The Delirium of Negation

by Victor Mahn

  The wooden houses were also built in such a manner that each housed several dozen families, with each family living beside one another, in a long stretch, which could be several hundred metres in length. Every house was partitioned by a wall, giving it the impression of being a large room instead; a space in which a family of seven could comfortably occupy. The room with the largest space was invariably claimed by the tribal chief, who would always be the bravest warrior amongst them.

  Rickety tried to gather as much as he could from Ambiau’s short lodging at Kimolohing. Did you ascertain if any woman had given birth recently? Was there any pregnancy that ended in a miscarriage? Were there any cases or incidents of deformities, exclusive or passed on from parent to child? Were there any cases of mercury poisoning, or any form of poisoning for that matter? Do they consume their own food, as is the case in the other villages, or were they procuring them from other sources?

  Ambiau responded that there was only one recent pregnancy, and the child was being nursed safely and lovingly by its mother. There was no news of deformed children or adults, nor were there any incidents involving poisoning in this village, nor in any of the neighbouring villages.

  A few minutes down the path away from the village, the translation service continued, much to everyone’s relief, though with some amount of annoyance as to the subject of discussion.

  The Kuyang is a singularly odd entity that is unique to the Southeast Asian countries. Every culture has a version of it, and residents in all parts of the region have claimed to have seen it. Farmers know it first hand: livestock have been affected, animals have gone missing without a trace (especially the young and the new-borns), unripe bananas have been chewed away by what seemed to be human teeth. White linen, which had been left overnight to be dried, had been removed from its hangers. These are some variants of the local folklore concerning these beings.

  The indigenous tribes of Borneo call it the Kuyang, the Thais have named it the Krasue, the residents of the Philippines know it as Manananggal, and the Malays, Penanggalan. The philology of the word outlines that basis of the concept leading to such a being: detachment. And this detachment does not evince a sense of spiritual attainment or a meditative quality. Detachment with regards to the Kuyang refers to a verb that is very tangible: detaching a part of the body from another, almost always disengaging the head from the rest of the body, or in rare incidences, the legs from the torso.

  Of most perplexing mystery is the link between the Kuyang and pregnant females. Firstly, the Kuyang are exclusively females themselves, and they are said to be extremely attractive. This suggests a usefulness for luring the opposite sex, to whatever end that the Kuyang would need to fulfil. Using the irresistible feature of beauty for a member of the same gender is, in a manner of looking at it, counterproductive.

  On another part, the Kuyang is not fixated on a newborn infant, but, rather, on the pregnant mother herself. This is an intriguing feature of the entity, for, in most accounts, the Kuyang waits until after childbirth to carry out the attack on the worn-out mother. This is a particularly advantageous time as most members of the family will be focused on the newborn rather than the mother, who will most likely experience hours alone, being left unguarded.

  In all these cultures, the dogmatic principles require that certain items be placed close to the mother during the periods of pregnancy. A knife under the pillow is a common superstition. An uncommon one involves planting a pineapple plant under the raised, wooden house, when a woman is thought to be pregnant—the inflorescence, with its spikes, would deter the Kuyang from entering said house.

  The accounts have been many and varied, of course. Every tribe around the great rivers of Borneo have encountered such a creature over the epochs. There had been some affiliation of these sightings to that of the headhunting practices of the Dayaks, though it seems unlikely that anyone would verily attest to it.

  There is also the reference to the piercing cries, almost like the howling of a jackal, that one hears in the dense jungles, often with the inability to spot the source of the cries. The sound comes not from the jungle floors, but high up from the trees, intensifying the intrinsic facet of the supernatural that overflows through the ages. With long flowing hair and a beautiful face, the Kuyang glides from above, sweeping the space around the jungle and the villages, seeking out prey.

  And in some instances, the Kuyang takes the form of a burning fireball; it can travel at great speeds in that manifestation.

  Limbuang had been narrating the legends and belief surrounding the Kuyang for about half an hour now, while the rest tramped along in silence. It seemed that this was the only time that the shaman spoke animatedly, when discussing such strange matters of the jungle he dwells in.

  They were about a mile eastward from of the camp now, and about two hundred metres northward of Kimolohing. The process of decamping had been rather effortless, as Magnus had discovered a hidden track behind some shrubbery just next to the broken truck that had become a sort of symbol about the camp.

  Rickety estimated that it would be about midnight now. The humidity was high, and he could feel that he had been inhaling vapours of water for some minutes. Chances are that he would have a slight pneumonia once this is over. Whatever shape that takes.

  Ambiau spoke again, something he had translated from Limbuang—I didn’t know that, for some years now, my mother had been terrorising a village some distance to the south. But I did know that she used to be in love with a hunter there.

  A genuine shock hit Rickety. He gazed at Limbuang, amazed at the statement just uttered. “Are you saying that your mother is a Kuyang? A ghost?”

  Limbuang looked despondent as he affirmed with a slow nod. Rickety understood the implications of it all at once. It was one thing to be a shaman, but quite another to have to do battle with someone whom you have known in the past, who had now stepped into the spectral world.

  “For the longest time, I would not believe it. She died some decades ago, after giving birth to my youngest brother, Kaizat, who lived but for twelve days. It was a mysterious death; my father could not understand it. I remember during the days before labour, she was not herself. She had been eccentric suddenly, asking for peculiar types of food to be cooked and for certain deeds to be carried out. Wanton and sick,” Limbuang said solemnly.

  After a lapse of several seconds, with a swelling pain visible on his features, he continued, “It was some years between her death and the incident at the village. And I had to put her down; that is what I do, it is my trade. My craft. I put her down.”

  Rickety bobbed his head, indicating that he understood the depth of the experience, and that Limbuang had done the right thing, that he had carried out his shamanic duties, after all. As we all should, being God’s children. What else is there to be done, other than our duty? Rickety thought, as they started walking again.

  Jungles become tenebrous rather quickly, as the company of these military men, with the convoy of the two local tribesmen, had experienced many times over. The two Kirkman lanterns they were carrying could scarcely illuminate their path beyond seven metres ahead, and the generator-powered lighting from the village they circuited was faint. They needed to employ the best use of judgement, and to keep a steady head about themselves. They knew that the Liwagu River was just several hundred metres to the north, where they were headed. That will be our second point of reference. We shall leave a marker there, Rickety thought. Damn, we should have left a marker at the crash site too!

  Every member of the party seemed to be making some form of noise—a muffled cough every now and then, the sound of feet stepping on some dry leaves or twigs, adjustments to their persons and effects they had on themselves. The noises they were making would not be any cause for alarm, as they had not yet plunged into the deep jungles, where utter stillness would be required because there would most likely be a Japanese espionage unit, or a hidden camp somewhere there. An agent of the enemy, at any rate, would be a like
ly bet.

  The verdure was now showing signs of being undisturbed—humans rarely, if ever, traverse through this way. But, as everyone around the Jesselton district – around Borneo and Malaya, in general – would say, this is now a time of war, and who will ever know how one would come to the end? Battle success rates would increase by marching through uncharted courses, and hiding in plain sight, for a kill or for gathering data. Thus, they could not afford to let their guard down—not tonight especially, for they were not looking for any Japanese conscripts; in fact, they didn’t know what they are looking for, and that might be the thing that made them particularly vulnerable to attack. But how certain are we, am I, that the killing of a deformed baby and placing it near the camp’s entrance was not the work of the Japanese? Perhaps a splinter unit that went berserk?

  “So, Limbuang. Where do you think the fireball went?” Rickety asked. He was sure everyone else wanted to know that, just that they were afraid to ask it. He also knew that they were exhausted, probably dehydrated, and their psychological state was not up to the mark for an able soldier. “And does that, or the destination of it, have anything to do with the dead infant this morning?”

  Limbuang did not answer immediately; he appeared to be weighing something rather heavily in his mind, balancing some aspects of nature or of the heavens, until it was made obvious to him. The plane they were walking now was not only framed by what the eyes can see, Limbuang thought. Presently, he spoke, and Ambiau repeated it in English.

  “What you are about to see, Richard, will be the cause of the change to the colour of your eyes. You have a good soul, and so it will be most kind with you. But do not be fooled: it is a cunning demon, and it is hungry. More so tonight.” This cryptic manner of speaking was a hallmark of the shaman.

  CHAPTER NINE

  When you are about to do something sinister, it is prudent to wait a moment, the senescent man would often tell this to himself, as there was no one within miles from the house which had been disintegrating for several decades now. His body clock thrown out of kilter for a while, he arose when it was dark, and slept when the sun lifted and heated the surroundings. He had become peculiar and had been left alone by his kith and kin.

  He had walked the earth the span of about two lifetimes of a common tribesman of Borneo. He was around when the British ‘White Rajah’ was established in Sarawak, several thousand miles from his home now. He had served in the office of Pangeran Muda Hashim, who had struck a pact with Sir James Brooke to eradicate the ever-increasing piracy around the seas which hampered trade and destroyed infrastructure. It was this old man who had triggered the negotiations on the contract, acting as a liaison between the parties.

  All these things happened about a century ago. Still, certain memories found their way into his mind, to disturb his sleep, and to periodically cause him to emit a deep, audible breath that was filled with emotion. The stirrings of the past were strong still, and Death was not ready to show Itself to him just yet. And he knew why, and he could guess as to the price he would need to pay first before being allowed to pass on. But tonight, Death felt far, though also looming just at an arm’s length away, all the same.

  Presently, he walked toward the balcony. The wooden panels that made up the floor voiced their agony at having been around for so long already, through a series of laborious creaks. He padded on, eager to catch a glimpse of the anomalous entity that had disturbed the tranquil equilibrium that he had fought so long and hard to achieve. There had been a shift in the balance of energies, he felt. And there were other forces at work, besides those of the annoying soldiers who had been firing their roscoes periodically about the neighbouring villages and garrisons.

  And the domain of concealment is now revealed. No doubt that the totem I had placed has been removed. Or damaged.

  He felt a steady cold breeze touch his severely wrinkled face. His eyes, clouded now with cataracts, could only make out some form of outline of objects within proximity. But he did not rely on the earthly senses; he had learnt to tune in on the subtle energies of the endless firmaments, and they dispensed, amid a battery of powers, some useful abilities. For instance, by tapping into this energy spectrum, his mind’s eye was filled with elements tied to photonics, and this enabled him to make out objects and people as though they were black spectral entities: wisps of black smoke on a white sheath.

  At the turn of the century, when he was already beyond his seventies, he had met a wayfarer (who was himself aged) out at the docks of Kuching, Sarawak. A close friendship ensued, and they began to discuss matters on a variety of subjects, from the trivial such as the payment of fines on overdue library books, to that of the archaic, of myths and magic.

  The wayfarer had smiled in one such instance of dialogue between them and revealed himself to be an occultist from a distant land, beyond the seas where the old man had not even dreamt of sailing through. He had parted ways with the old man that very day, but not before relaying a most powerful charm. The old man had tirelessly spoke the words aloud daily since, and he found that he could craft any desire he had into a physical manifestation. Many a time he searched for the wayfarer, to know this art in depth and as thoroughly as he could. But the wayfarer had now dissolved into the very seas they discussed all those years ago.

  His was a two-storeyed house that was designed and erected by himself, when he was a ship’s carpenter at the docks in Kuching. The plot of land the structure sat on was given to him by the then-administrator of the North Borneo Chartered Company, which stood as a land of territory concession. However, the land was desolate and swampy, and sightings of crocodiles and giant monitor lizards were common. But it was ideal for his requirements—he had a need to stay hidden. Furnishings were kept to a minimum, and he only had cutlery for himself and none other. He did not have a plumbing system; the latrine was on the ground outside, just beyond the water well.

  When the strange dreams became ever more frequent, and the dangers seemed to be more real, he invoked the conjuration, as though it was a fervid poem of love. Well, it did begin as love, he remarked once. But now, the very thing that was pursuing him was the one whom he had been with, lived with, made love to, and abandoned.

  Thence he had received instructions to have several totem poles about the vicinity of the house. The source of these instructions was still a mystery to him, but he did not worry greatly over that lack of knowledge. However, the command was unambiguous as to the manner that the totem should be carved and placed: It would need to be in the form of a panther, with its right paw raised and pointing in parallel to its snout, and its jaw is to be open, fangs sharp and ready for a kill. Make four of these and have them planted at the four corners surrounding the house, each facing away from the house. They will keep guard of you and of your realm.

  The concealment that was provided by the four totem poles was impressive, for he had tested it, several times over the years. Once he stepped out of the enclosure that was produced by the totem poles, and he found that the house vanished from sight. He knew that the sorcery involved had been wielding some play with light and optics, but he was astounded as to the result of it. Even the poles were not to be seen! He had thrown a rock into the sphere, and tried walking back into the fold, but his house was still hidden. He then knew that he would need to countermand the spell, which he did in apposite to the circumstances; and the house reappeared. But the rock he flung over was not where it should have landed. He never saw it, nor did he ever learn what became of it.

  The only problem had been sound and smell. He had to be certain of not making any noise that would be deemed out of place in the plains outside of a jungle; in fact, the house was built at the edge of the jungle, hence it was a part of it. He laboriously had been placing rolls of fodder and hay and cow dung at the edge of the corners of his land, to give out a scent indistinguishable from that of a swamp. And for all these decades, it had worked.

  Until tonight.

  He gripped the wooden railings o
f the parapet firmly, listening. It was silent now, but he was certain that he heard a nasty, loud crack some minutes earlier, and had attributed it to one of the totem poles being wrecked. Or perhaps it was deliberated dismantled. But how could anyone have seen it? Especially… her?

  His memory jogged onto the realms of pain now. The one whom he had pursued, wanted to be with. And she finally yielded, powerless to his relentless pursuit and show of deep affection and devotion. They were both very young then, barely teens. Such beauty, those ages of innocence. It is a shame one must grow old.

  Over the course of time, he had left her. He knew she needed him; the timing had been most critical for her, and that whirling memory pained him more. And now she comes for me. To end it all for me…

  He continued to scan the southern clear skies, the moon assisting his inner-sight. He modulated the ocular frequencies through the several dimensions that existed in this universe, where his organs could not distinguish the subtleties that were apparent. Nothing came. He directed his view to the opposite side, noted only the soughing of winds from that end.

  The house will be obvious now, like the trapdoor opened for the spider therein. He is exposed to all those dimensions, and escape is not a possibility. And he found it to be a tranquil thought, for, after all, he had lived long, and most of it was in solitude. And for what? All these years of inhaling the airs of defilement, to learn that I really have amounted to nothing, to no consequence? The years have marched on… galloped on, and I have been stranded on a lone island, with all my shipmates of the scuttled ship laid bare in whatever doom that befell them.

  He quickened his pace once more, then moved to sit down cross-legged on the floor of the balcony. He rested his weight on the right knee when he heard it: the shrill that comes from an object or creature of malevolence. He looked up at the earlier slant, right next to the tree where the moon seemed to scurry off to, as though itself afraid of this menacing being.