Thirteen Cats

The Bunian rock cave, its corridors and rooms being underground, are naturally cool, and Melvyn slipped off into a deep sleep as soon as his head touched the pillow of the four-poster bed.

Some sleep filled hours later Melvyn awoke, stretched, yawned, and expelled a little air from his nether region.

Quickly fanning the bed with a bed-cover, to dispel unwanted fumes, a rested Melvyn found that he was back home hearing the sounds of his dear wife, Aisah, cooking a particularly mouth wateringly, pungently succulent nasi lemak, for breakfast.

Shaking the persistently clinging sleep from his head, Melvyn took a moment to reflect.

Was it all some nasty nightmare – how bizarre.

Relief spread over Melvyn like a cool shower, revitalising those parts other emotions cannot reach.

So it was all a dream, whew, hmmm I thought so, pink jeeps indeed.

Through the open bedroom doorway of his secreted hillside home, Melvyn saw Just-Abangah and the Geek tucking into his wife’s cooking, and did a double think.

Odd, distinctly odd Melvyn muttered, scratched his head, puzzled.

He drew his pink and white chequered sarong about him, and, throwing on a loose shirt Melvyn mooched into the kitchen, glad to be home after all, and delighted to know it was all a nasty dream.

But still Melvyn felt a little bit puzzled about which bits were dream, and which were real.

Feeling a little buoyant Melvyn greeted his friends, if friends they were, and playfully patted his wife’s bottom. His wife, Aisah, turned to face him, and Melvyn stopped, just stood stared at her, his mouth a little open, not, incidentally, intending to catch flies - but in shocked surprise.

Although Melvyn instinctively knew that Aisah was Aisah, and somewhere in the far reaches of his mind there was a little synapse which flagged her name up as Aisah being Aisah, she nevertheless stood before Melvyn with Ali the djinn’s beard and moustache. At first Melvyn wanted to laugh,

It’s a joke right, he said to no one in particular, then realised that something was very, very wrong.

Though part of Melvyn wanted to grab the beard and yank it off, another part realised that this was no mere theatrical appendage, but real, or at least it appeared to be very real, and, in some weird way, natural.

Melvyn had an explosion of senses, not knowing what to believe or disbelieve. A very puzzled, and slightly annoyed, Melvyn looked about him, and there, out the window, in what should have been his garden, was a tree. On the tree were thirteen cats, all sitting in the branches of the tree with their tails hanging down.

Oh no not again, Melvyn exclaimed under his breath.

With a start Melvyn woke up. To say that he was wide-eyed and perspiring a little, would be a huge understatement, but....he took breath, and began comforting himself with a feeling of great relief that it was all a dream, and that even the dream was a dream.

Melvyn, a little edgy, looked around him. Yes, phew, it was all a dream. He was back in the Bunian cave, in the bedroom he was assigned last night. Melvyn sighed with relief, but as he sighed the bedroom door opened and a figure walked towards Melvyn.

Ali the djinn, dressed in Aisah’s clothes, replete with headscarf, greeted Melvyn with Aisah’s voice.

Melvyn, sayang, you’re safe, so very good to see you at last, here’s a little present, just for you.

Bug-eyed, Melvyn just stared as Ali grinned a malevolent grin, and held up thirteen cats which he had, hanging by their tails. The cats just hung there, limp, not dead- just unmoving. Ali’s smile broadened, like something between The Joker and Carroll’s Cheshire cat, as he suddenly disappeared in a theatrical puff of smoke.

For a third time Melvyn woke up. Cautiously he sat up in bed and opened his eyes. Anxiously Melvyn looked around the Bunian bedroom. The large teak wardrobe was there, as was the bedside cupboard and dressing-table mirror opposite. No one appeared to be hiding under the bed, when he looked, only a curious little pot with a handle inscribed with the letter ‘P’.

Melvyn sat still for a minute, listening to the sound of his heart beating a little faster than usual. He heard the odd scuttling of Bunian in the corridors, decided that might be natural. Then Melvyn quickly looked around again. No Aisah. No Ali the djinn. Almost breaking his neck with the severity of his neck turn, Melvyn looked around swiftly, as if trying to catch someone, or something, off-guard, nothing.

Melvyn reached up and held his nose between his right forefinger and thumb, then blew hard, and looked around again. As if clearing his sinuses would also clear the room of any being with evil intent. Satisfied that nothing else was going to happen, cautiously Melvyn planted his feet, one foot after another, onto to the bedroom floor. Slowly, crouching and creeping Melvyn made his way across the expanse of floor between his bed and the bathroom. He flung open the bathroom door and jumped inside, his body in a pseudo silat posture, standing on one leg, arms posed as if ready to strike.

Melvyn stood, looked at his face and posture in the mirror and raised one quizzical eyebrow.

Satisfied that no one was hiding; Melvyn used the bathroom for its intended purposes, and performed his ablutions.

A rapping on the bedroom door broke into Melvyn’s consciousness. The Bunian had come to take him, and his companions, to breakfast.

Melvyn decided not to share his dreams with Just-Abangah and the Geek - the mere thought of relating them sent a little shiver down his spine, and, for the moment, Melvyn was quite happy to forget it ever happened.

Somewhere to the north there is an island devoted to sea eagles, and, is known for its innumerable beauties. No one is quite sure if this is a historical/geographical reference to the wondrous islands which surround it, or the reputation of the female inhabitants – it is also known as the land of men’s smiles, which may be just a coincidence. The island has just recovered from a two hundred year old curse.

On the island sits a small kampung surrounded by fruit trees of all descriptions. Within the kampung there are many houses classically built, on wooden stilts. Around the area of one such house the black sand soil is mixed in a 50/50 ratio with black rice (nasi hitam).

Inside the cool, darkened house, in a room just off from the main hall and its wooden floor, lays an old mahogany chest, dusty and telling a tale of time. Unusual carvings have been etched into the side of the chest, looking very much like trees, with animals, possibly cats, sitting in the branches, their tails hanging down. There appears to be thirteen cats.

Inside the chest is a velvet cloth. Nestled in the velvet cloth is a black, polished, ebony box. Resting on a bed of white silk, within the box, is a glass phial containing a liquid sought by many, and, as yet, possessed by none.

There are no guardians for the chest. Save for one house cat, whose patchwork fur is coloured white and black and answers to the name of tompok – Pok for short. Pok waits. Even Pok knows not for which he waits. But he waits nevertheless, the same he has done for the past two hundred years.

The sky is blue. A slight breeze comes off the swelling sea. A geyser or to pop in the distance spraying jets of hot water into the air, for a few moments, then they rest, gathering enough energy to pop again. A monitor lizard monitors.