — about a foot long, three inches wide and three inches thick. There were two of them.
“Wow! Look at the streaks of colours! Where did you get them?”
“They belonged to my grandfather. After he died, my grandmother gave them to me.”
“Are these from the cave, you think?”
“What do you think?” he asked back.
Uncle Wood always sidestepped my questions about the origin of the stones. Thinking about it now, maybe I didn’t push for answers because, back then, my interests lay elsewhere and Uncle Wood’s mysticism seemed less urgent than school and other aspects of life clamouring for my attention.
Be that as it may, in the time I spent with him, I learned the art of honing blades with sharpening stones.
While Uncle Wood took years to teach himself the proper ways of sharpening blades, I achieved it in a relatively short time because I learned from the master.
He taught me about the various types of sharpening stones, such as soaking water stones before using them and applying oil when using oil stones.
He even had wooden honing guides to maintain the correct angles when holding the blade against a stone. This angle varies depending on the type of blade and its intended use. For most kitchen knives, a 15- to 20-degree angle is common.
By ‘angle’, I mean that was how I understood his lessons. Uncle Wood never spoke of angles because he was semi-literate. Instead of measuring, he had angled bits of wood to set the tilt of his blades.
Grinding was my main weakness because I was rather impatient and inconsistent. Uncle Wood taught by example the need for gentleness and consistency when gliding a blade across a stone.
To this day, whenever I desire, I still have the skill of sharpening a blade until it is sharp enough to shave the hair on my arm or slice a thin sheet of paper. I must say it is a handy skill to have especially when it comes to maintaining the kitchen knives scary sharp to please the wife.
The views expressed here are those of the writer and do not necessarily represent the views of the New Sarawak Tribune.
