by Victor Mahn
It was indeed a terrifying experience, when the jungle seemed to have a life of its own and darkened the jungle floors in a matter of seconds. And the snicker, which almost sounded like a nefarious laugh, could not be associated with any tribal unit surrounding the camp; the pitch was too high, Rickety cringed. Perhaps it was devised electronically, processed and amplified by the Japanese, out trying to play tricks on them, dampening their spirits in what they deem to be a losing war? There was also a flock of songbirds around the camp—perhaps it was such a bird screeching?
There had been reports in their initial days in the camp of some supernatural entities being present about the jungle, said to cause harm or to assist the tribes—and the reports also mentioned that it was best to steer clear of several of the ‘hotspots’ in which these entities seemed to exist. At the very least (the report surmised), the Allied Forces were to be seen to be respectful of the cultures and traditions of the local populace, something which the Japanese did not do. Anyhow, the members of the camp were convinced that this was mere skulduggery to ward off anyone from exploiting the gold mines in Borneo. Plus, there were other reports of Japanese ships sailing through the South China Sea with gold bullion as their primary cargo. Rickety, together with some of the other company personnel, thought it would be worthwhile to pursue these ships as soon as they left the harbour where they had berthed.
“Sir, it is coming from the place!” Annand exclaimed. He was circumspect to not mention the plot of land that they used as a grave site. Several of the wounded had died over the past few months, either from malaria, dysentery, a fatal gunshot wound; and there was even a case of severe dehydration.
The four of them were studying the graves, of which only one had a proper tombstone, made of a thick plank of redwood (gathered from deep within the jungle). The sound did seem to emanate from the place—more accurately, within several yards beyond it, toward the first line of trees forming the periphery of the jungle ahead.
The folklore of the local tribes was riddled with superstitious elements. There had been talk of a flowering plant which seemed to have sprung up about the graves. In the local dialect, it is called lidah jin; a direct translation would be the Jinn’s tongue. It is believed that the Jinns are not always spiritual beings, but sometimes take on physical forms and are able to be tactile with the surroundings. It added to the eeriness. The probabilities of the weird giggle emanating from that place!
“At ease, man! Probably a hornbill or a monkey. They do make some strange noises,” Rickety said, unsure of it himself. It is most likely a bird—these jungles have some exotic types none of us have seen. “I need a drink of water.”
Limbuang held Rickety by his right arm, motioned him to stop. Another murmuring to Ambiau, some sign of acknowledgment, then the translation: “It will come tonight. It wants the baby, there is a need for it. A purpose it needs to fulfil.”
“The forest spirit?” Annand asked, stuttering.
“No. This is something else. Something—” Ambiau was unwilling to finish the statement. Goddamned superstitions!
CHAPTER THREE
My people, from the tales and accounts that my father told me so long ago, are of a brave disposition, Annand-Sri tried to assuage his sudden feelings of jitteriness. We certainly do not tremble for a scream in the jungles! But then again… that shriek, banshee-like and unworldly…
Mists of metal-burning scents had been observed by everyone in the camp for as long as they were there, with the crashing of aerial bombs onto the trucks and tanks and shell casings and tins of food and water canteens—anything that was made of metal. And that states the matter quite clearly. Mettle, of my people. The fumes of it are evident for centuries now. We are not to be done away with so easily. And that would be my resolve, too. I need to be steadfast…
He began grinding his teeth as he sped up on his way to his tent, which was right at the centre of the camp. There was no pattern to how the tents had been set up. Quite unlike the deciphering of intercepted Japanese codes, whereby there was some sort of pattern in which one could discern and then spell out the hidden message, of who-knows-what. The tent set ups were, by design, a web of unaccustomed chaos, for reasons of who-knows-what. Well, someone would know, at any rate. Maybe.
With his pulse steadier now, he rolled his thoughts back into a decipherable stream of mental pictures so that he could make sense of it, and to allay his fears of the jungle he was in. And of the odd events of the day, which may or may not get any worse. Now, let’s see. What do I know of the situation?
Before he could focus on the subject, he thought of the year before, when he was in his village of birth in India, and of his childhood and teenage years. These images need not be feared, he thought, though some of them did seem to have elements capable of haunting someone throughout their days. Though I believe that everyone has something haunting them, something in their childhood or from their days of youth.
He was seventeen when he decided to join the armed forces. He reasoned that he wanted to help rid the land of the Imperialists, who had practised every stripe of tyranny known to man in all their conquered nations. Several days after making that decision, he realised that he wanted to fight bullies: bullies who think they are better than most. Better than all. Well, well, you have me to contend with, then you can decide if you still want to be a bully. Or devolve into shame and oblivion.
Annand-Sri’s family had been large, for almost everyone in that village was connected—either a blood-relation or made a relation through the union of marriage into the family. The main industry of the place had been jewel-making, and they had been adept in cutting and polishing and shaping every type and weight of gemstone that is in existence, from rubies to opals to diamonds. Wealth was an element that was rooted amongst them, and several of his uncles had used it to win the allegiance of politicians and policemen alike; and he suspected that they had been stepping into illegal domains as well. The craving for power among men is something Annand-Sri had encountered first hand in that village where he dwelt for the first seventeen years of his life.
His village seemed to have been dropped from the Devalokas right onto the earth, and the state of Assam, which was at the north-eastern corner of India, was a part of the Bengal region, with the Bay of Bengal at its apex. He surmised in his adolescent years that the earth he was walking on was ruled and owned by many kings, from different kingdoms and dynasties, from the Varman to the Pala and the late-era Kamarupa kings. Vivid childhood imaginations had been a driving force, and he ecstatically walked alongside ceremonial throngs when news of a victory was announced, listened attentively to battle plans being discussed in secret meetings in hidden chambers behind the palace walls, and even invited nuptial ideas that would befit a prince. When the variance between reality and fantasy became too minute – as it must be confessed that it most often did come to be – the trail of issues that soon followed would not be easily deflected.
When he got home from his high school (that was in a neighbouring village) one sunny afternoon, his only maternal uncle, standing at the front gate of the house with its large front compound, made an announcement that a bride had been earmarked for Annand-Sri. He said that the family was gathered in the hall right then, and that he would need to quickly remove his school uniform and put on the Jippa and long white pants that were already ironed and neatly placed on his bed.
“Well, dear nephew, though the country is at war and machetes are being swung in every possible direction, younglings would still need to be married and have families. Life must go on, don’t you think?” His uncle’s reasoning was just the sort of thing his mother would have said. In fact, Annand knew it was his mother who had said it and had planted the seed of that notion in her brother’s ears. Oh, how well the seed is beginning to germinate…
“But, Uncle, I have other things to do! I want to study law, like Gandhi-ji, and help win cases for others who need it! I do not want to get married!”
“Nephew, d
o not be foolish. You are of the proper marrying age, and the girl your mother had chosen will be right for you. Even your father concedes to that fact. The girl, and the time, is right. And you will be sitting for your state examinations in a month’s time, then you will be doing nothing but fiddling with your thumbs. As for your studying law, I am not sure when that will start but I do not see any reason why you ought not to get married. The better if you do, as all men eventually get around to being bolted down.” His uncle seemed to gaze at him and suddenly snapped, “In fact, I am not sure why I bother explaining these things to you. Just do as you’re told!”
Discouraged yet resigned to the situation, Annand-Sri adorned the princely Jippa and planted himself onto the settee at the main hall, a blank expression sitting on his face. Acknowledging the guests; comprising his uncles and aunts and cousins, he allowed his mind to take off full-throttle in whichever direction it pleased, and soon discovered that he was thinking of the ocean and the creatures dwelling on its floors, of the carvings at Madan Kamdev, of the newly-released silent movie that had been playing at his school field at night (for the past two nights now). Also, as he soon discovered, his mother had picked the eldest daughter of her first cousin to be betrothed to her son, whom he hardly saw and had rarely spoken to, Neeta… something. To his relief, she was nowhere to be found amongst the crowd. He picked up a periodical which was under the coffee table and peered at the cover. From then on, the nickname, ‘Annand the Mega-man’ had stuck to him like a plague; Mega-man being derived from magazine, and this was owed to the uncle who played the role of the herald.
The marriage was not to be, however. And Annand-Sri made sure of that—it was either reading law and being a barrister, or joining the armed forces and doing tours in a foreign land. His ultimatum was not welcomed in any manner, for both meant that he would need to be away for several years, with no certainty of return. Days rolled into weeks, and the adamant Annand finally found a way out: he signed up at the rural post office which was at the far edge of the village, stating his aspiration to join the fight against the tyranny of the Japanese in the Asia Pacific area. The modern world was moving against the tyranny of Hitler and his corrupt SS, and Annand-Sri always kept the view of his virtuous bearing on his joining the armed forces to eradicate that evil. But here, now, was a different evil, of a disparate conception—very distant, both geographically and philosophically, to that of the Third Reich.
Several days later, he was required to pick up his khaki uniform and other supplies; and would need to attend several interviews and medical tests, and a final boarding exercise at Calcutta, where a batch of about twenty-five thousand recruits would be deployed to the jungles of Malaya, Burma, Indonesia and Borneo. The board was set, and the gameplay had commenced, and a new life had taken hold of him. He found that he lost many of his decision-making opportunities, and it was a relief, for he had just made a big life decision himself and was grateful for someone else to do it for him, at least in the interim of the war. Who knows what will happen tomorrow? If I do survive the morrow…
Then came the great famine in Bengal of 1943, though the exact cause of it had been heavily disputed, but what was beyond dispute was that millions had perished due to starvation and inaccessibility to proper nutrition, as well as a general lack of healthcare. Only a third of Annand-Sri’s village survived; and he had always pondered on this fact, as the village had not been reliant on agrarian industries, but were forerunners of the arts, and they had wealth to boot. Well, some matters are not designed to make any sense, I suppose. This reasoning had been sufficient for a while, as he was in a land that was most alien to a young adult from British India. And then he had lost his mother. He had lost her, and he was not there, and only gotten to know of it about a week later when the cable system was back to working conditions in the jungle in which he so fervently sought to fight.
It was at this time that he properly accepted that he had lost his faith in the cause of the war. And of life. It was a tragic thing for one so young to undergo, to walk through the charmless pit of a sort of hell that does not seem to end—in fact, when one looked at it, it only seemed to launch into existence yet again and take a shape so fiendish and pointless. The dreary feeling that latched onto Annand-Sri, Sergeant of the 43rd Battalion of Malaya & Borneo, and the dreariness of jungle warfare, was unforgiving, and acted as a harsh teacher in the trials of life. A telegram came several days thereafter, outlining that his mother had been buried in the Catholic way, and that she had been admitted to Paradise. Annand-Sri remembered the sense of resentment towards all things associated to the British Crown; the hate he felt when he contemplated how they would have handled his beloved mother, whom he knew down to the marrow in his bones, who had been a staunch acolyte of Hinduism. Another victory to an idea he had followed blindly these past few years, and from whom he felt he got very little in return. Such blasphemous postulations!
Annand-Sri’s thoughts then surged onto the bundle he discovered, in which the circumstances, he was certain now, were designed in a way that he would be the first to discover it. It was a sign. And he took it as a stigma if he found that the person—which is most likely to be the mother of the infant… or it could be anyone, in fact, he reasoned… should get away from the justice he or she should rightly be served. An eye for an eye, for the innocent here is without voice nor might, to have been able to live beyond the few agonising hours of existence. Annand clenched his fists tighter now. He thought of setting the guilty on fire; he thought of the flamethrower unit they had been stowed away in the camp’s arsenals. Oh, I am coming for you… and I have nothing to lose, in any shape or form, in a million lifetimes that will follow this shit of a life I am in!
CHAPTER FOUR
PRELIMINARY EXAMINATION REPORT No. – 324 [DO NOT FOLD THIS REPORT]
Date – 9th June 1945
SUBJECT: AUTOPSY OF UNKNOWN INFANT, NEWBORN OF SEVERAL HOURS
Autopsy performed at Infirmary at Jesselton Camp-12, commenced 0715 Hrs, by Lt. Richard D. Atherton (Med. Off.)
From the anatomic findings and obscure history of subject, I ascribe the death to:
a. Multiple stabbing on sternum and abdomen (which accelerated internal bleeding)
DUE TO, OR AS A CONSEQUENCE OF
b.___________________________________________
DUE TO, OR AS A CONSEQUENCE OF
c.___________________________________________
DUE TO, OR AS A CONSEQUENCE OF
d.___________________________________________
OTHER CONDITIONS CONTRIBUTING BUT NOT RELATED TO THE IMMEDIATE CAUSE OF DEATH
Severe deformities present, congenital. Traces of chemical substance in mouth and nostrils.
Anatomical Summary
1. Physiological findings
a. Varied (subsequent reporting)
2. Toxicology findings
a. Improper and—
Rickety was in the middle of typing the overview of the autopsy he had conducted earlier that morning (using the camp’s only workable typewriter, with a ribbon that was almost dried out). It was just after nine p.m. The knock on the door of his barracks was loud and unforgiving. However, he was grateful that he had managed to get a couple of hours’ worth of sleep through (what he considered) the unusual hour of twilight. In this part of the world, one couldn’t do much during these hours—it would not be practical to go for a sprint nor exercise – lest the Japs were to shoot your brains out during the final dash to the finish line – and the last glimmer of sunlight would mean that you would need to carry out your “body cleansing” (soldier-talk for a shower or bath) as quickly as you could.
The lone light bulb beamed bright, then dimmed a little, and beamed brighter again. It had been doing this for the past few minutes, and Rickety blamed it on the generator with the impure grade of gasoline that they had been procuring from the nearest trading post—which was essentially a fishing port, where trawlers and sampans crisscrossed endlessly. Upon further refle
ction, he was certain it was due to the gasoline. Nothing of quality these days.
Rickety walked to the door and, presently, unlatched it and turned the lever downward. The door burst open, and in stepped Lieutenant Magnus Olafsson, in his usual state of drunkenness, and covered in sweat—many said that he is not able to hold his drink, and that it was a blessing that there were no ladies about. He had been proud that his parents chose to name him after the eminent Norwegian king, but he did not share that king’s zest for life and for progress. He had always portrayed that he was happy exactly the way he was and would not complain of the war or of the atrocities and the meaningless function to which he had been assigned. Rickety was not sure of the depth of truth to Magnus's portrayal of being indifferent to his present circumstances.
“Aye, there, Sinnerman!” Magnus cried out. “Heard that there was a death today, by your hand!”
‘Sinnerman’ had been something that Magnus devised some weeks ago, when three recon crew members had died ‘mysteriously’ of the effects of dehydration due to dysentery. They were under the care of the camp’s Medical Officer, and they were seen to be getting better. After a week, they all perished, each within an hour of the others. Rickety could not figure out the reasons for this, and he had not slept as soundly since. However, Magnus had been taunting Rickety with that reference, and, as always, it became worse when he had downed several cans of beer or whisky or brandy.
“By my hand? Who told you that?” Rickety asked, annoyed that he knew who it could have been.
