Sorry no Melvyn story this week - I am on holiday in Kuala Lumpur, back 1st November
The Line
4 days ago
Sorry no Melvyn story this week - I am on holiday in Kuala Lumpur, back 1st November
Sorry no Melvyn story this week - I am on holiday in Kuala Lumpur, back 1st November
Not a Happy Bunny
Standing within his stronghold, deep in the lush forests of the potentially Lost World of Lenyap, Djinba was looking into his ornamental brass basin of crystal clear water, used primarily as a far-seeing device, and frequently as a shaving basin too, observing Ali’s latest catastrophe, and Djinba was not a happy bunny. In fact, truth be told, he wasn’t a bunny at all - but that is quite beside the point and a totally different story involving small children with long golden locks, caterpillars who smoke and rabbits with pocket-watches.
Djinba was discovering that ultimately there is a point in forward planning when, despite all your best efforts, the plans so carefully laid, and schemes so craftily constructed start to unravel, seemingly of their own accord with little bits of plan writhing and weaving in quite obscene manners, and through no fault of your own, or, at least, so you think.
So, instead, Invisible, and quite possibly non-existent, or very probably otherwise occupied Gods and Devils are blamed, and matters which occur through poor planning and inept scheming become blamed on the quite ungodly hand, or in this case- iron fist, of Fate - poor Fate, always getting a bad press. Knowing this, however, does not make life any less traumatic, nor does it make you any the less annoyed, as countless kicked cats could, no doubt, testify to, so you simply have to reconcile yourself with the fall-back position of knowing the causality, and, like Djinba, put on the type of happy face which fools absolutely no-one, not even the maniac grinning starkly back at you from the unkindly clear mirror.
Djinba, to give him his full due, had planned well enough. He had taken as many factors into consideration as was possible, considering the endless probabilities and possibilities, before embarking on the final phases of the takeover, of not just the wizard council, but effectively the known, and he hoped, the unknown worlds as well. This is why he had, reasonably carefully, chosen his minions each according to their ability, to work for him and perform the tasks he needed performing, and in their own specialised unique way, according to their chosen skill match get the less than clean job done. This is how the elegant and very resourceful Ali the djinn was recruited by the Arch-Wizard Djinba, potential ruler of all he sees, as well as hopeful ruler of great deal that he doesn’t.
Finally, and at last, all Djinba had needed was the absolute token of magic power – the ancient Phial of the magical Oil of Petra, and he would become supreme bomoh of all supreme bomoh wizards and permanent ruler of, well, everything. In that lofty position his popularity would be assured, a few carefully chosen spells would take care of that, as people loved to be loved, even self-centred ego-maniacal people with a huge lust for domination.
But there were, essentially, two flies in the proverbial ointment, one was that he didn’t have a clue as to where the Phial actually was, and, more urgently, his old nemesis Nrawa was making a comeback – recruiting the bomohs and the few remaining bomoh wizards in an attempt to overthrow Djinba’s powers, oust him from the council, and, no doubt, grab the lot for himself, thought Djinba. That smarmy, easy grinning, do-gooding snake Nrawa might prove to be the very catalyst to galvanise the lesser bomohs, other beings and spirits into an all out rebellion, strip him (Djinba) of his powers and position, and kick him to the proverbial metaphorical curb.
Melvyn the bomoh, as inept as he was, had become a pivotal point in Djinba’s continuing reign. Melvyn had no idea just how crucial he had become in the machinations of ambitious men. Melvyn, or so it now seemed, was the one bomoh that all other bomoh’s respected, regardless of his powers, or lack of them. So, knowing this, Djinba needed a bargaining point to persuade the popular Melvyn to do his bidding and go looking for the Phial of the Oil of Petra, and thereby hasten Djinba’s rise to the final, undisputed, throne of Grand Bomoh Wizard Supreme. The Phial, it was rumoured in legend, held the secret to life eternal, and this just had to belong to Djinba, and no one else.
Ali the djinn’s carelessness in losing Melvyn’s wife Aisah potentially took away the only leverage Djinba had over Melvyn, and could, potentially, ruin Djinba’s overall plans, and this must not be allowed to happen. Djinba thought this viciously to himself, giving himself quite a start over the forcefulness of the thought. So Djinba continued to keep careful track of the latest events via his nicely carved bronze basin.
Nrawa was a growing thorn in Djinba’s side.
Once, a long long time ago they had been friends. Then Nrawa grew a conscience, quite possibly in the dungeons Djinba had cast him into to prevent Nrawa, a well loved bomoh wizard, from a taking over the council, even then. Nrawa had spoken of reform, of the wizard bomohs helping the ordinary powerless people instead of just helping themselves. It was a radical idea, but that was how things had been in the past, in the days people now referred to as the golden age, a time when men, spirits and other beings ate cheese and lived in harmony alongside djinn in a veritable garden of Edam.
At that time, all those years ago, many of the wizards had been primed to execute a takeover of power, and Djinba was aware of his own unpopularity as well as being acutely aware that Nrawa was charismatic, and easily persuaded people to his causes. So Djinba had thrown him into the dungeons, trumping up all kinds of bizarre charges which few people believed, but were, ultimately, unable to do anything about. To control the wizard council was, effectively, to control everything.
The magical power which kept everything in its place, some say the wrong place, came through the wizard council. It was that magical power which corrupted governments, policemen, civil servants and military. As long as there was corruption people were easy to control, and everything was kept in its place. And that was the way that Djinba wanted it to be, forever.
Nrawa sought to change that unnatural order, do away with corruption, diminish the power of the ruling bomoh wizards and let ordinary people do their own thing – a foolish notion. Nrawa wanted to issue in a new order free from magical control, but Djinba had his doubts and really couldn’t see Nrawa being any different from himself. Mainly because Djinba was so corrupted with power he couldn’t imagine anyone not wanting to take all for themselves.
Finally, after many years in the dungeon, Nrawa was free and looking for his own kind of revenge, or so it was believed.
It had reached Djinba’s ears that Nrawa was again recruiting the bomohs, gathering a small force together to influence the remaining doubting wizard bomohs of the council, and, effectively, priming the charge for a takeover. Already Djinba, through various devious means, had spread the word around that Nrawa had unnatural urges and was highly corrupted, but, so far, this totally unbelievable gossip had little effect on Nrawa’s popularity. Some bomoh wizards claimed that Nrawa had the power of hypnotism, and, in fact, hypnotised people over to his side, though there was little proof of this in reality. But Nwara was popular and gaining in popularity again, especially among the better educated bomohs and wizards, and even some supernatural folks were inclined to promote Nwara in his campaign, and this had Djinba worried.
Djinba was left to battle on the two fronts – firstly to stave off advances from Nwara, but also to gain the Phial containing the magical Oil of Petra, longevity, and, quite possibly, immortality. Djinba needed the extra leverage with Melvyn the bomoh, and he needed someone to deliver Melvyn’s wife Aisah as soon as possible, and so far Ali the djinn had failed him.
Djinba was discovering that ultimately there is a point in forward planning when, despite all your best efforts, the plans so carefully laid, and schemes so craftily constructed start to unravel, seemingly of their own accord with little bits of plan writhing and weaving in quite obscene manners, and through no fault of your own, or, at least, so you think.
So, instead, Invisible, and quite possibly non-existent, or very probably otherwise occupied Gods and Devils are blamed, and matters which occur through poor planning and inept scheming become blamed on the quite ungodly hand, or in this case- iron fist, of Fate - poor Fate, always getting a bad press. Knowing this, however, does not make life any less traumatic, nor does it make you any the less annoyed, as countless kicked cats could, no doubt, testify to, so you simply have to reconcile yourself with the fall-back position of knowing the causality, and, like Djinba, put on the type of happy face which fools absolutely no-one, not even the maniac grinning starkly back at you from the unkindly clear mirror.
Djinba, to give him his full due, had planned well enough. He had taken as many factors into consideration as was possible, considering the endless probabilities and possibilities, before embarking on the final phases of the takeover, of not just the wizard council, but effectively the known, and he hoped, the unknown worlds as well. This is why he had, reasonably carefully, chosen his minions each according to their ability, to work for him and perform the tasks he needed performing, and in their own specialised unique way, according to their chosen skill match get the less than clean job done. This is how the elegant and very resourceful Ali the djinn was recruited by the Arch-Wizard Djinba, potential ruler of all he sees, as well as hopeful ruler of great deal that he doesn’t.
Finally, and at last, all Djinba had needed was the absolute token of magic power – the ancient Phial of the magical Oil of Petra, and he would become supreme bomoh of all supreme bomoh wizards and permanent ruler of, well, everything. In that lofty position his popularity would be assured, a few carefully chosen spells would take care of that, as people loved to be loved, even self-centred ego-maniacal people with a huge lust for domination.
But there were, essentially, two flies in the proverbial ointment, one was that he didn’t have a clue as to where the Phial actually was, and, more urgently, his old nemesis Nrawa was making a comeback – recruiting the bomohs and the few remaining bomoh wizards in an attempt to overthrow Djinba’s powers, oust him from the council, and, no doubt, grab the lot for himself, thought Djinba. That smarmy, easy grinning, do-gooding snake Nrawa might prove to be the very catalyst to galvanise the lesser bomohs, other beings and spirits into an all out rebellion, strip him (Djinba) of his powers and position, and kick him to the proverbial metaphorical curb.
Melvyn the bomoh, as inept as he was, had become a pivotal point in Djinba’s continuing reign. Melvyn had no idea just how crucial he had become in the machinations of ambitious men. Melvyn, or so it now seemed, was the one bomoh that all other bomoh’s respected, regardless of his powers, or lack of them. So, knowing this, Djinba needed a bargaining point to persuade the popular Melvyn to do his bidding and go looking for the Phial of the Oil of Petra, and thereby hasten Djinba’s rise to the final, undisputed, throne of Grand Bomoh Wizard Supreme. The Phial, it was rumoured in legend, held the secret to life eternal, and this just had to belong to Djinba, and no one else.
Ali the djinn’s carelessness in losing Melvyn’s wife Aisah potentially took away the only leverage Djinba had over Melvyn, and could, potentially, ruin Djinba’s overall plans, and this must not be allowed to happen. Djinba thought this viciously to himself, giving himself quite a start over the forcefulness of the thought. So Djinba continued to keep careful track of the latest events via his nicely carved bronze basin.
Nrawa was a growing thorn in Djinba’s side.
Once, a long long time ago they had been friends. Then Nrawa grew a conscience, quite possibly in the dungeons Djinba had cast him into to prevent Nrawa, a well loved bomoh wizard, from a taking over the council, even then. Nrawa had spoken of reform, of the wizard bomohs helping the ordinary powerless people instead of just helping themselves. It was a radical idea, but that was how things had been in the past, in the days people now referred to as the golden age, a time when men, spirits and other beings ate cheese and lived in harmony alongside djinn in a veritable garden of Edam.
At that time, all those years ago, many of the wizards had been primed to execute a takeover of power, and Djinba was aware of his own unpopularity as well as being acutely aware that Nrawa was charismatic, and easily persuaded people to his causes. So Djinba had thrown him into the dungeons, trumping up all kinds of bizarre charges which few people believed, but were, ultimately, unable to do anything about. To control the wizard council was, effectively, to control everything.
The magical power which kept everything in its place, some say the wrong place, came through the wizard council. It was that magical power which corrupted governments, policemen, civil servants and military. As long as there was corruption people were easy to control, and everything was kept in its place. And that was the way that Djinba wanted it to be, forever.
Nrawa sought to change that unnatural order, do away with corruption, diminish the power of the ruling bomoh wizards and let ordinary people do their own thing – a foolish notion. Nrawa wanted to issue in a new order free from magical control, but Djinba had his doubts and really couldn’t see Nrawa being any different from himself. Mainly because Djinba was so corrupted with power he couldn’t imagine anyone not wanting to take all for themselves.
Finally, after many years in the dungeon, Nrawa was free and looking for his own kind of revenge, or so it was believed.
It had reached Djinba’s ears that Nrawa was again recruiting the bomohs, gathering a small force together to influence the remaining doubting wizard bomohs of the council, and, effectively, priming the charge for a takeover. Already Djinba, through various devious means, had spread the word around that Nrawa had unnatural urges and was highly corrupted, but, so far, this totally unbelievable gossip had little effect on Nrawa’s popularity. Some bomoh wizards claimed that Nrawa had the power of hypnotism, and, in fact, hypnotised people over to his side, though there was little proof of this in reality. But Nwara was popular and gaining in popularity again, especially among the better educated bomohs and wizards, and even some supernatural folks were inclined to promote Nwara in his campaign, and this had Djinba worried.
Djinba was left to battle on the two fronts – firstly to stave off advances from Nwara, but also to gain the Phial containing the magical Oil of Petra, longevity, and, quite possibly, immortality. Djinba needed the extra leverage with Melvyn the bomoh, and he needed someone to deliver Melvyn’s wife Aisah as soon as possible, and so far Ali the djinn had failed him.
Persuasion
“Where is she, where is Aisah, where is that bomoh’s wife”
Ali increased the burn of his already searing heat, charring the hantu raya once more with his magic flame.
“What have you done with her, where have you hidden her”
With each question Ali shot the malevolent magic fire at the hantu, burning not just the hantu’s ectoplasmic flesh but deep into what passed for its mind.
The hantu only whimpered. Ali looked close into its mind and saw little but pain and anguish, no hint of where the woman was, and without the woman, without Melvyn the bomoh’s wife Aisah Ali might share a similar fate to this hantu, so he increased the pressure, dug deep into its mind and tortured its flesh to gain his results.
Frustration gnawed at Ali. He had to get the woman back, his own life depended upon it.
“Where is the woman, where is the human, Aisah what have you done with her” Ali persisted with a growing sense of fright in his voice, knowing full well that this hantu was not going to give him the answer he desperately needed.
It had taken time, but eventually Ali had tracked the hantu down amidst the plentiful forests growing on the slopes of Tea Mountain, step by step, track by track, gradually Ali moved in closer to the hantu raya, eventually surprising it in a small, harmless looking glade. The hantu had looked lost, looked as though it was searching for something. It was then that Ali realised that Aisah was missing, again.
Of course the hantu had denied all knowledge of Aisah’s whereabouts, but Ali had lived a long time and understood that the first line of defence was often a lie, he too was good at that. And so the persuasion began. Ali didn’t like to think of it as torture, even though, technically, that is exactly what it was. Ali liked the word persuasion, it was softer, gentler, more gentlemanly, and often Ali considered himself to be a gentleman, if not a gentle man.
The delicate art of persuasion included pegging the hapless hantu to the ground, arms and legs outstretched in much the same way as a hunter might stretch a skin to be dried in the sun, but this was no skin it was a sentient being, albeit a ghost, and having ectoplasm instead of actual skin, but it could feel pain and that was enough for Ali to work on.
Conversation with a hantu raya was always going to be, at the very best, a one-sided affair, as hantus tended not to say much, their minds being reserved for the day to day drudge of being, with very little actual thought taking place. But, on occasions, a thought mixed with an uncomfortable feeling, such as love, makes a powerful cocktail inside a hantu’s mind and leads to all manner of complications.
So Ali was aware that a plain, simple, question and answer session with this hantu was, probably, not going to deliver the results he expected, and Ali had quickly moved on to phase two – manual persuasion. But, so far, that was yielding equally poor results.
Heaving a deep sigh Ali, once more, singed the hantu flesh, giving off a distinct roasted marshmallow smell, yet, despite the agonising pain, all the creature could do was to emit cat-like mewling, and the occasional yelp like some puppy being severely kicked by a very unkind boot, but it gave out no information. The hantu raya’s mind was a cacophony of sounds and shapes, like excited static, but it gave no concise form or shape to any memory, or any trace to where the woman might have gone. This, Ali found more than a little frustrating, it was grossly annoying.
Ali was a more than a little surprised about the hantu’s resilience. If it were he, Ali would have spilled the proverbial beans all over everything in sight long since. There was, after all, no need to get yourself into such a state over another creature, thought Ali, that was ridiculous, the woman could fend for herself, and, as nice as she was, and she was quite nice reflected Ali, no being was worth getting tortured over. An uncomfortable thought flashed across Ali’s mind, about what might happen if he wasn’t successful, but presence of mind shooed it away as quickly as it had come, no point dwelling on such things, he thought.
From random singeing and then to the steady, deliberate, tormenting of what passed for the hantu’s nervous system Ali had progressed to considering limb amputation to get his information, threatened at first, but as threats brought no results Ali had no compunction but to actually begin burning off a hantu limb, one at a time, until it delivered the results Ali so badly needed.
Ali was all too aware that this might be his own fate, or worse, should he arrive back to Djinba empty handed, so to save himself Ali needed to gain as much information as possible from this unfortunate hantu. It was a sickening sight, even Ali was a little sickened by what he was being forced to do, but he had little choice if he wanted to save his own skin. The hantu raya writhed in obvious pain and agony, thrashing what was left of its body about like an eel impaled on the end of some vicious hook, but all Ali got in return was pathetic noises and the irritating sounds of whimpering, but no actual information.
After some time of pain and suffering one complete hantu limb was severed, charred and burnt from the hantu’s body, the remaining stump blackened in a manner resembling plastic extracted from a fire, bubbling and smoking and giving off an acrid stench deeper and more sickening than the previous roasted marshmallow smell, but, of course, there was no blood. Hantus have no blood, only ectoplasm, which in the normal course of events doesn’t burn, except under magic fire like Ali’s.
Even Ali felt a little sick at what he had just done, but that feeling passed as he continued his persuasion onto another limb, causing even more pain and distress. Then suddenly it was over.
What had passed for the hantu’s life was over, finished, gone. The hantu raja had given up the ghost under the cruel torture, its increasingly fragile mind unable to endure the extremes Ali had put it to. And, rather than risk any mention of the woman he had come to love, the hantu had preferred to shut down its body and mind, hopefully saving Aisah from this monster’s clutches.
For a moment Ali showed a small regret at ending the poor creature’s life, a tiny tear welled up at the corner of Ali’s eye, but soon disappeared as Ali realised the true enormity of his situation. A cold shiver ran down Ali’s spine while a bolt of white-hot fright ran in the opposite direction up and into his brain. Now wide-eyed Ali stopped still and thought his situation over.
Meanwhile the second hantu raya looked on in disgust and nervousness at the fate of its fellow being. It had known that Ali could be vengeful, but had never realised the depths that Ali would go to get his own way, and it was torn between running off and staying, each course having its merits and eventual consequences. As the normal hantu mental processes were quite slow it stayed while it too thought what to do next.
From the bushes more than one observing Bunian had fainted during the witnessing of torture, others had been sick – physically as well as mentally, at the things Ali had done. Rarely had such a sight been witnessed on Tea Mountain, and certainly not in the hundreds of years these Bunian had been alive and caring for the mountain and its various inhabitants. The normally quite impartial Bunian actually began to consider meeting in council to discuss their position, with many messages suggesting pledges and the possibility of allegiances and alliances. Things had gone too far, they felt, and a growing disgruntlement was now turning into a real force for opposition.
Messages had been sent all over of the cruelty and shame that visited their mountain, and the Bunian let it be known that they were going to be opposed to any force which may have sanctioned such an abomination. Any force at all. And that is how Djinba got to learn of his servant’s failure.
Ali increased the burn of his already searing heat, charring the hantu raya once more with his magic flame.
“What have you done with her, where have you hidden her”
With each question Ali shot the malevolent magic fire at the hantu, burning not just the hantu’s ectoplasmic flesh but deep into what passed for its mind.
The hantu only whimpered. Ali looked close into its mind and saw little but pain and anguish, no hint of where the woman was, and without the woman, without Melvyn the bomoh’s wife Aisah Ali might share a similar fate to this hantu, so he increased the pressure, dug deep into its mind and tortured its flesh to gain his results.
Frustration gnawed at Ali. He had to get the woman back, his own life depended upon it.
“Where is the woman, where is the human, Aisah what have you done with her” Ali persisted with a growing sense of fright in his voice, knowing full well that this hantu was not going to give him the answer he desperately needed.
It had taken time, but eventually Ali had tracked the hantu down amidst the plentiful forests growing on the slopes of Tea Mountain, step by step, track by track, gradually Ali moved in closer to the hantu raya, eventually surprising it in a small, harmless looking glade. The hantu had looked lost, looked as though it was searching for something. It was then that Ali realised that Aisah was missing, again.
Of course the hantu had denied all knowledge of Aisah’s whereabouts, but Ali had lived a long time and understood that the first line of defence was often a lie, he too was good at that. And so the persuasion began. Ali didn’t like to think of it as torture, even though, technically, that is exactly what it was. Ali liked the word persuasion, it was softer, gentler, more gentlemanly, and often Ali considered himself to be a gentleman, if not a gentle man.
The delicate art of persuasion included pegging the hapless hantu to the ground, arms and legs outstretched in much the same way as a hunter might stretch a skin to be dried in the sun, but this was no skin it was a sentient being, albeit a ghost, and having ectoplasm instead of actual skin, but it could feel pain and that was enough for Ali to work on.
Conversation with a hantu raya was always going to be, at the very best, a one-sided affair, as hantus tended not to say much, their minds being reserved for the day to day drudge of being, with very little actual thought taking place. But, on occasions, a thought mixed with an uncomfortable feeling, such as love, makes a powerful cocktail inside a hantu’s mind and leads to all manner of complications.
So Ali was aware that a plain, simple, question and answer session with this hantu was, probably, not going to deliver the results he expected, and Ali had quickly moved on to phase two – manual persuasion. But, so far, that was yielding equally poor results.
Heaving a deep sigh Ali, once more, singed the hantu flesh, giving off a distinct roasted marshmallow smell, yet, despite the agonising pain, all the creature could do was to emit cat-like mewling, and the occasional yelp like some puppy being severely kicked by a very unkind boot, but it gave out no information. The hantu raya’s mind was a cacophony of sounds and shapes, like excited static, but it gave no concise form or shape to any memory, or any trace to where the woman might have gone. This, Ali found more than a little frustrating, it was grossly annoying.
Ali was a more than a little surprised about the hantu’s resilience. If it were he, Ali would have spilled the proverbial beans all over everything in sight long since. There was, after all, no need to get yourself into such a state over another creature, thought Ali, that was ridiculous, the woman could fend for herself, and, as nice as she was, and she was quite nice reflected Ali, no being was worth getting tortured over. An uncomfortable thought flashed across Ali’s mind, about what might happen if he wasn’t successful, but presence of mind shooed it away as quickly as it had come, no point dwelling on such things, he thought.
From random singeing and then to the steady, deliberate, tormenting of what passed for the hantu’s nervous system Ali had progressed to considering limb amputation to get his information, threatened at first, but as threats brought no results Ali had no compunction but to actually begin burning off a hantu limb, one at a time, until it delivered the results Ali so badly needed.
Ali was all too aware that this might be his own fate, or worse, should he arrive back to Djinba empty handed, so to save himself Ali needed to gain as much information as possible from this unfortunate hantu. It was a sickening sight, even Ali was a little sickened by what he was being forced to do, but he had little choice if he wanted to save his own skin. The hantu raya writhed in obvious pain and agony, thrashing what was left of its body about like an eel impaled on the end of some vicious hook, but all Ali got in return was pathetic noises and the irritating sounds of whimpering, but no actual information.
After some time of pain and suffering one complete hantu limb was severed, charred and burnt from the hantu’s body, the remaining stump blackened in a manner resembling plastic extracted from a fire, bubbling and smoking and giving off an acrid stench deeper and more sickening than the previous roasted marshmallow smell, but, of course, there was no blood. Hantus have no blood, only ectoplasm, which in the normal course of events doesn’t burn, except under magic fire like Ali’s.
Even Ali felt a little sick at what he had just done, but that feeling passed as he continued his persuasion onto another limb, causing even more pain and distress. Then suddenly it was over.
What had passed for the hantu’s life was over, finished, gone. The hantu raja had given up the ghost under the cruel torture, its increasingly fragile mind unable to endure the extremes Ali had put it to. And, rather than risk any mention of the woman he had come to love, the hantu had preferred to shut down its body and mind, hopefully saving Aisah from this monster’s clutches.
For a moment Ali showed a small regret at ending the poor creature’s life, a tiny tear welled up at the corner of Ali’s eye, but soon disappeared as Ali realised the true enormity of his situation. A cold shiver ran down Ali’s spine while a bolt of white-hot fright ran in the opposite direction up and into his brain. Now wide-eyed Ali stopped still and thought his situation over.
Meanwhile the second hantu raya looked on in disgust and nervousness at the fate of its fellow being. It had known that Ali could be vengeful, but had never realised the depths that Ali would go to get his own way, and it was torn between running off and staying, each course having its merits and eventual consequences. As the normal hantu mental processes were quite slow it stayed while it too thought what to do next.
From the bushes more than one observing Bunian had fainted during the witnessing of torture, others had been sick – physically as well as mentally, at the things Ali had done. Rarely had such a sight been witnessed on Tea Mountain, and certainly not in the hundreds of years these Bunian had been alive and caring for the mountain and its various inhabitants. The normally quite impartial Bunian actually began to consider meeting in council to discuss their position, with many messages suggesting pledges and the possibility of allegiances and alliances. Things had gone too far, they felt, and a growing disgruntlement was now turning into a real force for opposition.
Messages had been sent all over of the cruelty and shame that visited their mountain, and the Bunian let it be known that they were going to be opposed to any force which may have sanctioned such an abomination. Any force at all. And that is how Djinba got to learn of his servant’s failure.
The Game is Afoot
Giving off a delicate pink puff from its exhaust pipe, the nicely shaded pink jeep began taking its occupants Melvyn the bomoh, Just-Abangah and the Geek on the two hour drive up Tea Mountain, in the hope that they might be able to retrieve Melvyn’s stolen strawberry jam, and his wife Aisah.
“Aha”, said the Geek, as the jeep gently pulled up the mountain, “The game is afoot”
”The what is a what” replied Just Abangah
“The game is afoot”
“How can a game be a foot, what is this, some sort of quiz”
”It’s a quote from a very old detective” chipped in Melvyn “One who, incidentally, never existed”.
“Oh, are you sure” ventured a disillusioned Geek
“Absolutely” replied a grimacing Melvyn
“I’m confused” squeaked Just-Abangah
“Nothing’s changed then” caustically replied Melvyn
“What does it mean – the game is a foot” whispered Just-Abangah to the Geek
“It means that we have started, we are on the trail”
“Ah!” said Just-Abangah, none the wiser, “So why did you say the game was a foot, why not a hand, a bicycle, a lump of cheese - I just don’t understand.”
“No you don’t, do you” said the Geek quietly to itself.
“And you, if you dare say, are we there yet, one more time....” Melvyn said pointedly at Just-Abangah
“I’ll turn you into a donkey”
“Can he do that” Just-Abangah whispered to the Geek
“And, what’s more, think yourself lucky you’re in a nice, pretty, pink jeep” said Melvyn with a huge hint of sarcasm in his voice
“ ....Instead of riding on the back of some huge polar bear, or flying dangerously on some talking dragon or wandering off through ill placed wardrobes” Melvyn continued to no-one in particular, in a voice rapidly losing its tentative grip on reality.
The Geek and Just-Abangah looked at each other wide-eyed, shrugged their shoulders to each other, and thought that they would just pretend they hadn’t heard those last remarks, and might be thankful, one day, in the future to have let them slip away into their mutual unconscious minds, without further questioning.
And with that the rest of the day dragged itself past as did the slow moving up-hill scenery, going down while the travellers were going up Tea Mountain.
Increasingly Melvyn was becoming less and less talkative. And, as time went on, he became internally more anxious about the fate of his wife, but he wouldn’t admit that, not even to himself.
Melvyn was an ‘old school’ man, not a ‘new man’ washing dishes and putting out the washing, no Melvyn was a firm believer in the old order when men were men and women did everything – leaving the men to be men, just that and little else. Melvyn was more than a little perplexed by assertive women, especially pink loving genies, but assertive women in general caused him consternation. For Melvyn assertiveness in women was against the natural order of things, and yet he had always been surrounded by them – but that didn’t make it right.
Melvyn’s mum had always bossed his father around, when he was there, that is, and not wandering off in the forests searching for food which always seemed to escape him, or debating the fate of the country with his mates at the local corner tea shop. Melvyn’s mum just could not understand the very important fact that men needed to gather together, smoke, and drink endless cups of tea or coffee to make sure that the world was spinning in the way it ought to. For some reason Melvyn’s mum thought it a waste of time, and barred Melvyn’s dad from going to the local corner tea shop, which, in all practicality meant that Melvyn’s dad went anyway, but was then doing it illicitly.
Then there was Shakira, the infamous pink-loving genie, not so much a matriarch, but The Matriarch. Shakira had always been larger than life, outspoken, demanding, but somehow she also had another side to her which over-shadowed the bossier side, and, then, as a single man, Melvyn had been quite drawn to her and often found her bossiness a little endearing, especially if it included a whip and high heels. And, finally, there was Aisah, his beloved Aisah, love of his life and darling wife, who desperately tried to keep Melvyn in line, but also gave him his freedom too as she understood that a man must have enough space to feel lonely in. And he sorely missed her.
Another hour into the journey and Melvyn pulled the pink jeep off the road to rest. The journey had been quite taxing for Melvyn, cautiously driving round and round the mountain, avoiding on-coming traffic and red earth avalanches while simultaneously managing not to plunge the jeep several hundred feet down shrubby ravines.
It was quiet. All that could be heard was the distant barking of dogs in the rural villages and the minute variations in mountain birdsong. The spot Melvyn had chosen was a little shady, and the small rest area had been chipped out of the mountain’s rock, giving an alcove a little larger than the jeep, and room enough for three travellers to stretch out in.
Melvyn closed his weary eyes and rested while Just-Abangah had become more fidgety ever since he had seen a river running below the incline. After waiting a few moments the restless Just-Abangah crossed the road and wandered off down the incline to a small river, careful not to run too fast and end up in the river, instead of beside the river. Just-Abangah fiddled around in his cavernous pockets and came up with a length of fishing line and an old battered hook embedded in a bubblegum caked eraser. He looked around and spotted a stone with a small hole and fixed his makeshift fishing line through it. Next Just-Abangah wrestled a bush for one of its straighter branches, and he was all set to go fishing.
There was a noise behind Just-Abangah and the Geek slid to a halt inches away from him.
“Room enough for two”. It seemed like a rhetorical question so Just-Abangah just smiled and cast the line out into the flowing waters.
Melvyn slept the sleep of the middle-aged bomoh while his two companions bonded over a spot of fishing. After a while Just-Abangah’s fishing line grew taught, and almost tugged the makeshift rod from his hands. With a small squeal of delight Just-Abangah whipped the rod sideways to ensure he had snared the catch and began moving slowly backwards away from the river to bring his quarry closer to the land. The Geek waited eagerly by the water’s edge to scoop the fish as it neared the bank. Giggling like a girl, the Geek swept the fish up and out of the water with two hands. It landed flapping and jumping until Just-Abangah sent its soul to fishy heaven with a well place rock to the head.
The slight commotion had woken Melvyn and he sped down the incline just in time to witness the landing of a nicely sized fish, by his two, laughing, travelling companions. Melvyn went off looking for some wild herbs and came back with a wild banana leaf and some green leaves, meanwhile the Geek pulled out a thin bladed knife, from, seemingly, out of nowhere and proceeded to gut the fish and wash away the entrails in the river. As the Geek began to clean the gill and head area something small dropped from the fish’s mouth and rolled along the ground.
Just-Abangah grabbed at the object, discovering it to be a golden coloured ring.
“Hey look what I found, it’s a ring” and, as Just-Abangah spoke, strange fiery writing appeared around the ring, glowing brightly in the afternoon light.
“Wah, it’s very pretty, can I have a look” mentioned the Geek, but Just-Abangah became a little reluctant to release the ring from his grasp.
“Oh come on J.A, let’s see”
and with that Melvyn snatched the ring from Just-Abangah’s hand and threw it back into the water.
“Mmm, looks like trouble to me” said a hasty Melvyn,
“Better it go back where it belongs”.
Somewhere in the back of Just-Abangah’s mind the word ‘precious’ was just beginning to form, and then the ring was gone and so was the word, lost again to the sight of man, Geek and teenager.
Melvyn cooked the succulent fish with fresh wild herbs and small chillies, wrapped in banana leaves slowly over the heated rocks of a hastily formed fire, and the three of them delighted in deliciously, freshly cooked food once more, served on washed banana leaves - all the time being watched by cat-like eyes from the surrounding forest.
After eating, slowly, practically slyly, Melvyn slid away from his companions. Then, suddenly, there was a ruckus amongst the bushes, a squabbling and an explosion of small leaves as Melvyn re-appeared with two strange, green, creatures each caught by a foot in Melvyn’s curled fists. “Bunian” he said.
The two creatures were unused to being seen by other beings and were quite shy, not to mention a little embarrassed and annoyed at being caught so easily by Melvyn. On release they sat on the ground a little dejected, shoulders hunched and expecting the very worse, but all Melvyn did was smile and explain what they were to Just-Abangah and the Geek. To the Bunian he asked if a hantu raja had been seen recently carrying a woman, the he explained who the woman was and the Bunian, after being reflectively quiet a moment or two, told of the recent sightings further up the mountain.
“Good, then we are getting closer” then, un-Melvyn-like Melvyn gave a heartfelt silent prayer for the safety of his wife.
“Come, let’s go”. And, once again, Melvyn was in good spirits and ready to re-enter the chase.
“Aha”, said the Geek, as the jeep gently pulled up the mountain, “The game is afoot”
”The what is a what” replied Just Abangah
“The game is afoot”
“How can a game be a foot, what is this, some sort of quiz”
”It’s a quote from a very old detective” chipped in Melvyn “One who, incidentally, never existed”.
“Oh, are you sure” ventured a disillusioned Geek
“Absolutely” replied a grimacing Melvyn
“I’m confused” squeaked Just-Abangah
“Nothing’s changed then” caustically replied Melvyn
“What does it mean – the game is a foot” whispered Just-Abangah to the Geek
“It means that we have started, we are on the trail”
“Ah!” said Just-Abangah, none the wiser, “So why did you say the game was a foot, why not a hand, a bicycle, a lump of cheese - I just don’t understand.”
“No you don’t, do you” said the Geek quietly to itself.
“And you, if you dare say, are we there yet, one more time....” Melvyn said pointedly at Just-Abangah
“I’ll turn you into a donkey”
“Can he do that” Just-Abangah whispered to the Geek
“And, what’s more, think yourself lucky you’re in a nice, pretty, pink jeep” said Melvyn with a huge hint of sarcasm in his voice
“ ....Instead of riding on the back of some huge polar bear, or flying dangerously on some talking dragon or wandering off through ill placed wardrobes” Melvyn continued to no-one in particular, in a voice rapidly losing its tentative grip on reality.
The Geek and Just-Abangah looked at each other wide-eyed, shrugged their shoulders to each other, and thought that they would just pretend they hadn’t heard those last remarks, and might be thankful, one day, in the future to have let them slip away into their mutual unconscious minds, without further questioning.
And with that the rest of the day dragged itself past as did the slow moving up-hill scenery, going down while the travellers were going up Tea Mountain.
Increasingly Melvyn was becoming less and less talkative. And, as time went on, he became internally more anxious about the fate of his wife, but he wouldn’t admit that, not even to himself.
Melvyn was an ‘old school’ man, not a ‘new man’ washing dishes and putting out the washing, no Melvyn was a firm believer in the old order when men were men and women did everything – leaving the men to be men, just that and little else. Melvyn was more than a little perplexed by assertive women, especially pink loving genies, but assertive women in general caused him consternation. For Melvyn assertiveness in women was against the natural order of things, and yet he had always been surrounded by them – but that didn’t make it right.
Melvyn’s mum had always bossed his father around, when he was there, that is, and not wandering off in the forests searching for food which always seemed to escape him, or debating the fate of the country with his mates at the local corner tea shop. Melvyn’s mum just could not understand the very important fact that men needed to gather together, smoke, and drink endless cups of tea or coffee to make sure that the world was spinning in the way it ought to. For some reason Melvyn’s mum thought it a waste of time, and barred Melvyn’s dad from going to the local corner tea shop, which, in all practicality meant that Melvyn’s dad went anyway, but was then doing it illicitly.
Then there was Shakira, the infamous pink-loving genie, not so much a matriarch, but The Matriarch. Shakira had always been larger than life, outspoken, demanding, but somehow she also had another side to her which over-shadowed the bossier side, and, then, as a single man, Melvyn had been quite drawn to her and often found her bossiness a little endearing, especially if it included a whip and high heels. And, finally, there was Aisah, his beloved Aisah, love of his life and darling wife, who desperately tried to keep Melvyn in line, but also gave him his freedom too as she understood that a man must have enough space to feel lonely in. And he sorely missed her.
Another hour into the journey and Melvyn pulled the pink jeep off the road to rest. The journey had been quite taxing for Melvyn, cautiously driving round and round the mountain, avoiding on-coming traffic and red earth avalanches while simultaneously managing not to plunge the jeep several hundred feet down shrubby ravines.
It was quiet. All that could be heard was the distant barking of dogs in the rural villages and the minute variations in mountain birdsong. The spot Melvyn had chosen was a little shady, and the small rest area had been chipped out of the mountain’s rock, giving an alcove a little larger than the jeep, and room enough for three travellers to stretch out in.
Melvyn closed his weary eyes and rested while Just-Abangah had become more fidgety ever since he had seen a river running below the incline. After waiting a few moments the restless Just-Abangah crossed the road and wandered off down the incline to a small river, careful not to run too fast and end up in the river, instead of beside the river. Just-Abangah fiddled around in his cavernous pockets and came up with a length of fishing line and an old battered hook embedded in a bubblegum caked eraser. He looked around and spotted a stone with a small hole and fixed his makeshift fishing line through it. Next Just-Abangah wrestled a bush for one of its straighter branches, and he was all set to go fishing.
There was a noise behind Just-Abangah and the Geek slid to a halt inches away from him.
“Room enough for two”. It seemed like a rhetorical question so Just-Abangah just smiled and cast the line out into the flowing waters.
Melvyn slept the sleep of the middle-aged bomoh while his two companions bonded over a spot of fishing. After a while Just-Abangah’s fishing line grew taught, and almost tugged the makeshift rod from his hands. With a small squeal of delight Just-Abangah whipped the rod sideways to ensure he had snared the catch and began moving slowly backwards away from the river to bring his quarry closer to the land. The Geek waited eagerly by the water’s edge to scoop the fish as it neared the bank. Giggling like a girl, the Geek swept the fish up and out of the water with two hands. It landed flapping and jumping until Just-Abangah sent its soul to fishy heaven with a well place rock to the head.
The slight commotion had woken Melvyn and he sped down the incline just in time to witness the landing of a nicely sized fish, by his two, laughing, travelling companions. Melvyn went off looking for some wild herbs and came back with a wild banana leaf and some green leaves, meanwhile the Geek pulled out a thin bladed knife, from, seemingly, out of nowhere and proceeded to gut the fish and wash away the entrails in the river. As the Geek began to clean the gill and head area something small dropped from the fish’s mouth and rolled along the ground.
Just-Abangah grabbed at the object, discovering it to be a golden coloured ring.
“Hey look what I found, it’s a ring” and, as Just-Abangah spoke, strange fiery writing appeared around the ring, glowing brightly in the afternoon light.
“Wah, it’s very pretty, can I have a look” mentioned the Geek, but Just-Abangah became a little reluctant to release the ring from his grasp.
“Oh come on J.A, let’s see”
and with that Melvyn snatched the ring from Just-Abangah’s hand and threw it back into the water.
“Mmm, looks like trouble to me” said a hasty Melvyn,
“Better it go back where it belongs”.
Somewhere in the back of Just-Abangah’s mind the word ‘precious’ was just beginning to form, and then the ring was gone and so was the word, lost again to the sight of man, Geek and teenager.
Melvyn cooked the succulent fish with fresh wild herbs and small chillies, wrapped in banana leaves slowly over the heated rocks of a hastily formed fire, and the three of them delighted in deliciously, freshly cooked food once more, served on washed banana leaves - all the time being watched by cat-like eyes from the surrounding forest.
After eating, slowly, practically slyly, Melvyn slid away from his companions. Then, suddenly, there was a ruckus amongst the bushes, a squabbling and an explosion of small leaves as Melvyn re-appeared with two strange, green, creatures each caught by a foot in Melvyn’s curled fists. “Bunian” he said.
The two creatures were unused to being seen by other beings and were quite shy, not to mention a little embarrassed and annoyed at being caught so easily by Melvyn. On release they sat on the ground a little dejected, shoulders hunched and expecting the very worse, but all Melvyn did was smile and explain what they were to Just-Abangah and the Geek. To the Bunian he asked if a hantu raja had been seen recently carrying a woman, the he explained who the woman was and the Bunian, after being reflectively quiet a moment or two, told of the recent sightings further up the mountain.
“Good, then we are getting closer” then, un-Melvyn-like Melvyn gave a heartfelt silent prayer for the safety of his wife.
“Come, let’s go”. And, once again, Melvyn was in good spirits and ready to re-enter the chase.
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