K e n a n g a

The Story So Far

2009-07-26T17:26:00.003+08:00

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Hello.

'Kenanga' is now re-opened, but here's the caveat: it's incomplete, and will probably remain so for quite awhile. Reason being is that I want to gauge interest and thoughts before carrying on.

In the meantime, have a go, and let me know what you think. Episodes are listed below. Click on the chapter titles, of course:

Here you go, and leave a comment, message etc.

:)

Thanks...

Ku tahu asal usul mu...
Yang laut balik ke laut;
Yang darat balik ke darat;
Nasi berwarna hamba sembahkan...

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Chapter 6

2009-04-30T08:38:00.002+08:00

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catch up here, here, here, here, here and here
or go to the archives on the right of the page, of course

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March 21, 1960
77km off shore from Kampung Bukit Pantai

The temperature in the air must have plummeted by ten degrees or so, as suddenly it felt awfully cold. That however did not deter the men on board Mr. Ramli’s boat, or the men in the other boats around them. There were about five boats there, and most of the men were still pulling up squid after squid from the depths. Rafar, who had stopped sometime ago, was sitting with Luqman at the stern. Luqman too had slowed down a bit. His spool and jig rested beside him. The boat rocked, and Rafar had a nagging felt that it was rocking harder and harder. The waves were getting higher. Rafar suddenly felt uneasy.

“Relax,” Luqman said.

“What?” Rafar said, surprised.

“You look worried. Just relax. If you’re feeling seasick, go have a nap or something.”

“I'm fine,” Rafar retorted, a little harshly. He ignored Luqman, who grabbed his spool and began jigging again, and went to see his father, who was sitting at the bow of the bow of the boat. His father was gazing out into the darkness; he had a concerned look on his face, and that made Rafar’s uneasiness increase.

“What’s wrong, Ayah?”

Mr. Ramli turned at his son and shook his head. He was unsmiling. “It’s… it’s too cold.” Rafar waited. Mr. Ramli spoke without looking at him. “I hope to Allah I'm wrong. But I think it is going to rain…”

His father’s words trailed at the end. Rafar waited a bit, but when he saw his father wasn’t going to say anything more, he went back to the stern. Luqman was unhooking a glowing, writhing squid from his jig. He chucked it into a plastic container with the rest of his catch. Rafar took a seat next to Luqman.

“My father thinks it’s going to rain,” Rafar said. “And I think he’s right.”

Luqman scoffed. “So? A little rain won’t hurt.”

As if on cue, a streak of lightning ran across the skies in wild and frenzied arcs. Five seconds passed when the distant roar of thunder was heard. And felt, Rafar thought. He turned to look at Luqman who was looking at the skies; suddenly he too, had a worried look on his face.

“It’s going to be fine,” Luqman said, but there was no conviction in his voice.

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In The Forest

The green-eyed woman was now walking towards the beach again. She had left her sisters back at the palace despite their protests that she stayed. They told her to go only when she absolutely needed to. But she refused to listen. She would not sit idly when she thinks she could have a chance to change her fate.

She quickened her pace, her feet racing on the forest floor. It was awkward to move so quickly in her silk sarong and her long selendang, but nevertheless she managed. The sound of the sea grew louder; she was drawing closer to the beach. She whispered something into the air and suddenly her speed increased, as if carried by a wind.

A moment later she came bursting out of the trees and found herself on the white sandy shore, lit by moonlight. She gazed out to the sea, looking left and right, as if scanning. Her eyesight surpassed that of any man alive; within moments she saw what she was looking for. She took a deep breath and abruptly sat herself, cross-legged, just on the water’s edge. She joined middle fingers and thumbs together on each hand and rested them on her knees. The green-eyed woman then closed her eyes, and began to sing softly in a strange language.

She waited.

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77km offshore

The frequency of lightning increased and the sound of thunder drew closer and grew louder as time passed by. By now, all the men on all the boats had pulled their jigs out of the water and were pacing uneasily on their boats. There murmurs of a storm being whispered amongst them, but all were bleakly hoping it would be nothing more than a drizzle. That notion grew more unlikely. The air was even colder now, and a stiff wind began to blow. The boats rocked, making all but the most hardy of the men feeling queasy in their stomachs.

On Mr. Ramli’s boat, the men were all huddled in the small and cramped cabin. Pakcik Dollah Kelapa was chewing his tobacco with deadly concentration; Abang Jaafar and Pakcik Amran were quiet, silently contemplating what would happen, and the younger men, Omar and Salleh, were seated back-to-back and trying to get to sleep; Rafar thought they did so because they just wanted time to pass by as quickly. Rafar himself was squeezed between his father and Luqman.

The air was thick and he thought they all could feel the static and bitterness in the air. The thunder was getting very loud now, very close. Every so often the skies would light up with electricity. The clouds that were carrying the charge were surely close now. It was only a matter of time before it would reach them. Rafar hoped it would pass them by.

“Ayah,” he asked his father, who was looking out of the cabin. Mr. Ramli had a weary and fearful expression on his face when he turned to look at his youngest son. “Can’t we just start the boat and go back to shore?”

Mr. Ramli raised his eyebrows. “In this dark? And with what I think is a storm riding behind us? No. I would not chance it. It is much too dangerous. Our best chance is to ride this out… and pray it would not be so bad,” he sighed.

“I hate it when my gut is right about these kind of things.”

Plink! A drop of water fell beside Mr. Ramli’s hand. Rafar saw it too. Then they began to hear the tip-tap of rain falling on the roof of their boat; the tip-taps started slowly, and then suddenly became faster. There was a flash of lightning and this time the thunder followed immediately. It seemed that the storm cloud was directly above them. Rafar became very afraid, and with a crazy lucidity he recalled the story his father told him. He remembered his father saying how the sea would suddenly decide it hates you. The rest of the men in the cabin were now fully awake; Rafar heard one of them; he thought it was Salleh, say prayers.

“Ya Allah, protect us and keep us safe from harm so that we may return to our families…”

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Kampung Bukit Pantai

Shahira woke up with a jolt; she was sweating although she felt cold. Dazed, she looked around before slowly coming to grips with herself. She was still in her room; the gasoline lamp beside her glowed dimly. Beside her, her younger sister lay soundly asleep. Shahira wiped her face and put a hand to her heart, which was beating wildly.

She had had a nightmare. In it, she saw herself standing on a raft in the middle of a vast ocean where there was no sign of land or life anywhere. She was drifting aimlessly beneath the scorching sun when she suddenly saw someone swimming towards her. It was Rafar. She stood on the raft and with horror realized a huge wave coming up behind Rafar. She shouted and screamed for him to swim faster but he did not seem to hear her. The wave swelled behind him and swallowed him into its deadly roll before diminishing just before reaching her raft. In the dream she heard Rafar scream her name before disappearing beneath the water, and that is what woke her up.

She got up quietly and went to the small kitchen of her kampung home. She poured herself a cup of cold coffee (her mother always kept a pot of cold coffee in the kitchen) and went to the door of her house. She lived about 100 meters away from Rafar, but her house was nearer to the beach; in fact it overlooked the sea, being separated from the sands by a line of tall and thin coconut palms. She opened the door and stood there with the cup in her hands.

She sipped her cold coffee and for the first time in her eighteen years in the kampung thought about how quiet the nights were. There was hardly any sound, not even crickets or owls. There was only the sound of the sea, and at this time of night, it was not entirely pleasant. Rather, it sounded haunted and ghostly. Shahira shivered.

She said a prayer for Rafar, hoping he was safe out there.

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On the sands

The woman was in a trance. Her body swayed ever so slightly from side to side. The water was lapping beneath her, wetting her seat and legs. But she did not notice any of that. Her mind was elsewhere.

In her mind she was flying over a seemingly endless expanse of water. As she approached closer to where she wanted to be, cold, hard raindrops struck at her face; a strong wind almost sent her tumbling wildly through the air. The water beneath her was now foamy and churning. She felt she was getting close. She was drawing nearer to a cluster of vessels that were rolling and crashing on the surface of the water. She distantly heard the shouts of terrified men, but their voices were silenced by the fierce roar of thunder. In the brief flashes of lightning, she saw the terrified looks on their faces. And yet she was looking for only one face among those faces.

She saw all this in her mind as clearly as if she was there herself; she was still on the beach, still in a trance. And then abruptly, her eyes opened. She stood up slowly, ignoring the fact that the lower half of her sarong and the tips of her selendang were now soaked with water.

A glow seemed to radiate from her; she was bathed in a soft golden light. You will not be afraid, she thought. Her eyes narrowed, focused.

I am coming for you.

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77km offshore

Rafar felt the fear coursing through his veins, blocking his every attempt to stay focused. Beside him Mr. Ramli was holding on steadily as their boat rocked. At one point it tilted so acutely that they saw the water, and all of them thought their boat would tip over upside down. It was a miracle it did not happen. But the waves were now swollen and the sea was rough and angry; it foamed and churned, forming vortexes. From the corner of his eyes Rafar could see that the other boats were not faring any better either. He could hear the screams of terrified men amidst the thunder and rain.

Luqman had rolled himself into a ball, his head tucked in and his knees up to his chest. Pakcik Amran was sat in similar fashion, but he only had a grave look on his face. He was not cowering, although the fear was plain to see. His son, the usually friendly and talkative Jaafar, had flattened himself on the floor of the cabin. Pakcik Dollah Kelapa, Omar and Salleh were sat in the corners of the cabin; they were holding on to each other.

Suddenly Rafar felt their boat being carried high by a wave, lifting it stern up higher than the bow. The men were thrown off balance and they crashed into each other out of the cabin and onto the deck. The wave then brought the boat crashing back down and cold, salty water splashed onto the boat. The men were sprawled on the deck, and before they could get up and regain their senses, another wave brought down a wall of water upon them. It was so powerful it caved in the roof of their cabin.

“HANG ON TO SOMETHING!” Mr. Ramli shouted at the top of his lungs. He was lying down on the deck, as were the others, and they each scrambled to get hold of whatever steady object there was on the boat. None of them risked getting up for fear of being thrown into the raging water. Rafar and Luqman grabbed hold of each other and clung on a piece of rope. Lightning flashed violently in the sky above them, and wave upon wave of saltwater slammed onto the boat. The rain was hard and cold and it stung their bodies like bullets. A bolt of electricity, hot and bright, struck one of the lamps that were still hanging off the sides of the boat; the lamp shattered and exploded in a blinding flash, sending sparks flying.

Even in the chaos Rafar could hear prayers; this time it was from Luqman, who was holding onto his arm with one hand and the rope with his other. His eyes were squeezed shut and his hair plastered to his face. Rafar heard him say “YaAllahsaveusYaAllahsaveusYaAllahsaveus”. Rafar was thinking the same thoughts when a loose squid jig, thrown around on by the storm, dug its spikes into his forehead. He cried out in pain and let go of Luqman and the rope, bringing his hands to his face.

The boat tilted and Rafar was sent hurdling on the deck. He heard Luqman shout his name. He crashed into the plastic containers holding their catch. The jig was still on his forehead, and he could feel the steely spikes in his skin. It hurt like mad. His hands fumbled around with it, trying to pull it out when another wave sent him tumbling forward again.

“Rafar!!” Mr. Ramli shouted in fear when he saw his son was being thrown around on the boat like a rag. Rafar fell towards the hull and hit his head. He saw stars and this time a new pain from the back of his head. He tried to get up and heard his father shout “Stay down!” so he did. He touched his forehead and realized the jig was already out; he felt the wound; the spikes had torn a strip of skin roughly an inch long. The pain throbbed.

“Rafar, I'm coming for you,” he heard his father say. He saw his father moving carefully down to the bow. He was moving along the edges of the boat to keep steady. The boat was being thrown around by the sea. The rain had not given up either. “Stay there, keep low!” his father shouted.

But the panic that he had somehow kept in check suddenly exploded; Rafar stood up to try and go to where his father was, but he regretted the move instantly. As soon as he lifted his body, a wall of water that looked so very tall rose beside the boat and came crashing down upon it. A massive volume of water flooded the vessel. The men, who already hanging on for dear life, tightened their grips and held their breath and watched helplessly as some of their equipment and catch were carried into the sea.

Mr. Ramli wiped his face and glanced wildly to where his son was; he had seen Rafar got up and knew instantly that was a mistake. And now his fears doubled; his son was nowhere to be seen.

“Rafar!!!” he shouted. Luqman, who saw what had happened, also began to shout, and soon the other men joined in. “RAFAR!!”

Rafar was no longer on the boat.

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He struggled to keep his head above water. The waves were unpredictable and trying to stay afloat was proving difficult. Rafar tried to swim but kept getting nowhere. The fear threatened to drag him into the depths.

He had been thrown into the water when the huge wave struck, and only because he had made the mistake of standing up with no purchase. He had crashed into the sea and the thrashing water had dragged him far from the boat before he could even shout for help. His attempts to swim back had been thwarted by debris and fatigue; to his dismay he saw that the other boats were nowhere near to him as well.

He kicked with his legs and tried to move forward but the current was winning. He felt himself being carried further away from the boats. He shouted for help but his voice was lost amidst the storm. His limbs began to tire. His whole body ached; his lungs were burning and he had swallowed a lot of seawater. The waves were pushing him further and further out. A strange lucidity took hold of him as he slowly came to believe he was going to die. Time seemed to slow down, and the world became blurry. He stopped kicking and paddling. He felt very tired. His eyelids grew heavy.

So this is what it’s like to die, Rafar thought. And suddenly he saw a face seem to materialize out of the air above him; the face was beautiful and the owner had the dreamiest olive-green eyes. The face then grew into a whole person and in his fading consciousness he thought he must have been going crazy before he kicked the bucket, because how could this someone be in the air above him unless she was flying?

Who was this, an angel?

He was dimly aware that the figure held out her hands and he took them; he felt his body being lifted out of the water and just before he passed out, he felt that he was flying through space, and, so it seemed, time, and was that not strange? And all while that happened he smelled a lovely scent in the air, a scent he knew. It was the scent of a flower that grew on trees and had long, tapered and velvety petals. The sweet scent of the flower the Malays call Bunga Kenanga.

to be continued...

Chapter 5

2009-04-26T10:02:00.000+08:00

------

catch up here, here, here, here and here
or go to the archives on the right of the page, of course
:)

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In the cool throes of the night, a figure stands on a quiet and empty beach. The tide is high, and the water laps at the figure’s feet. A moon, full and bright, sits abreast the dark sky, accompanied by the twinkle of a million stars. The moon casts an eerie glow upon the beach, and its light touches the figure, revealing it to the world.

It is a young woman; her white skin glows beneath the celestial illumination, and her silky hair billows behind her. A long, translucent silk selendang is draped across her bare shoulders; the selendang seems to float around her body, weightless and unbound. The woman has a sad expression on her face; a single teardrop falls on her cheek. She does not wipe it away.

Her heartbeat is slow, rhythmic and controlled. She raises the palm of her hands to her face and in it is an elegant yellow flower with thin, tapered petals. The smell is wonderful, soothing and tender. She sheds another tear; this time the bead of water falls onto the sand and creates a miniscule crater.

She brings her open palms to her lips and blows; the flower trembles, shakes and finally is lifted into the air. The ocean breeze takes over and carries the flower into it’s cool current; the woman looks at it tumble in the air until it becomes a distant speck. Finally the flower vanishes from her view.

“I shall see you soon,” she says.

She smiles, and the smile is knowing, yet full of sadness.

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March 19, 1960
Kampung Bukit Pantai

Fishing activities on the east coast of Malaya took a significant dive in the months prior to March due to the Monsoon season. Although some still went out to sea during the months of November all down to early February, only the bravest and the dumbest would go out on a regular basis. The Monsoon was not to be disrespected, and no amount of fishing harvest would mean as much if lives were at stake. And so for around four months, the wiry men of Kampung Bukit Pantai did not go out as much as usual.

Monsoon was mostly a time to run other businesses; processing fish was one of them, but mostly the fishermen of the kampung spent these quieter, less busier times doing maintenance work on their boats and houses. Some took temporary jobs in the bigger towns or in orchards and plantations. The Monsoon season was especially frowned upon by the younger people and the children of the kampung; having used to a life on the coast, rains and storms rendered these months boring for them as they would be stuck at home with naught to do.

So they waited and waited until the clouds dissipated and the winds gradually died down; by the end of February the skies began to turn blue again and the worst of the tempests would be long gone, perhaps pushed out into the Pacific. The seas would grow calmer and settle into a somewhat melancholic state. This was a time that was eagerly awaited by most of the fishermen of the kampung for two reasons. One, it meant that their fishing could resume, bringing a vital source of income back to their homes.

Two, it meant squid season had arrived.

The calmer seas were ideal conditions for the squid; it signaled the start of breeding season. During this time, the squid would emerge from the depths of the ocean into shallower, warmer water to mate and breed. The males would be aggressive and the females would be fat with eggs. They would congregate in the thousands just meters below the surface. The fishermen of the kampung, of course, are well aware of this through observations and knowledge passed down from generations of their forefathers. Squid had a high market price, and none of the old salts wanted to miss out. Furthermore, it was a relatively easy and also fun alternative to the regular burden of setting out nets.

The fishermen would take their boats out to sea to known breeding spots by day, where they did their normal fishing routines. But come nightfall, they would light fluorescent lamps (the boats were often modified to accommodate these lamps, which ran off a generator) to attract the squid and lower weighted jigs into the water. These jigs had no hooks; instead, they had about a dozen upward facing spikes. They proved irresistible to the squid, especially as their aggression is heightened during these times. On a good night, it was not unheard of to catch more than a hundred kilos of squid, some of them almost two feet long.

The first boat to go out this season belonged to Mr. Kassim, a fat and short man with a thick moustache that had one of the bigger boats in the kampung. He had gone out two days earlier and came back with almost 250kg of squid, all from jigging. He had given some to his closest neighbors, and sold off the rest to a buyer from the city.

Rafar, Luqman, Suhaimi and Shahira had been on the beach when Mr. Kassim’s boat came in; they were amazed at the size of the catch. They heard Mr. Kassim boast that the only reason they were back at shore was because they ran out of space to store the squid on the boat.

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“We have to go again this year!” Luqman said to Rafar and Suhaimi one day later as they sat in the lone coffee shop in the kampung. Rafar sipped a cup of hot tea and raised his eyebrows. He looked at Suhaimi, who looked back at him.

“Well?” Luqman asked again. The previous year the three of them had gone on a squid jigging trip on Rafar’s father’s boat. Luqman had enjoyed it tremendously, especially as it meant the opportunity to eat the mollusks as soon as they were caught and brought up onto the boat. He was a simple lad, Luqman; unlike Suhaimi, who wanted to be someone, and Rafar, who felt he wasn’t sure what he wanted, Luqman was content if he could stay in the village.

“You’ll probably get in the way of Pakcik Ramli,” Shahira said, trying to sound reasonable. She was sat next to Rafar, and his closeness was almost overwhelming to her.

“Shut up, I'm sure he wouldn’t mind. He didn’t mind last year,” Luqman said, annoyed. “Come on Rafar. Maybe this year we can go on my father’s boat.”

“I'm not too keen…” Suhaimi said. “I get seasick.”

Rafar and Shahira laughed and Luqman rolled his eyes.

“You’re an embarrassment to us, you know?” Luqman said. “If you don’t want to go, fine. But Rafar, come on, I’ll ask my father and you ask yours. At least one of them would let us come.” Luqman’s father, like Rafar’s, wanted his young son to study and be something other than a fisherman, so he regularly objected to his son’s wishes to go out to sea. Luqman (and Rafar) respected his father too much to disobey, which was somewhat of a paradox to his normally indifferent and couldn’t-care-less nature.

Rafar thought for a moment, staring at his cup of tea. In truth he felt that Shahira was looking at him intently and he felt slightly uncomfortable. Earlier today when the four of them met up to come to the coffee shop, Rafar found himself noticing, and not for the first time, how Shahira looked at him. She always seemed like she was holding something back, and that of course, was true. But Rafar never pressed her.

“I wonder if I could come?” Shahira said. Luqman made a face that said ‘no way’. Shahira waved a fist at him. She was not being serious anyway.

“I’ll ask my father,” Rafar said. “It would be fun I guess.”

“Yes!” Luqman said. “Suhaimi, are you going to come?”

The thin Suhaimi shook his head. “I don’t think so. Maybe…” his eyes flinched to Shahira, but she did not see. “Maybe… well, I’ll just stay here. Besides, someone needs to keep Shahira company when you two are out at sea.”

This time Shahira did turn to him. She smiled sweetly and said, “That’s so nice of you.”

“Just saying…” Suhaimi said and took two long gulps of his own cup of tea. Rafar realized then his hunch was true; Suhaimi did like Shahira. Good luck my friend, he thought, and he meant it. Luqman rolled his eyes again, bored with the scene.

The friends continued talking, and Rafar promised Luqman that he would ask his father if they could come along the next time Mr. Ramli went out to sea. Soon the parted ways, and there was this odd and bittersweet moment went they went to separate paths: As Rafar walked away, Shahira was looking at him, her eyes dreamy and her fingers unconsciously playing with her hair; and looking at Shahira was Suhaimi, his shoulders slumped but his eyes brimming with hope.

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Mr. Ramli agreed with no hesitance regarding Rafar’s request. “I suppose you can have some fun,” he said when Rafar asked that night. Mrs. Latifah was not too keen on the idea of her youngest son out at the sea, but Rafar supposed it was just in her nature to worry. His father tried to relax her, saying that the Monsoon was over and that there was nothing to worry about.

Rafar felt pleased with himself. Although he was no longer was a big fan of going out to sea, he had enjoyed the squid jigging trip last year. It was a therapeutic experience. At least he did not have to pull in heavy nets and suffer his fingers being cut and blistered by the salt. Even his father, and his father’s friends: Pakcik Amran and his son Jaafar, Pakcik Dollah (Dollah Kelapa, although Rafar would not call him that to his face) and a few others mostly spent the trip jigging and not spreading nets. It was like the fishermen’s version of unwinding. And of course, as Luqman enjoys so much, the aspect of eating fresh squid out of the sea was a hard thing to turn down.

Mr. Ramli told Rafar they would set out tomorrow evening, and they would be staying maybe three days out at sea. Rafar said that was fine. Later that night he walked to Luqman’s house and told him the news. Luqman told his father, who grunted disinterestedly.

“Squid you like, school you don’t,” Pakcik Baharom muttered. He was a small, stocky man who had a limp as a result of stepping into a snare meant for deer. “Go, but don’t trouble Pakcik Ramli.”

“I won’t, Bapak,” Luqman said. Then Rafar and Luqman went to Suhaimi’s house to ask him another time. Again, he refused. Luqman tried to persuade him but he was adamant.

“I don’t want to, stop forcing me,” he said to Luqman, who raised his hands and nodded.

“I’ll bring you back squid, haha,” Luqman said and walked away laughing. Rafar heard him say ‘coward’ under his breath. Rafar turned to Suhaimi and shrugged.

“You’re sure you’re sure you don’t want to come?” Rafar asked. Suhaimi shook his head.

“Well, keep her company,” Rafar said and put a hand on Suhaimi’s shoulder.

“What?” Suhaimi said, trying to sound confused but his face was red. Rafar just smiled and winked his eye. He broke into a jog and went to join Luqman, who was already many yards away.

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The next day it was hot and bright. Rafar helped his father prepare for their trip in the evening. They spent most of the day packing. His father had half a dozen hand held spools of nylon string and a bunch of squid jigs, which looked like small, elongated birds with spikes at the end. The jigs were heavy and colorful. They also packed some food: dry biscuits, coffee and plenty of water. The water they would boil on the boat, which was equipped with a small gas stove.

When evening came Luqman arrived at his house. He had a basket with him containing some kuih, which his mother had made. He, too, had the spools with squid jigs. Rafar and his father said goodbye to Mrs. Latifah, and she was wearing that look of worry and anxiety on her face, the look she had whenever her husband went out to sea. Perhaps this day she was extra worried because Rafar was going along. She told Rafar to take care and be careful, and Rafar nodded.

They walked to the beach and saw the rest of the party already there: Abang Jakpa, Pakcik Amran’s son; Pakcik Dollah Kelapa, Omar and Salleh, two young men and Pakcik Amran himself. They made final checks to their equipment and boat, and the nine men pushed the boat out to sea. Mr. Ramli, who was the ‘tekong’ or captain, helmed the 35-foot long vessel. In the shallower water the two young men, Omar and Salleh, pushed the boat forward using long sturdy poles. When the water was deeper, Pakcik Amran started the diesel engine, which clanked and sputtered into life, and they were off.

The boat was not very fast; Rafar stood at the back looking the beach and saw Shahira running up to the water’s edge; she was holding a basket in her hand and was waving to him. Suhaimi followed closely behind her.

“What do you think that was about?” Luqman asked suddenly, surprising Rafar.

“I don’t know,” Rafar said. “She must have wanted to give us something to take on the trip.”

“Maybe she wanted to say goodbye,” Luqman said and laughed. He went back to the bow of the boat and sat alongside Abang Jakpa. Rafar, meanwhile, stood at the stern, and he watched the beach grow smaller and smaller as they went out further into the sea.

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March 20, 1960
Kampung Bukit Pantai

Shahira sighed disappointedly. She had been too late. She glanced at the small basket filled with fruits and cakes she had wanted to give Rafar to take on his boat trip. As it turned out, she had missed them by minutes. She watched the boat turn into a tiny dot and finally it disappeared over the horizon.

Suhaimi came running up beside her. “Hey… Hey, did you – oh, never mind…” he said when he saw the boat gone and the basket still in Shahira’s hands. She looked sad. The sun was setting and it accentuated her brown hair and eyes. Suhaimi gazed longingly at her, and then suddenly she turned to him. He quickly averted his eyes.

“Well,” Shahira sighed and she held up the basket. “At least we can still share it, right?”

Suhaimi looked at her. Earlier he was feeling a small regret for not taking up on the offer to follow the guys out for the trip; he felt torn. He wanted to stay and be with Shahira but he was also worried it would be awkward to spend time with her without Rafar and Luqman around. But on the other hand, he could not miss this opportunity to spend time with Shahira without the guys around; Rafar and Luqman would be out for three days at sea. Maybe in these three days he would find the courage to tell Shahira how he felt about her.

And now here they were, just the two of them. Shahira was smiling at him and offering to share the little goody basket she had made (even if it was originally meant for Rafar). Suhaimi thought he could chance it.

“Right,” he said. “Let’s sit down and have kuih before it gets too dark.”

He smiled awkwardly, his large teeth showing. But he didn’t care; he felt happy enough. They found a fallen coconut trunk and sat on it. Shahira placed the basket near their feet and began to run through what was in it to him.

Maybe, he thought as he sat so close next to her. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad after all.

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March 20, 1960
77 kilometers off shore from Kampung Bukit Pantai

After four hours, they finally reached the squid spawning grounds. There were already a few other boats there, and all of them had fluorescent lamps hanging off the sides. Fishermen were sat around the boat with spools in their hand, and already Rafar saw they were pulling up squid.

“We’re here boys!” Pakcik Amran said. He waved to the people on the other boats. Some of them Rafar recognized; the others probably were from a different village. The boats were spread out in almost exactly the same distances from one another. They would share this gift from the sea, and there was plenty for everyone.

His father killed the engine and dropped the anchor. During the journey here his father had explained. “Where we’re going, the water is deep, but not as deep as it should be. The seabed is higher here, and the squids make it their spawning grounds. I’ve dived here once, you know. Followed the anchor rope almost all the way down. Must be about 20 or 25 meters deep, which is quite shallow this far out.”

Rafar and Luqman glanced into the water; it seemed cold and eerily pitch black. But then Pakcik Dollah Kelapa swung a fluorescent lamp above them and the water was illuminated to a greenish yellow. They saw swimming things in the water.

“There’s a lot of squid!” Luqman exclaimed, excited. Pakcik Dollah Kelapa laughed. He was chewing tobacco.

“Sure there is,” he said; he had a somewhat disturbing smile; most of his teeth had fallen out. “As soon as we set up all our lamps, we can start jigging. Now give us a hand here and don’t just sit there!”

Rafar and Luqman helped the others set up the lamps. Soon enough all of them were dropping the odd, heavy jigs into the water, and they only had to wait a few minutes before the first squid was pulled up. It was about two feet long and it squirted black ink onto the deck. The skin glowed in the dark. Then all of them began pulling up squid; sometimes two of the slimy creatures would attack the same jig, and sometimes they would pull up only half a squid. The little critters were cannibals.

Rafar also noticed larger, sleeker shapes beneath the surface. His father and Pakcik Amran saw them too, and warned the shipmates not to dangle their feet in the water.

“Sharks,” Mr. Ramli told him. None of them touched the water. They spent a few hours jigging, and then stopped. Omar cut up some of the squid and quickly broiled them on a dented metal pan. They had the squid dipped in an assam and chili sauce. Rafar thought he had never tasted anything so delicious.

It was an enjoyable night; the squid must have been in frenzy. All of them on that boat were having a good time. None of them noticed the distant flash of lightning that, for the briefest of moments, exposed large and menacing clouds, and in the already cold night air, none of them noticed the wind had become swifter.

------------------------

The woman was still standing on the beach. She walked forward, but her feet seemed to glide across the sands. She left no footprints. Her long selendang billowed. Her hair streamed across her face, almost covering her eyes. And yet her gaze traveled many miles; she could see the cruel looking clouds far out in the ocean. She felt the tingle of electricity on her skin. She tasted the cold salt in the air.

“Are you waiting for this to happen?” a voice suddenly says.

“Could you not have waited at the palace?” Another voice.

“Indeed; it is destined. You need not torment your heart and watch it unfold,” yet another voice said.

“Hush, sisters, do not trouble our youngest,” yet another voice said.

“But we care for her, and it grieves us to see her looking despaired,” a new voice chimed in.

“We only wish for her to smile again,” another new voice said.

The voices were from six other women who had appeared behind her; all of them beautiful with long flowing hair and deep brown eyes, all of them dressed in similar fashion as she was: a sarong wrapped around the body, and a long billowy selendang draped across their shoulders. They were her sisters; they all looked almost indistinguishable from each other, save for the colors of their dress. One wore blue the color of the skies; another wore the orange of sunset; another wore a satiny blood red; another wore violet like the sky at the breaking of dawn; one wore the color of rich honey brown; and another was dressed in deep purple, like mangosteens.

The woman’s sarong was white and her selendang a pale yellow; but unlike her sisters’, her eyes were a light olive green. She turned around towards her sisters; she looked into their loving and understanding faces and felt that they were worried for her. She bowed her head down slightly.

“Thank you for your concerns, my beloved sisters. I knew this day would come, but never in a thousand years have I felt this… worry in my heart,” she said to them.

The sister in blue approached her; she too seemed to glide across the sand. She placed a hand beneath the woman’s chin and tilted her head up.

“Do not despair,” the woman in blue said. “Everything will be alright. It is Fated.” The other sisters all nodded in agreement.

“Now let us return to the palace. When the time comes, we shall set out. It will happen in time, but until then, we shall wait where it is not as dreary as this beach,” said another sister, the one in brown.

The woman in green nodded. One by one the sisters walked into the darkness behind them, and they seemed to disappear. The one in blue beckoned for her to follow. Reluctantly, she too joins her siblings. But before she leaves the beach, she casts one long look out to sea.

“You need not be afraid,” she whispered softly. “You will be safe…”

------------------------

March 21, 1960
77km off shore from Kampung Bukit Pantai

It was late night – no, early morning - and the men were still jigging squid. The initial enthusiasm had gradually died off, and the atmosphere on the boat was now more relaxed. The men talked and smoke hand rolled cigarettes (except for Pakcik Dollah Kelapa, who chewed tobacco) and drank very sweet black coffee.

Rafar and Luqman were at the stern. Luqman sat cross-legged, and was still actively jigging, but Rafar had stopped momentarily. He felt cold and rummaged through the small cabin for something warm to cover up with. He found a small blanket in the bag his father had brought along and wrapped it around his shoulders. He stepped outside and suddenly a cool gust of wind blew his way. Squinting, he noticed something fluttering in the wind. When the wind died it drifted lazily towards him. He caught it in one hand.

It was a flower; a yellow flower with long, tapered petals. A Kenanga.

It looked fresh. Rafar brought it to his nose; it smelled wonderful. He looked around the boat and saw nothing but pitch-black ocean. The flower must have traveled far on the wind, he thought. Absently, he stuffed the flower down his shirt pocket and wrapped the blanket tighter around him.

It’s getting really cold, he thought, and shivered.

to be continued....

Chapter 4

2009-04-23T19:41:00.000+08:00

--------------------

Eight Years Later

February 6 1960
Kampung Bukit Pantai

The country entered the new decade as the Independent Federation of Malaya; three years ago it gained freedom from the British Empire after months of negotiation. The monumental event was broadcast on television, but the folk of Kampung Bukit Pantai only heard it through the radio as none of the households had a working television. It was enough though, and the atmosphere had been abuzz with excitement.

Even Rafar, who was fifteen when Tunku Abdul Rahman shouted the word ‘Merdeka’ a number of times to an ecstatic crowd in the newly built Merdeka Stadium, had felt the joy and pride to be part of a free nation. The country was still troubled though; currently, the official state was of an Emergency due to communist fighters who were still at large. It would be another five months before it would be declared over.

But then for Rafar, the feeling of excitement had faded as soon as the next day came. And now, three years on from Independence, he barely felt a change in the country. Of course, this could be due to the fact that he lived in a small kampung that was quite far from the nearest city. The changes that were significant had happened in his life, or rather the life of his family. His eldest brother, Rahman, had married three years back and was now living in Kuala Terengganu, working hard labor at the shipyards whilst his wife was a shop assistant. He had quit the life of a fisherman, saying he did not want to spend a lifetime at sea. This had saddened his father, but Rafar knew that Mr. Ramli was also secretly glad. He made no secret that he wanted his sons and daughter to have a better life: an easier life, if you will, than that of a man who went to sea and slave under the sun.

Rafiq and Rakib had packed their bags and left the quaint and quiet of Kampung Bukit Pantai for Kuala Lumpur last year; about once a month Mr. Ramli and Mrs. Latifah would receive a letter containing money and news of their whereabouts. Apparently they were working as lorry drivers and shared a house in the heart of Kuala Lumpur. From the tone of their letters, they were satisfied. But it was with Rafar’s sister, Rafidah, of whom his parents were most proud of: she had been a smart student at school, hardworking and earnest, and a year before she received a scholarship and was accepted into the University of Malaya. She too, sent a letter every month.

Their parents were especially proud; Rafidah was the first child from that kampung to be accepted at the university (it should be noted though that she was amongst the few of the children in the kampung to care for education). Rafidah had grown to be a beautiful young woman, attracting the eyes of many young men of the kampung. Latifah, the mother, was also secretly glad she went to university because she believed it would be safer for her there.

Rafar was now a tall and lean young man of eighteen. He had a messy crop of hair and a pleasant, friendly face. He had finished school the year before. He had been a slightly above average student, with okay instead of great grades, and despite his parents urging him to apply to go to a university, Rafar thought and insisted he wanted to take a break from school.

“I’ve spent ten years in school Ayah, Mak,” he had said. “I think I want to rest a moment before I think about studying again. Maybe work a little.”

His parents accepted his decision, but not before they made him promise he would think about going back to school. That was a good arrangement for him, so he agreed. In the meantime, he found a job working for a man who owned a fruit plantation a few kilometers from the kampung. It was a menial job, but the pay was alright. At least he could support his parents, especially as his father was now spending more time at home than at sea. That was inevitable, really; his father was aging, and the life of a fisherman was a rough one. He was lucky to have made it as far as he could. His boat was still used by Pakcik Amran’s son, Jaafar, who had taken over and had his own crew. Even Pakcik Amran did not go out as often anymore. Mostly they helped their wives process fish into keropok or ikan masin, and sold them in the city.

As for Rafar, his desire to be out at sea had waned little by little during his school years. One day he simply forgot just how much he had wanted to go. In that time he had been on boats; he no longer found the concept of being out at sea as appealing as it had when he had been ten years old. When he was fifteen he had followed his father and Pakcik Amran out to sea for the first time. He had been amazed at how hard the work was, especially when the days were hot and the sun seemed to bake them. He had returned from that trip with strained muscles in his legs and arms. He had spent the week with aching joints. His father had laughed, and Rafar no longer wanted to be a fisherman on that day.

In fact, he had no idea how to start his life. Unlike his sister, who had been so sure that she wanted to become the doctor (and who had the brains and drive for it), Rafar did not see where he would be in the years to come. In school there was no subject that he excelled at that could have been a rough guide as to what he could do with his life… but that was not entirely true, of course.

There was a subject he was good – no, great – at, and that was Art. He had a particular talent for drawing and painting. He had a painting set, which he had saved money and bought himself in Kuala Terengganu, and he often used it to draw and color beautiful landscape paintings. Sometimes he drew the sunset as seen from his beach, or the cliff, or the boats when they are stranded on the sand. Most of these paintings were now framed in his school, a reminder of a time he studied there. But good as he was, he did not know how that skill would be beneficial in the real world. Does the world need painters and artists? Being an unexposed young man, he did not know.

“I think you should pack your bags and go to Kuala Lumpur,” Suhaimi said to him one day as they sat on the beach. Suhaimi was now a lanky young man with acne on his face; his front teeth still jutted out of his upper jaw.

“And become what?” Rafar asked back; he was holding a stick and was drawing pictures in the sand. Beside him sat Luqman, eating a banana. Once chubby, he was now slim and handsome and athletic. He threw the peel behind him and wiped his mouth.

“An artist,” Luqman said through a mouth full of banana. “You could make good money.”

“Luqman you’re disgusting,” said Shahira. Shahira was their friend from school; she also lived in Kampung Bukit Pantai. When they were younger, they barely knew each other. But growing up, they became friends. She was a smart and pretty girl who wanted to be a teacher. She was particularly fond of Rafar, despite Luqman’s more obvious attractions.

Suhaimi and Luqman always teased him about Shahira behind her back; sometimes they would scold him for not making a move. Rafar was not oblivious to this, but he never spoke about it. In truth he felt very shy about the whole matter, and for the record, Shahira never mentioned anything either. But there was something, wasn’t there? It was in the way she would speak in a softer and quieter tone with him, or in the way she rarely let their eyes meet. But right now she was separated from him by the muscular physique of Luqman and the scrawny body of Suhaimi as they sat in a row. All of them had tans, although Shahira was the fairest; her skin was a light honey brown.

She threw a handful of sand at Luqman. “Don’t speak if you’re eating.”

“I’ll speak whenever I want to,” Luqman said and opened his mouth towards her, showing her the masticated bits of fruit on his tongue. Shahira ignored him and leaned forward; her hair fluttered behind her as a wind blew. She spoke to Rafar.

“But he’s right, you know… You could go to Kuala Lumpur and become an artist,” she said. Rafar detected hints of hesitation in her voice, as if she was agreeing with the idea, but reluctant at the possibility.

Rafar shook his head. “Who would use an artist? I don’t know. Besides, how could I leave this place?”

He spread his arms. “How could anyone leave this place?”

“I would,” Suhaimi answered him. “I don’t want to be stuck in Terengganu all my life. I want to be somewhere else. Maybe be an engineer or something.” Suhaimi was undoubtedly the smartest amongst them; he was waiting for an offer to go to university.

“Maybe you,” Rafar said. “You’re a smart guy. You know numbers. I just know how to draw.”

He stood up and turned towards them. “I don’t know where I'm going.”

“Maybe you can be a teacher like I want to,” Shahira said. She got up and stood beside him. There was a small hope in her eyes as she looked at Rafar.

Luqman saw this and murmured “Of course…”

“What?” Shahira said; a faint blush touched her cheeks.

“Nothing,” Luqman said and gave her a wide, mocking grin. Shahira blushed even more; she hoped Rafar would not notice. And he didn’t; he had turned towards the infinite blue of the South China Sea.

“There’s a place I want to be,” he said. “But I just can’t figure out where yet…”

His three friends looked at each other and said nothing.

-----------------------------

Later that night, Shahira spent her time lying down on her sleeping mattress. She was a pretty girl, and she had the attention of plenty of boys from school and her own kampung. Her mother would sometimes drop names at her, in hopes she would take notice. She did, but she pretended not to anyway.

Her mother wanted her to marry; it was typical for someone of her generation, Shahira thought. But her parents did not force her and that was a fact she was thankful of. But she was thinking of Rafar; she supposed she was in love with him, but she did not have the courage to be honest about it. Besides, she was sure Rafar did not feel the same way. He probably thought of her as no more than a friend, and although she was slightly saddened by the fact, she was also glad because it meant he was still part of her life, and that was better than not having him be there at all.

To her, Rafar was a different kind of boy. Most of the boys she knew in school were loud and obnoxious; Rafar, on the other hand, was polite and friendly. She often argued and bickered with Luqman, who liked to tease her, and with Suhaimi, who was studious and insightful, she often studied with. But it was with Rafar she felt closest with; they often talked about their lives together, and Shahira noticed how Rafar never mentioned anything about a girl he liked or wanted to talk to. She took it as hope, no matter how small or pathetic that seemed. He was always nice to her. He made her feel special, even if it was not his intent.

She often thought about the two of them married, happy and with children. It was a fantasy, nothing more, but it made her feel happy… and sad at the same time. Luqman, who knew how she felt about Rafar, always told her to tell him how she felt but she always refused to. She was afraid. But she thought that Luqman was right. She had to tell Rafar. In a few months time she would be leaving the peaceful kampung and go out of state to attend a teacher’s college. The new country needed new teachers, and it was one of her dreams to become one.

I will tell him before I go, she thought as she fell asleep.

-------------------------

As Shahira was in bed at her house, Rafar, Luqman and Suhaimi were again at the beach, sitting beneath the stars. Luqman had a battered guitar with him and he was strumming some songs and singing in broken English. Rafar and Suhaimi were leaning on a fallen coconut tree. The two of them were quiet, each lost in their own thoughts. Suddenly Rafar spoke.

“Do you guys remember that day we went to the other side of the cliff?” he asked. Luqman, still singing, nodded and Suhaimi turned to look at him.

“You guys didn’t see what happened before I passed out did you?”

Luqman laughed and stopped singing. He put his guitar aside and rested his back on the tree as well. “No,” he said. “When we saw you, you looked like a dead fish.”

Suhaimi snorted. “You did. Why do you ask? It happened so long ago.”

Rafar shook his head. “I don’t know. I was looking at the stars, and it just occurred to me I don’t remember anything about what happened before I passed out. Nothing at all.”

“What’s there to remember? You probably slipped and hit your head, that’s all,” Luqman said.

“I don’t know,” Rafar said. “There’s something I almost… I don’t know…”

“What?”

“I don’t know…”

Luqman waved his hand in a dismissing gesture. “Forget it. It’s better if you think of Shahira. She clearly likes you, as we’ve told you so many times before.”

Suhaimi nodded and smiled; he looked very goofy indeed. “Yes. Man, I’d give anything to have someone like her like me. She is very beautiful.”

Rafar raised an eyebrow at him. “If you like her why don’t you tell her?”

“What? No, no,” Suhaimi said, a little defensively. “It’s not like that. No. Besides, both Luqman and I know how much she likes you, Rafar. She’s told us many times.” Rafar sensed some bitterness and jealousy in the voice, but he kept quiet.

“You’d be crazy to pass off a chance like this,” Luqman said, and looked at Suhaimi for agreement. “She likes you! A LOT. Why don’t you like her back?”

“I like her,” Rafar said. “Just… not in that way, I think…”

“HAH,” Luqman said as he let his body slide lower on the ground. Soon only his head was resting against the trunk of the fallen tree. “You’re just being picky.”

“I'm not…”

“Yeah yeah. You know Rafar, you better think about what you want. You don’t know what to do with your life, you don’t know if you want a girl. Well let me tell you something: you can do whatever you want with your life, but a girl like Shahira doesn’t come along very often. In fact, I think the only way someone would top her in this little kampung would be if she were a fairy or a princess or something. Think about that for a moment,” Luqman said and laid an arm across his eyes. Suhaimi said nothing; he too had lain down on the sand and closed his eyes.

Rafar sat quietly, and he stared absently at the stars.

(to be continued...)

Chapter 3

2009-04-19T06:24:00.008+08:00

for those who missed the first few installments, click here, here and here

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October 9, 1952
Kampung Bukit Pantai

As the days went by in the small kampung, life moved on as usual. Time seemed to move slower in these lands, and the residents were well used to their routine. While the men went to see to harvest their luck, the women stayed home and made sure the children were taken care of, and that meals were ready and their houses clean. A small cottage industry of making dried or salted fish as well as keropok thrived in the village; these were usually taken to Kuala Terengganu to be sold, and the kampung folk took a fragment of whatever profits they could get. It would be unfair to say they had no ambition; rather, they were just happy to get by and live their life the way they always had.

Granted, the changing national climate held some excitement for the more ambitious of the kampung folk. As a result, many of the younger men and women had moved to the West Coast of Malaya, eager to take part in whatever revolution that all of them felt would be taking place soon. Most however were content the way they were, and that included Rafar’s family. They were not rich, but they were comfortable enough in the shell of their lives.

A few months have passed since the day Rafar had encountered that pretty girl atop the cliff. He thought he had forgotten about it, until one day he was on the beach with two of his best friends from the kampung, Suhaimi and Luqman. They were combing the beach for critters: hermit crabs, starfish, snails and crabs. They caught these animals and placed them in a wide, circular pool they had dug themselves in the sand. The pool was then filled with salt water. As with most of children’s projects, this one had no relevant purpose other than to satisfy their fascination with little animals.

“Look what I have,” Luqman said. He was a chubby dark skinned boy who usually walked around shirtless, wearing his faded and torn school shorts. His hair was curly and almost bleached brown by the seaside sun.

“What?” Suhaimi asked. He was the opposite of Luqman; tall and thin, his ribs showed through his skin. His hair was shaggy and oily and his front teeth jutted out awkwardly. They were Rafar’s best pals; they walked to school together and sat in the same class. They’d play together or hang out together, as they were doing now.

Luqman had a bright blue starfish in his hand. The creature had sharp, short spines all around it’s appendages. He held it in front of him proudly, like an athlete showing off a medal. Rafar and Suhaimi looked at it with great interest.

“Wow, it’s blue!” Rafar said. He had only seen dull grey starfish.

“Yeah, where did you get that?” Suhaimi asked and took the starfish from Luqman’s hands. He turned it over in his hands and studied the weird patterns beneath the animal.

Luqman shrugged, unimpressed. “It was near that rock pool,” he said and pointed to a rocky outcrop that sat about 30 meters away from the cliff. Rafar and Suhaimi looked in the direction he was pointing at, holding their hands above their eyes to reduce the glare. For this project, all three of them had scoured the length of the beach looking for the most interesting creatures. Suhaimi had found a washed up jellyfish, but avoided it (even they knew how dangerous jellyfish were) whilst Rafar had not yet found anything worthy of interest. Just hermit crabs and clams.

“Is there anything else in the rock pool?” they asked Luqman, who again shrugged.

“Let’s go there. Maybe we can find some interesting stuff,” Suhaimi suggested and all of them agreed.

They left their own collection and walked towards the cliff. The closer they got there the bigger it seemed. It was not a terribly tall cliff; but it had some sort of… presence. It stood there like it was watching over the kampung. If someone had told Rafar that many centuries ago when mankind was young and that they worshipped the cliff, he would have had no trouble believing it. It really did seem like a deity; a monument to whatever Gods and Goddesses the people of ancient times held in high esteem.

When they got to the bottom, they looked up at it. Rafar briefly recalled the incident that had happened a few months back. Unaware he was about to speak, he said, “Is there another kampung on the other side of the cliff?”

“No” Luqman said. “I don’t think so. We would have seen people if there was.” Suhaimi nodded his agreement. “My father told that the nearest kampung to ours is Kampung Pasir Penyu, and that’s quite a bit farther. He said behind that cliff is nothing but jungle.”

Rafar was quiet. He thought of the girl he had met again. His friends stared at him.

“Why do you ask?” Luqman said.

Rafar shrugged. “Nothing.”

With that the three of them began to explore the rocks beneath the cliff. They had to be careful as oyster clung to the rocks, and the shells were razor sharp. They stuck to the smoother surfaces. There were plenty of rock pools beneath the cliff, between the jutting formations that Rafar thought were part of the cliff itself. Beneath the cliff, they were shaded and explored at their leisure. The pools were teeming with life; they had fun catching colorful crabs (one which clamped its claws around Luqman’s foot, causing him to scream, much to the laughter of his friends), lifting starfish out of the pools and so on. There were plenty of blue starfish, like the one Luqman had caught and showed them.

Rafar made his way around the outcrop, and walked a bit further away from his friends. Pretty soon he realized he was already on the other side of the cliff. The voices of Luqman and Suhaimi, who were engrossed with the creatures they found, were quieter now. They seemed not to realize Rafar had left them.

He gingerly maneuvered his way amongst the rocks until he came to a large boulder that rose a big higher on the outcrop. He stood up, carefully balancing himself, to take a look.

--------------------

He saw a deserted beach. Unlike the one where his kampung was on, this beach abruptly met with the jungle. There was no intermediate level between the sand and the jungle; instead the thick bushes and trees started immediately just yards from the shoreline. The beach was much too narrow to be useful for a village, especially a fishing one, and that was probably why it was uninhabited, though he saw the remnants of a boat on the sand about a hundred meters away from where he was. He hopped on the rocks and landed on the sand.

The beach was awfully quiet; the only sounds he could hear were the crashing of waves and the constant humming of insects from the jungle. He made his way to the remains of the boat; only the frame was left. It looked like the ribcage of a massive animal that had died and been buried by the sand. The woodwork had been weathered smooth by time and wind. It seemed very old. He ran his hand on the wood, and his mind thought about whomever once owned the vessel.

He must have been a fisherman, he thought.

In his mind he saw a man, strong and lean, but with grey eyes that were tired by his years at sea. This man would have known nothing else but the life of a fisherman. He would wake up before dawn and push his boat out with his friends, and they would spend days out in the blue yonder, hauling it nets full of fish. Then maybe one day a storm had struck them, perhaps a storm like the one his father had told him about, and the men were lost, claimed by the ocean. Maybe their boat had sank, years ago, until another storm and bout of oceanic rage had thrown the boat back up to the surface, and the waves finally brought the boat back to land, a reminder that what sea gives it could also take away… and return.

The boat would have landed on this beach sometime ago, and maybe an animal, perhaps a monkey that had come on to shore to search for crabs and shellfish (like Rafar and his friends were doing, except they wouldn’t eat what they found) would find the remnants of the boat and wonder what it was. The boat must have been overgrown with barnacles and moss and seaweed, but that had all dried up and been blown away by the salty sea air. Over time the bodywork had rotten away, or turned into driftwood, until finally all that was left was this frame, a tombstone that represented the brave and hardy men who once rode in its hull.

Feeling the smooth wood beneath his fingers, it was easy for Rafar to be swept away by his own thoughts. Again he began to feel a longing to be out in the open water. It was dangerous but also intensely appealing to him. He did not know the word, but if he did, he would say that he thought it was a glamorous job. A job that only the bravest men do, men like his father and Pakcik Amran and his brothers, men that risked their lives to be able to feed their families.

Rafar sighed, wondering when the chance would come when he would be on a boat to go out to sea. Then suddenly he smelled something in the air; it was a subtle scent, soft and pleasing. He recognized it and snapped out of his thoughts. He turned around.

She was here; the girl with the olive green eyes. She looked as pretty as she did the day he first saw her, but this time she was dressed in white, and she had a golden band around her forehead. A transparent scarf was draped across her shoulders. Rafar stammered a little. “It’s... it’s you!”

The girl smiled. “Assalamualaikum,” she said. She walked towards Rafar, seeming to glide across the sand. She gently bowed her head down, her hands clasped politely in front of her.

“Waalaikumussalam,” Rafar answered. He strangely felt that the world had gone blurry, and that his voice did not seem to come from his own mouth. It seemed disembodied. The perfume in the air was stronger now. He could not take his eyes off the girl.

“Who are you?” he demanded. “Who are you and how did you get here?”

The girl’s brows furrowed in confusion. “Have I done something wrong?” she said, her voice gentle.

“What?” Rafar said; feeling confused himself. “Why do you say that?”

The girl walked closer and stopped a foot away from him. Surprised, Rafar took a step backwards. The girl still had a confused look.

“I ask,” she said. “Because you sound angry. Have I done something wrong that I have earned scorn?”

Rafar thought she spoke in a strange manner. “No... no,” he answered. “I'm just… surprised. I thought I was alone. You surprised me.”

“That is so,” she said. “I apologize that I have upset you. It was not my intention to do so.”

The girl bowed again. Rafar felt awkward.

“It’s alright, you don’t need to say you’re sorry,” he said. The girl raised her head and smiled. Rafar noticed her lips were a very pale pink, and her eyes a very beautiful shade of olive green. He looked around and raised his head to peek behind the girl.

“Where did you come from?” Rafar asked.

“This is my home. So perhaps you could say I have come from home, or I am actually home,” the girl answered.

Rafar raised an eyebrow. What in the world did that mean? He thought. This is weird.

“You live here? Is there a kampung nearby? Do you play around here?” he asked.

“Yes, perhaps you could say that,” she giggled and her eyes sparkled, as if she was amused by his question.

“Do you go to the school?”

“I am taught by my father, who is wise.”

Rafar grew quiet, unsure about what to say. He thought the girl was the strangest person he’s ever met. He was trying to think of something to say when he noticed the girl’s face turn glum. Her eyes grew sad. He could feel it; it suddenly seemed colder and the skies were greyer. His heart began to beat faster. What was going on?

“Are you alright?” he asked the girl. He was feeling bewildered himself.

“I must go now. I have been out here long enough,” the girl said. Rafar did not understand. He looked up to the sky, and he felt sure if was going to rain; the clouds had gathered above them and they looked heavy with precipitation. He looked back at the girl, who still seemed sad.

“Alright,” he said, feeling lame. “My name is Rafar, what’s yours?”

This time the girl cast her gaze downwards. “I cannot say,” she said.

“What? Why?”

The girl looked up. “It is not yet time. I have to go.” She turned away from him, her hair flowing behind her.

Rafar stepped forward and called out, “Wait, what? Where are you going? What is your name? Will I see you again?”

The girl stood with her back towards him. Rafar saw her turn her head slightly and say, “In time… we will. Until that time comes… you will forget.” The girl began to walk away, her feet hidden by the sarong she wore.

Rafar was about to say something when a huge gust of wind blew in his face; it was so strong he was spun around and fell down. He knocked his head on one of the pieces of wood that had been the boat and fell down, dazed. His head felt like it was spinning, and the sand was in his eyes. His tried to get up, but his knees buckled and he fell again.

The last thing he saw before he blacked out was the girl; she was walking away towards the jungle but she turned her head one last time and she smiled. And then:

Nothing.

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“Rafar? Rafar wake up!”

“Wake up!”

He opened his eyes and shut them again when bright sunlight pierced through. He slowly opened them again and saw the faces of Luqman and Suhaimi above him; they looked worried. When they saw him looking back at them they each blew a sigh of relief.

“What… what happened?” he asked, groggily.

“You tell me,” Suhaimi said. Rafar tried to sit up and his friends helped him. He looked around and saw they were on a beach. On his right there were the remnants of a boat. It looked skeletal. He put a hand to an aching spot at the back of his head and felt a lump. He groaned in pain.

“You must have slipped or something and knocked your head,” Luqman said.

“Yea,” Suhaimi nodded. “We were catching crabs in a rock pool when we noticed you were gone. We made our way to this side and saw you lying down on the sand.”

“At first I thought you were just, you know, lying down and relaxing,” Luqman said. “But then I saw a bird land on your stomach and that’s when we thought you were hurt or something.”

Rafar shook his head. “How long was I out?”

“Twenty minutes I think,” Luqman said. “We wanted to get your mother or someone, but we were afraid we’d get scolded.”

Rafar managed to laugh. “So you two were more worried about getting scolded than me passed out on a beach?”

All three of them laughed now. “Well, you seemed fine enough. Luqman checked if maybe you’d been stung by a jellyfish or something but then found the bump on your head,” Suhaimi said. When he laughed he looked like a horse, so to speak.

“Yeah,” Luqman nodded and stroked his chubby chin. “So we thought we’d just wait until you came around. When you started making noises, we began to wake you up.”

“Urgh,” Rafar groaned. “Thanks anyway.”

“No problem.”

Rafar stretched his limbs. They were now sitting on that deserted beach. Something was in the back of his mind, but every time he tried to think of what it was, he drew blanks. He felt he wanted to tell something to his friends about what had happened but he just couldn’t. What had happened before his blackout was completely scrubbed out of his head, except for a feeling that something was there.

“What were you doing on this side of the cliff anyway?” his friends asked.

He shook his head. “I don’t know. Just wanted to see, I think.”

“Well my father says we shouldn’t come here,” Luqman said. “He says this side of the cliff was too near to the jungle, and the jungle was no place for kids like us.”

“Yeah?” Suhaimi said. “Are there tigers?”

Luqman hushed him furiously. “Don’t mention it! It’s bad luck!”

Suhaimi immediately shut his mouth and had an expression of real fear in his eyes. All three of them looked behind towards the jungle. It seemed foreboding, like it could eat up anyone who stepped foot beneath the trees.

“I think they just don’t want kids to go in there. We could get lost or hurt or something,” Rafar said.

“Yes. I wouldn’t want to go anyway. It looks dark… and haunted,” Luqman said. Suhaimi looked at him and gulped.

“Haunted?”

“Yeah,” Luqman said, his voice excited now. “They said there are ghosts and spirits in the jungle and they eat people.”

“Who’re they?” Rafar asked. Luqman shrugged.

“I don’t know,” he answered.

From the jungle the sound of an unknown creature came; it was a long, wailing sound, sharp and sonorous. The three friends looked again. Suhaimi got up.

“Let’s get out of here,” he said. “I don’t like this beach. It’s too quiet and it’s too close to the jungle.”

“Right,” Rafar said. “It’s getting late anyway.”

Luqman laughed. “Are you two afraid? I think its just stories,” but he got up as well, and Rafar sensed that Luqman actually believed the stories and was just trying to sound brave. He felt something else as well; again, that nagging feeling of something that had happened to him. But he just could not remember.

The three of them walked back, climbing the outcrop beneath the cliff and back towards their beach and kampung. As they came back to their beach they found that the pool they had dug had been emptied of its inhabitants; probably another group of kids had found it and ‘stolen’ their hard earned creatures. They did not mind; there was always time to dig a new pool and to collect more sea creatures. The three friends went swimming instead, and they swam until the skin on their fingers was wrinkled and their lips felt crusty with salt.

By the time they got tired the sun was setting. The three of them said goodbyes (they lived in the same kampung, within walking distance of each others’ houses; like Rafar, Suhaimi’s and Luqman’s father were fishermen too) and made their way back home.

By the time he was having a simple dinner of gulai lemak ikan masin and boiled fern shoots with his family. Rafar had forgotten entirely about what had happened to him earlier. And it would be years before he would remember again.

to be continued...

Chapter 2

2009-04-16T07:46:00.003+08:00

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Rafar pondered over who the girl was over and over again in his head as he had descended down that cliff. The fact he had almost fallen to his doom had gone out of his thoughts; he didn’t think about it. As he walked back along the beach towards home, he kept looking back at the cliff, to see if the girl was still there. She wasn’t. Finally he just shrugged it off.

Must be someone from the other side of the hill or something, he thought, although he wondered what a girl her age was doing there in the first place. He looked at the water and thought about going for a swim but decided against it. Instead he sat himself down and leaned back on his hands.

It was getting to be evening now, and the kampung children were out and about on the beach, playing football (with a barely inflated rubber ball) or cops-and-robbers and other games. Some of the boys were out in the water, submerged to the waist and fishing with long poles crafted out of mengkuang stalks or bamboo. There were plenty of girls too, but they seemed to be content with staying a bit higher above the waterline, playing hopscotch or house. Rafar looked at the other children; normally he would join in their games and play, and he was more than welcome to. But today he didn’t feel like it. So he just sat in one place and watched the sun ever so slowly set. In the distance, he could make out the shapes of some boats that were returning.

His father and brothers would probably go out tomorrow. Usually they’d go just before dawn and wouldn’t return until much later in the afternoon. Sometimes they would stay out longer, a day or two out at sea. On days such as those, Latifah, his mother, a strict but kind woman, would have a constant look of worry on her face. Often Rafar would see her mother stay up all night doing prayers. When he went to sleep on his thin mattress he would hear her voice, steady but solemn, saying prayers that her sons and husband would come home safe and sound. On those nights, Rafar would pray as well, and quietly.

Sometimes he imagined what it would be like to one day find out that his father and brothers would not come home at all. The thought scared him, just as it scares his mother, so he would push it out and force himself to sleep and believe that father and brothers would walk up that beach the next day. When they did, he would often go running down to the waterline, eagerly awaiting to see what bounty they brought in, and secretly feeling relieved and grateful to God for their safe return. The look on his mother’s face at times like those was priceless.

But oh yes, Rafar has heard stories about the sea. His father (and his brothers, who often exaggerated) told him about how at most times they were at the mercy of the sea. They left their fates to God each time they took the boat out to deeper water, where the fishing was good but the risks even greater. One had to remember they were traditional fisherman in traditional boats; perhaps their only form of safety equipment was a discarded and used rubber tube that had once been part of a truck. Mr. Ramli once told Rafar of a time long ago when he had been at sea during a thunderstorm.

---------------------------

“It was terrifying,” he had said to a captivated Rafar and his sister, Rafidah. He told this story with a deep expression on his face; one could easily guess he was reliving the terror of the experience in his mind. “I was younger then; at the time there was only your Abang Rahman and Abang Fiq in the family, and they were too little to come with me. I went out with Pakcik Amran and a few others. We had gone out earlier in the day and the weather seemed fine: blue skies, barely a wind. When we reached the fishing grounds we began to spread out the nets, and that was when things turned bad. That’s the thing about the sea, children; you’ll never know when it suddenly decides it hates you and becomes mean.”

Mr. Ramli had chuckled, but there had been no humor in it. “About an hour or so after nets were strung out the clouds got darker and the wind colder. Most of us on that boat, including Pakcik Amran, had looked up to the sky and shrugged, confident nothing was going to happen. And often nothing did happen. It’s like the sea’s playing tricks, you see? It gets you when you least suspect.

“Well, the skies stayed dark then, and it got darker. But the fishing was good; we must have pulled out more than a hundred kilos of horse mackerel and scad I think, on our first haul. We must have hit a lucky spot then. But then Talib, whom you don’t know, he died some years ago, began to suggest we head back in. He was scared I guess. He kept looking upwards. But the rest of us: me, Pakcik Amran, Pakcik Junid, Dollah Kelapa… We thought we’d give it another couple of hours or so…”

At this point, Mr. Ramli lit a hand rolled cigarette and took a deep drag. Rafar and Rafidah were sat at his feet on the pangkin, listening intently.

“We should have known though,” Mr. Ramli said again. “All of a sudden there were no fish. The schools and shoals were gone, maybe to deeper water. There was this heavy stillness in the air; it felt like something was building up, gaining momentum. I could have sworn that the hairs on the back of my neck and on my arms stood up. And that’s when we saw the first flash of lightning and the grumble of thunder. We reeled our nets in; suddenly afraid we’d be caught out in an upcoming gale. Then as quick as a viper strike, the wind picked up speed. It was strong; so strong the waves began to rise greatly. By now the clouds were almost black, streaked with lightning. I remember feeling a good dread in my stomach…”

Mr. Ramli paused, his eyes distant. One could almost see storm clouds reflected in them. Rafidah shook her father’s thigh, eager to know what had happened next. “And then what, Ayah?”

“Well, by the time we pulled all the nets in, the rain had started to fall,” Mr. Ramli said. “And it didn’t start slow; no. It fell hard and fast. The wind was now howling. My friends and I were screaming at each other, telling each other to stay calm. But I could see in the eyes of everyone of them: they were scared to death.

“The boat was, by then, rocking so hard, some of the containers we kept fish in were thrown overboard. Water began to fill the boat, and I remember seeing Pakcik Amran and Talib frantically bailing out water with buckets. They kept stumbling; everyone kept stumbling. It was impossible to stay in one place. We were being thrown around on that boat. I think all thoughts of selling fish or whatever were out of our thoughts by then,” he laughed, bitterly.

“We went to small cabin and held on with every bit of hope and prayer we had. Some of us were praying out loud; I heard their voices amidst the howling wind and the roaring thunder. Lighting struck the stern of our boat, and if it hadn’t been for the pounding rain, I suppose our boat would have caught fire. At this point some of us began to feel seasick; imagine that! Us, fishermen, seasick!” Mr. Ramli shook his head. “I had my eyes closed most of the time, and I was saying in my heart: ‘Ya Allah save us, Ya Allah save us.’ The boat was carried by huge waves and came crashing down on the water. It was a miracle we didn’t capsize… although I remember thinking none of us were going to make it, and that all of us were going to drown and miss the chance to see our families one last time. I think I began to cry and say the syahadah… All we did was to leave it to God.”

Rafar and Rafidah had stared at their father, mesmerized.

“And then,” Mr. Ramli had said. “As quickly as it had begun, it was over. The rain stopped abruptly; the winds went on for longer, but they got weaker and weaker. The sea settled down, no longer boiling and angry. The waves lapped gently against our battered boat. When we emerged from our cabin, all of us shaken and soaked, the skies were lightening up and the clouds were clearing. What struck me then, at least, was how quiet things seemed. It was so quiet, it was scary.

“Pakcik Junid laughed nervously, and he said ‘The sea was just teasing I guess,' and all of us laughed at the joke, not because it was funny… but I think it was because we needed to be reminded we were still alive. Slowly but surely we began to re-organize the boat, and that was when we saw we had lost most of our catch in the storm. I remember there was something strange in the air…” Mr. Ramli turned his gaze to the sea. His eyes seemed to glaze over in a dreamlike state. “And I think most of the others noticed it too, because they all had a wary look in their eyes when we came out of the cabin… I think… I think God really did help us that day. I believe He heard the plight of His servants and aided, in some mysterious way...”

“But no one wanted to say anything more, I think. We just felt really tired, and more than anything, glad to be alive... and that was the first big storm that I had the misfortune of experiencing.”

He had turned to the children and smiled, but both Rafar and Rafidah sensed there was something he wasn’t saying to them. Rafar tugged at his elbow. “What did you notice after the storm, Ayah?”

Rafidah chided in. “Yes, what was strange? Were there weird fishes?”

Mr. Ramli’s face suddenly turned sad, into the face of a man denied a gift. He said quietly, “No… It was the air. It was…the air smelled like flowers…Yes. It smelled like flowers…”

Rafar and Rafidah looked at each other, bewildered. Then Mr. Ramli had shook his head and told the children to run along and go play. Both of them heeded their father, but as they walked away from the pangkin, Rafar had turned around to look at his father.

He was gazing out into the sea.

---------------------------

Rafar sat on the beach until the sun began to set and the children made their ways back home. Despite his father’s terrifying tale of the wraith of the sea, he still yearned to one day be on one of those fishing boats and make it to waters that deeper than the height of Bukit Pantai itself. He did not know why the idea so appealed to him; maybe his young mind had a romanticized view of what being a fisherman really was (although having lived with a fishing family his entire life, it would be hard for an observer to see why). He knew his father wanted him to be a good student, unlike his brothers, who had all dropped out of school. Sometimes he wondered why only he and his sister Rafidah were being pushed to be good students; maybe their father saw that the elder brothers had lost their chance. Maybe because the country was headed into a new direction, where being the son of fisherman and inheriting the hard life would no longer be enough to survive. Rafar had no idea, nor did he understand what was going on in his homeland.

All he wanted was to be out at sea.

One day, he thought, I will be there.

The azan began to sound from the kampung mosque; over the horizon, the sun had already dulled to a deep pinkish-orange, and the sea now looked purple. Rafar got up and made his way back home. His mother would probably be scolding him for staying out quite late. That was alright; she meant well.

As Rafar walked back home, his feet shuffling in the sandy ground beneath him, he thought about his life; school, family, friends. He thought of his father and mother and how he thinks they seem as ancient as time itself, yet hard and strong, un-withered by their years. He wondered if he would live as long as they did (he thought they would live forever) and he wondered if he were to become a good student, what would happen to his life over here in this small seaside kampung. He did not know what lay ahead; this kampung has been all his life. He did not know if he, too, would encounter a storm like the one his father had. And more importantly, would he live to tell the tale someday?

These thoughts, heavy for his childish intellect, raced through his head… and like that, they were gone. His mind simply didn’t have the capacity for him to think that far ahead, at least not yet. So it switched to a simpler thought, one he had pushed away earlier: Who was that pretty girl he met? The girl with the loveliest green eyes, who had apparently saved him from falling to a horrible death: who was she?

Rafar turned and looked back; in the newfound darkness, he could still make out the silhouette of the cliff. An odd question occurred to him: was she still there? He shrugged and shook his head, and quickened his steps. The azan was now reaching its final lines. He climbed the stairs up his small but comfortable house, and just as he expected, his mother was babbling about him staying out at this hour. She mentioned something about “being taken away by the spirits” but Rafar let the words slip in and out of his head. His father, who was drinking coffee, told him to take a bath and get ready for prayers.

Their bathroom, as normal with kampung houses at the time, was separate from the house. Rafar took a quick bath, shivering with every splash of icy cold water. He dried himself and proceeded to take his wudhu’. As he began to wash his hands, he noticed something. Frowning, he brought his hands to his face and sniffed. The scent was faint, but unmistakable.

They smelled like flowers.

to be continued...

Chapter 1

2009-04-10T21:43:00.007+08:00

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April 10, 1952
Kampung Bukit Pantai, North of Kuala Terengganu

Seven years ago the Great War ended and the world has since tried its hardest to be at peace. Despite whispers of a new rivalry between two mighty countries, everywhere across the globe, nations had been or were being rebuilt. In other places still, new nations were being formed, and the fabled empires of centuries past were slowly losing hold on their once highly prized territories.

Malaya however, was facing its own problems. Communist guerilla fighters were causing havoc, hiding in forests and attacking the British who were still resident in the country. In other parts, political leaders were already discussing and negotiating the independence of Malayan soil. It would be a long road ahead for the forefathers of the nation.

But here, in this quaint village about one hundred kilometers north of Kuala Terengganu, the news of the world and the struggles happening within the borders of its own country were as relevant to the village folk as television was to a buffalo. Sure, some of the people in the kampung kept abreast of things. Most that did were the young men and women, ambitious, eager at the promises of a better life and wealth held by the prospect of a free and peaceful country. But these people were few, and most of them began to leave the kampung in search of a better life in bigger cities.

The rest, though, were content to stay where they were. To many of these people, the kampung was their world. What happened beyond its boundaries did not matter. The folk were happy the way they were, blissfully ignorant and uncaring for what lay outside the dirt paths and stilted houses of the kampung.

As the name would suggest, the kampung was situated along a stretch of beach, which, at the time, had white sands and clear blue waters. It was not a large kampung, and the houses seemed scattered and disorganized. In 1952, there were perhaps 500 souls who made the kampung their homes. The name was generic, unimaginative; Kampung Bukit Pantai. A rocky cliff, a hundred feet high, and overgrown with tropical trees and shrubs, dominated on side of the kampung where it jutted out on to the ocean. The beach was long and wide, lined with coconut and other tough, twisted trees that could stand the sandy soil and near constant sun.

The houses were traditional Malay style, and this was a time when wooden houses were well built and often beautiful in their own timeless way. Built on stilts, the raised houses had vacant space beneath them, where the residents stowed supplies such as firewood and nets. The narrow streets of the kampung were unpaved, and during the rainy season got muddy and nigh on impossible to walk on. In the center of the scattered houses was a small mosque that also served as a community hall of sorts. A lone coffee shop was situated near the beachfront; its proprietor was a woman with skin tanned dark by the constant sun. The customers were always the kampung folk; nobody else.

One would have to walk ten minutes before encountering the road that took the children of the kampung to the nearest school, which was another half and hour’s walk away. This paved two-lane road was narrow, and if one followed it southeast away from the kampung, it eventually joined with a larger road that went all the way to Kuala Terengganu. The kampung folk would go to the bigger city about once a week: to get groceries, or more often to sell their goods.

For Kampung Bukit Pantai was a fishing village. About 18 boats were beached; each boat belonged to a particular family. The boats had modern internal combustion engines, but that was where modernity ended. The boats, made of wood, were hand built, each of them unique. In years to come, this skill would be highly esteemed, but many of these fishermen would not live to see the day. The fishermen wove their own nets, often spending hours beneath a shady tree with their family or friends. The nets were their main source of income; without it, they might as well starve.

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Ten-year-old Rafar sat glumly on a pangkin; a raised wooden platform used as a place to sit on or rest. His father, Ramli, sat beside him with his brothers: Rahman, Rafiq and Rakib. His brothers were all older than him. Mr. Ramli was a fisherman; he owned on one of those long boats and went out to sea with his elder sons as often as he could. When they would come back to shore, Rafar and his twelve year old sister, Rafidah, would often go running to the beach and the two of them would never cease to wonder at the fishes their father and brothers would bring back. To them, the fishes seemed exotic and alien, creatures of a different kind. There were snappers, and mackerel, groupers, and even the occasional shark. Not a lot of these fish wound up in their own ancient refrigerator; most of it was sold off to a wholesale buyer, or is brought to the bigger towns.

Young Rafar was glum because earlier in the day during breakfast he had asked his father if he could come with him on the next fishing excursion.

“Absolutely not,” Ramli had told his youngest son.

“Why not? Abang Man, Fiq and Akib get to go. And so does Pakcik Amran and Abang Jakpa,” Rafar protested, his voice squeaky and small. Pakcik Amran and his son Abang Jakpa were somewhat his fathers ‘shareholders’ in that Mr. Amran had built the boat together with him. They shared whatever profits they received from their fishing.

Rafar had looked up to his father, trying to plead with his eyes. For most of his short ten years, Rafar always wanted to go out to sea with his father and brothers. He would rather much go there instead of school. Not that school was bad… but the open ocean seemed to hold a much more interesting and satisfying life for him.

“No,” his father had said while dipping a piece of boiled plantain in desiccated coconut and sugar. “You’re still small. The open ocean is no place for a child to be. Besides, we don’t go out there to have fun. It’s work! And very hard work!”

“But I can do work as well! Look at Abang Man Abang Fiq Abang Akib!” Rafar exclaimed. His eldest brother, Rahman, was twelve years older than he was; Rafiq was ten years older, Rakib nine.

“Abang Man, Abang Fiq and Abang Akib have all finished school and are big boys. You are still small and you’re better off at school. Study well and you don’t have to be a fisherman like your old man here.”

Rafar stamped down his foot. “But I want to be a fisherman!”

His father had looked into his determined eyes; for a moment there Rafar thought he would get angry. But the expression on Mr. Ramli’s face softened and he smiled. He laid a gentle hand on Rafar’s shoulder. The gesture seemed to be one of surrender.

“Rafar, Rafar, Rafar… you’re such a feisty boy. Your brothers’ weren’t like you at all!” he sighed. “Maybe the times are changing…”

Rafar’s hopes glimmered. “So I can come with you on the next trip?”

Mr. Ramli’s eyes twinkled. “I have something even better for you to do…”

And here was Rafar on the pangkin with his father and siblings… weaving and fixing nets. He felt disappointed and hurt, and his hands were sore from handling the rough nets. His father just looked at his bemusedly, while his brothers were talking amongst themselves about whom the prettiest girl in the village was. Finally bored, Rafar excused himself and strolled down to the beach, which was just a two-minute walk from their stilted house.

He was barefooted, and as he walked he kicked the sand in frustration. He saw the boats lined up on the shore; some of the fishermen were out at sea, and they weren’t all there. Rafar walked amongst the boats and laid his hands on the hulls and sterns, feeling the woodwork beneath his fingers. He picked at some barnacles (though he did not know what they were) and caught the tiny white crabs that scuttled beneath the shadows of the boats. Then he walked to the waters edge and let the waves lap at his feet. The water was warm, and the sun shone brightly above him across the skies; skies that were the brightest blue that he had ever seen. Young Rafar stared out towards the vast sea.

All he wanted was to be on a boat, miles away from land, catching fish with his father. But that wasn’t going to happen anytime soon, he thought. He sighed inwardly, content for now with waiting for his chance to pull in nets so heavy with fish they could cause a smaller boat to overload and sink.

Rafar walked along the waters edge, going northwards towards the tall rocky outcrop that gave the kampung it’s name. The cliff walls looked rough and sharp, and Rafar could see foliage growing out of its surface. The crashing of the waves seemed louder the closer he got to the bottom of the cliff. He looked back and saw his house and his kampung hundreds of meters away. He was surprised he had walked quite far, and now the bottom of the cliff was mere yards away. He came to it, and looked up. He thought he’d never see something so tall again in his life. Running his fingers across the surface of the rock, he was surprised at how smooth it was.

He followed around the edge of the cliff, entering the low mangrove forest. As he walked he looked at his feet, cautious of snakes and other dangerous creatures. He followed the wall of the cliff, and though he did not realize this, he had walked halfway along the circumference of the cliff itself. He was vaguely aware that the forest started almost immediately had he walked a mere two hundred feet to his left; but he was scared of the forest. Even in this daylight, it looked foreboding and dark. Who knew what lay beneath the darkness of the canopy?

Rafar came across a gradient that rose gently and saw it led to the top of the cliff. He thought twice, and decided to walk up the hill. The vegetation was less dense here, perhaps due to the fact the cliff was mostly rock. He began to walk up the incline, and it took him a good twenty minutes or so before he reached the top. He walked cautiously to the near edge. The sight took his breath away.

From one hundred feet high, he could see across the ocean, so blue, so huge. Looking to his right he saw his kampung, and the boats on the shore. Coconut trees were lined along the beachfront, almost arranged in their neatness and order. His mind wondered if he was the first kid to climb this cliff and look at this view.

How tall is this cliff? He wondered. He decided to look over the edge. He moved carefully, inches at a time. He was worried that the ground might suddenly give way and then that would put an end to his dreams of going out to sea and becoming a fisherman like his father. Rafar peered, stretching his neck out, but he could not see the bottom, so he moved closer. That was when he heard the crumbling sound, and suddenly felt the rock loosen and shatter beneath his feet. In one split second his short ten-year-old lifespan flashed in his mind, and he thought of how sad his parents will be when they would go looking for their youngest son when he failed to come back for dinner, only to find him at the bottom of Bukit Pantai in a million pieces.

The bit of rock he was on gave way; Rafar felt his body began to fall and he screamed. He began to imagine the ground below rushing up at him and then nothing but blackness as his body was crushed upon impact. He closed his eyes, waiting for his doom, his tiny heart praying for forgiveness and feeling an insurmountable regret for having the foolishness to come up the cliff and peer over the edge. He screamed. But something happened then:

He didn’t fall. He was still screaming, but that was all he was doing. Bewildered, he opened his eyes and saw his feet hanging in the air. That somehow terrified him even more. He began to flail his feet and swing his arms wildly, looking for purchase. But his back was to the cliff; was he stuck on a branch? But then he felt his body actually lift up, and float, and in one instant, he was back on the cliff, yards away form the edge. He scurried on the more stable ground, sweating and terrified beyond belief.

What had happened? He looked around him. It was quiet; the momentary drama of him falling had lasted perhaps no more than ten seconds. In the greater scheme of things, nothing was amiss. Rafar stood up, breathing rapidly. He could still see the ocean, and the beach, and his own kampung from here. He ran his hands across his body, trying to ascertain if he was real or if maybe he did fall and had died and he was now nothing more than a ghost.

And then a voice called out, “Assalamualaikum.” Rafar yelled and spun around surprised; he fell on his buttocks.

It was a girl, and not just any girl. It was the prettiest girl Rafar had ever seen in his decade old existence. She could not have been more than his age. She had the fairest, creamiest skin, and her hair was a silky, shiny black. It cascaded over her shoulders, reaching to her waist. She was wearing a golden yellow sarong wrapped around her small body, and the cloth flowed around her feet. Her shoulders were bare. Rafar saw her forehead was adorned with a piece of metal, perhaps silver, as it shone brightly in the daylight. And then he saw her eyes and he could not believe his own: they were an olive green.

“Assalamualaikum,” the girl said again. Her voice was soft. Rafar looked around him, wary, but he had been taught it was rude to not answer a salam, so he did.

“Waalaikumussalam,” he said. The girl smiled at him and offered her hand. He looked at her oddly, and after a moment’s thought, took the hand and got up. The hand was soft as silk. He rubbed the seat of the faded shorts he was wearing. “Who are you?”

The girl stood in her place. Rafar noticed a lovely scent was in the air. “Who are you? Did you save me from falling?” he asked.

The girl nodded. “I saw you about to fall, so I decided to help you.”

Rafar frowned. “You saw me? Were you watching me? Following me?”

“I saw you come up here, if that is an answer,” the girl said. Suddenly she was the one who looked cautious and afraid. Rafar eyed her curiously; who was she? But he thought he owed her a token of gratitude.

“Well… thank you for saving me from falling.”

The girl smiled politely. Rafar had no concept of attraction at the time, so he was not aware of the complex emotions that were swirling in his heart.

“I think I better get going now… I don’t want to have another accident,” he said. He paused for a moment. “Are you from around here?”

“I am here,” the girl said, which Rafar thought was a strange answer. Maybe she was from another kampung? After all there were other kampungs along the beach. But what was she doing here? A bit bothered, nevertheless he dismissed the thought.

“Thank you again. I better go now,” he said. The girl stood there, her hands clasped neatly in front of her. A breeze blew her hair around her face, and Rafar thought again how pretty she was. He thought she was even prettier than the girls his brothers were always talking about, and she was only a child still. She couldn’t have been any older than him.

“Well... Assalamualaikum,” he said.

“Waalaikumussalam,” the girl said, and that was all she said. Rafar made his way back down, but just as he was about to do so, he turned around to look at the girl again.

She was gone.

to be continued...

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Prologue

2009-04-07T11:33:00.001+08:00

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16 May 1980, 0644
110km North of Kuala Terengganu

As the sun slowly began to show its face on the horizon, the man stands on the edge of the cliff. In the creeping light of daybreak, the azure expanse that is the South China Sea is still hidden from view. Instead, the sun casts hues of orange, violet and pink across the surface of the ocean, and the colors weave and dance in a perfectly balanced routine. The tide was low, but even from atop the cliff the man could still hear the gentle crash of waves upon the sandy shore below.

Perhaps in other circumstances, he would have scanned his eyes across the vista in front of him and exclaimed delight and gratitude to God because at that moment, he was alive and privileged to be able to witness the miracle that is the Earth. But no, he just stood still, almost near to the very edge of the rocky cliff. Should he take not more than five steps forward, he would have plunged a hundred feet below to his death.

But he wasn’t moving. He just stood as still as a statue.

An ocean breeze blew on his face, and yet he did not blink. His eyes stared into the distance as the sun slowly rose. But he was not staring at the spectacular scene ahead; he was staring into emptiness. Only when the first piercing rays of light fell upon him did he tear his gaze away. His eyes were red, as if he had not blinked for many hours. The truth was that he had been weeping.

If someone had come across the man that morning, the first thing that would have come to mind was: Dear God, this man must not have slept for ages. Indeed, he looked terrible. His hair was all over the place; a one-week-old stubble peppered his cheeks and chin. His eyes were red.

He looked ten years older than his 37 years or so. On another day, a different time, he would have come across as mildly handsome. But on this day… he just looked tired. And that he was: tired. His un-tucked shirt was wrinkled and creased, buttoned only halfway down, and the cuffs of his jeans were frayed and worn.

But nobody came across him that morning. As a result, nobody saw the weariness evident in the lines of his face. Nobody saw the sadness in his eyes, or the longing in his heart. Nobody saw him stare emptily towards the ocean.

The sun was now edging higher in the sky and the blue of the South China Sea was beginning to show. Other than the sound of the ocean and the breeze, it was eerily quiet. Nearby was a quaint seaside village. It was from that village where the man walked from. At that kampung was his car; the car he used to drive all night long from Kuala Lumpur.

All during that drive, the man was holding back a great ache in his heart. He had driven almost nine hours alone in the dark of night to reach here, without rest. When he had reached the kampung, he had parked his car and walked to this cliff, his legs burning as he ascended the rocky slope to reach the top.

And here he was.

The man was holding something in his right hand. He brought it up to his face and looked at it; it was a flower. The flower had six elongated petals, and the color was a rich golden yellow that brightened to a creamier hue towards the stem. The man took smelled it, and that was all it took. The aroma pleasant and its perfume lingered around him. The flower looked impossibly fresh and alive, like it was picked just a few minutes ago. But the man knew better.

He turned the flower in his hand, studying it as he always did whenever he was alone. He told nobody this, but he carried that flower with him almost all the time. Only he knew the secret to its vitality; why it never wilted.

Suddenly he threw his head back and screamed. It was a scream of pain. The breeze carried his voice and it echoed through the air; he screamed until his throat hurt. His breath came in hitching gasps. His lungs burned. His hands curled into fists, crumpling the flower within his fingers.

“You said you would always be there for me!” he shouted towards the sea. “You said you would be there… you said if I would wait you would always come…”

The man dropped to his knees. He felt so very tired, and he could not even cry. His tears were dry.

“You said you’d always be there,” he said. “But you lied.”

Slowly he opened his fists; remarkably, the yellow flower did not bear a single sign of damage despite being squeezed in his hand. Not even a bruise on its velvety yellow petals. It looked as fresh and as crisp as it was on the day it was picked on.

The man, only now beginning to feel the fatigue of his long journey, caressed the flower. It was a beautiful flower to him; it meant so much. Quietly he whispered:

“Kenanga…”

to be continued...

Coming Soon

2009-04-06T07:53:00.000+08:00

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sorry for the corniness, but allow me that, hehe

:P

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