The Keris

For class I had to write a short story (well, not really a full story with the proper structure) about a strange object. Sticking with my style of implementing Malaysian culture in my writing, I decided to do a short story about the Keris.

It laid there, still, and silent. On the wall, where it has always had been. Father never moved it, even though most of the furniture in the house had been moved many, many times by my mother, but she too never wanted to move it. Don’t ever touch it, father used to say, not realizing that was telling a six-year-old not to do something is like telling the monkeys not to touch the rambutans on the rambutan tree in the yard, which used to really piss mother off as she loved her rambutans. I guess that’s why she married father, an orchard owner, who owned the biggest orchard in the kampong. But father never really did anything; the orchard was passed down to him from his father, who probably got it from his father, who then probably got it from his father. Instead, father took interest in collecting. He really loved the macabre, and the walls and corners of the house were littered with the stuff: preserved toyol corpses, witches’ tools, bones from the alleged local Sasquatch, and anything odd he could find.

But the most peculiar piece was the thing on the wall. I used to spend my evenings staring at the thing on the wall, frantically deducing with my six-year-old mind what in the world that thing was. I would have said that it was some kind of sword, but it was curved, like a snake, not like the swords the cartoon characters wielded on television. It was wooden on the outside, but I could tell that it was a case, a shell for something hidden beneath. I tried to ask father many times about the thing on the wall but all he would say is I got it a long time ago, from a trader, at the foothills of Kinabalu. Short old man, with a long white beard that swept the floor, like your mother does with a broom, my father would add. Father would never tell me more than that. Wait till you’re older, son, and I’ll tell you.

I had to take a closer look. When I was eight and little bit taller, I decided to make a move. I waited for father to leave for the orchard. Mother was still at home, but she was busy in the yard, chasing monkeys away. Standing on a chair I grabbed from the kitchen, I reached for the thing on the wall. I grabbed the snake-like end firmly. It was cold, but shouldn’t have been as the room was warm and humid. It’s much also much heavier than expected, I thought to myself as I unhooked the thing from the wall. Finally after all the years of painful anticipation, I had the thing in my hands. The wooden case had dragons that slithered along the sides, in between intricate flowers that looked like the ones on mother’s dresses. I stroked every caveat, admired every detail; my mind lost in fantasy as I pondered the thing in my hands with a cat’s curiosity – even holding it up to my nose to smell the teak wood. Satisfied with my conquest of the unknown, I slowly hooked the thing back up on the wall. I was careful, but not careful enough, as I suddenly heard mother shout from behind me. What are you doing with that Keris? Her shrill cry sent me of balance, and with a sudden jerk, the thing went hurtling towards the ground.

Mother went faint. Her hands covered her gaping mouth that dropped down to her feet. I tried to say sorry, but my quivering voice did nothing to break the silence that spilled into every corner of the room. I heard Father’s motorcycle come through the gates. I saw him come into the room to the sight of the thing on the floor. I saw the blood run from his face. Mother cried. Father picked me up and held me. But there was no anger. Only fear. I could hear him mutter under his breath, astaghfirullah, astaghfirullah. And it was the only thing I heard. Astaghfirullah.