Antu
by Derek Kho
As Father Vincent makes his way through the crowd of Dayak huntsmen, he is gripped by a sensation he has not felt since his time at the seminary, before the Mission. He is familiar with it of course, which is why he knows that it is not the stifling Bornean heat nor the sweltering humidity that strangles him as he pushes through the last row of clamoring natives to find:
“Dear God!”
The wings are midnight black, a shadow on the forest floor. Thick, matte feathers hang off sleek bones, articulated joints ending in bloody nubs. They resemble those of a hornbill, albeit far too large for any such avian in the area. The priest kneels down to examine them, and it is immediately obvious that the wings were not voluntarily divested from whatever bore them—they were torn.
And they were torn fresh.
Father Vincent calls for the head huntsman.
“Gather a few men. Tell them to take these to my quarters, gently if you please. I must study them. I must…”
A wiry older man steps forward with spear in hand, bare-chested save a myriad of spiraling black ink, clad from the waist down in rough pelts. Baptized by Father Vincent himself as “Paul” barely two months ago, he is one of the few Dayaks with a serviceable grasp of English and is a wizened, hardened man—but the sight of the great wings casts a shadow over his face. Paul mutters under his breath and calls to the crowd. Two huntsmen come forth, and though the same expression falls over them, they do as Paul commands, taking the wings and gingerly placing them on their shoulders.
The sun sets as the hunting party makes its way back to the village. The march is uneventful, and the chatter amongst the group in their native dialect—Jagoi or Biatah, Father Vincent isn’t quite sure which—is largely unintelligible, save one word:
Antu.
Ghost.
***
“Ghosts?” Vincent laughed. “Really?”
Hanna nodded. She pointed down the cobwebbed hallway lined with empty frames, past the reach of his candlelight.
Vincent took one look at the cracked floorboards and leaky ceiling, the thick layer of undisturbed dust and told her, “You’re not going in there.”
Hanna sulked. Vincent remained adamant.
“You know better than that. We’re not supposed to be here, especially not at night. Father would be furious if he knew.”
If he cared.
“Now come, we’ll be late for supper if we don’t—”
A thump.
The blood drained from Vincent’s face. He was frozen in place, waiting for another—but there was nothing. Nothing except a dead silence weighing long and heavy, and he wasn’t sure, but he could’ve sworn that there was something else in the dark just barely beyond his sight. Not a presence, but the shadow of a presence, like the impression of someone or something that ought to be familiar, something like—
Mother…?
“Hanna did you…?”
She shook her head, pointing harder.
“That’s not funny, Han. Cut it out.”
Hanna shook her head again.
Resigned, Vincent said, “Fine. You win. I’ll take a look—but I’m only doing this because I love you. Alright?”
She smiled a big smile, bright and warm as sunshine, and Vincent couldn’t help but smile back. He never could say no to her, not since the first day Hanna was adopted into the family, from a land far, far away. He ruffled her black hair and met her big, shining eyes, pinching her brown cheeks. Hanna scrunched up her face and despite it all, Vincent laughed, then sighed.
“Alright then. No use putting it off…”
The boy pulled up his trousers, and, with all the deluded conviction of youth, puffed out his chest and stepped into the dark.
***
The party returns by nightfall.
Past the carved stone Dayak totem poles, the rows of wooden longhouses on stilts, the women of the village come out to greet them. One by one, they balk at the sight of the wings, huddling the children behind their patterned skirts. Word of the party’s arrival travels like wildfire. Within minutes, an elder lady appears, bearing writhing black tattoos on her forearms and hands. She comes up to Paul and they exchange heated words, and Father Vincent takes the opportunity to usher the huntsmen bearing the wings to his quarters, a little wooden hut away from the village longhouses.
Though he does his best to shut out the whispers, he can’t help but overhear the word.
Antu.
The priest finds no appetite for supper that night, nor any restful sleep.
It isn’t like him to ignore the villagers, to leave Paul to fend off the elders on his own, but he has much on his mind this night, too much. Under the flickering light of a rusty oil lamp, Father Vincent paces back and forth in his little hut, puzzling over the great wings laid out carefully on the rattan mat before him. He concedes that he is, in all likelihood, simply mistaken. Ockham’s razor would suggest the same: the rational man ought to view the wings as an anomalous curio, perhaps the result of the unchecked gigantism of an aberrant fowl, but nonetheless derived from a creature of this land.
Father Vincent, however, is not such a rational man. Not anymore.
“Damn you. Damn it all…”
He thinks of her.
Hanna…
Of fear.
Of doubt.
“Why now? After so long, why—”
There is a heavy footstep, and twigs snap in the dark.
Father Vincent is startled out of his reverie. There is another footstep, and a muted grunt that’s heavy and wet. The priest rushes to grab his rifle, praying that he remembered to keep it cleaned and loaded. He is acutely aware of the wild things that stalk the island: snakes thrice the length of his body, wild boars with foot-long tusks, crocodiles with teeth like knives or—
Another footstep. Another heavy grunt. It’s a large animal, by the sounds of it.
“Come on you bastard…”
The thing is circling his hut. Father Vincent hugs the bolt-action close as an easterly breeze carries the stench of wet hair and overripe fruit, unwashed flesh and rotting meat. There is another footstep. Another grunt. Father Vincent is poised to fire, each breath tighter than the last, heart beating a war-drum in his ears.
“SHOW YOURSELF!”
And then, nothing.
Nothing, save cicada songs and rustling leaves, village dogs howling in the distance. The priest lays his weapon down and takes one deep, gulping breath after another.
***
“Ghosts?” said Vincent’s father, “really?”
He nodded. Vincent’s father was unconvinced. “Tsch. The fanciful imagination of a child. I had hoped Father Bertram’s sermons would dispel such inclinations…”
The man furrowed his eyebrows and rubbed his temple. A common mood; Vincent rarely caught his father smiling, except when he was about to leave on an expedition, or had just returned from one. It was for that reason that the boy did as he was told: bowed his head and kept to his books, attended Mass every week, mouthed the requisite prayers; all in the hope of putting a smile on his father’s face, just once.
Then again, after what happened to Mother…
“But she insists,” the boy said, “she won’t take no for an answer.”
The man sighed.
“I should have known better than to say yes to that chieftain. He was a little too eager to offer your sister in trade, in hindsight. Perhaps he knew there was something amiss about her.” He chuckled. “What a strange land indeed…”
The boy’s father drifted off. Vincent was, admittedly, a little disappointed—but not surprised. It was not easy to pry his father away from the study, away from the myriad curios in his possession, the anthropological puzzles that, to his father, begged to be solved. The boy didn’t quite share his father’s passions, but he tried.
“…I do believe this mystery merits another journey; don’t you say?”
Vincent did his best to love him, he really did.
“Yes, Papa. But what of Hanna?”
The man frowned as if bothered by a fly.
“I shall arrange her to be sent to St. Mary’s,” he said, after a short deliberation, “the nuns will straighten her out.”
“The… boarding school?”
He nodded curtly. “It will do you both good to spend time away from each other. You are both coming of age, and it is about time the two of you learned to live independently.”
“But Father—”
“I will not entertain this topic any longer, Vincent. Now go back to bed. Father Bertram is due to arrive in half an hour and we have much to discuss. I do not wish for us to be disturbed.”
He dismissed the boy with a wave of his hand, and so Vincent left the man alone, surrounded by silver crosses and eastern tapestries, talismans and shrunken heads.
***
“In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti.”
The congregation chants: Amen.
The Dayak tribe is gathered before Father Vincent, around the central fireplace of the barouk, the village’s round, wooden town hall. Where once hung a cluster of human skulls now hangs a wooden cross adorned with a bronze figure of the Lord, glowing in the morning sun. Father Vincent has, or rather, had a sermon in mind, but is far too groggy to remember it, distracted by the events of the night before.
Nevertheless:
“Forgiveness.”
The crowd looks on.
“Today’s sermon is about… forgiveness. It is, perhaps, the most important concept in the Good Book. After all, who here has not been wronged? Who here has not wronged another? Let us take…”
The priest haphazardly flips through his Bible to arrive at: “the Book of Matthew, chapter 8. Peter came up to Jesus and asked, Lord, lord… He asked, how many times ought he forgive his brother’s sins against him? Seven times? Less? More? No! For Jesus said to him then, not seven times, but seventy-seven. Now…”
No good. He has to wing it.
Wing it. Ha.
“…then take a look at Acts chapter 2… Peter says to them, repent! Repent and be baptized in the name of Jesus Christ for the forgiveness of your sins! Do so and you will receive your…”
A bead of sweat rolls down his forehead.
“…you will receive the gift of the Holy… Spirit. The Holy Spirit…”
He feels it, the squeezing grip of a feeling he thought long banished.
“…the Holy…”
He thinks of Hanna.
Of fear.
Of doubt.
He thinks of cobwebbed hallways and Hanna, small and frail, tugging at his sleeve, pointing at something hidden in the shadows. He thinks of—
Antu.
—his father’s obsession with gods, God, the divine and the arcane, how much Vincent tried to love him for it, understand it, even when he was rejected by his father, only to end up on the same forsaken island that was the locus of his thoughts of—
“Antu!”
More than that, he thinks of locked rooms and apparitions, hearsay and make-believe. He thinks of old wives’ tales and half-remembered dreams, regrets and resolutions. He thinks of the seminary and Bishop Bertram, the hours—no, days of prayer, denunciation, atonement—
Forgiveness.
And—
“ANTU!”
Father Vincent looks up. Paul is pointing and yelling.
“ANTU RIMBA! LOOK!”
The Ghost of the Jungle.
A series of gasps rolls over the congregation.
Father Vincent runs to the barouk’s window. Squinting in the noon sun, he sees an ape-like figure, perched like a gargoyle atop his hut. The creature is covered head-to-toe with long, matted, fire-red hair, hanging all the way to its feet like a cloak. Flanged cheeks comprise the bulk of the Ape’s sagging face, framing a pair of sunken eyes and a flat nose. It is a haggard, misshapen thing with elongated arms and grasping fingers, lumps of muscle and fat under layers of old, mottled flesh.
“Father!” Paul exclaims, “we must fight!”
Ghosts? Hah. Really?
“WE MUST FIGHT THE ANTU!”
But before the priest can respond, the Ape lifts its arms up high, and brings them crashing down on Father Vincent’s hut.
The thatched roof stands no chance. The Ape collapses into the priest’s quarters and the congregation erupts; some scream, some run, some go for their weapons. Paul pushes his way to the priest, imploring him to help, and in a daze, Father Vincent complies; but as they run towards the collapsed hut, he knows that the Ape—this thing the Dayaks call Antu Rimba—is after the same wings that refuse to leave his mind.
***
“Ghosts?” Vincent laughed. “Really?”
Hanna simply nodded.
They sat on the porch of the lofty Jacobean manor house they had grown up in. She had written to Vincent pleading for him to return home, promising him a secret that she could only deliver in person. It was spring then, the air chilly by any measure, but it didn’t bother her. She sat still in her cream-white frilled frock, black hair pinned in a neat bun and an inscrutable expression on her face.
Vincent sighed.
“Come on, Han. I haven’t seen you in ages. Why bring it up now? I thought you graduated from St. Mary’s; Father told everyone you passed with flying colors, ‘a remarkable recovery’, he said.”
Hanna gave him a strange look, and in a soft voice asked, “Do you know what a Manang is?”
Vincent shook his head.
“I didn’t either,” she continued, “not until Father brought me back last winter.”
“Back where? You left the estate? Why don’t I know about this?”
Vincent reached out to take her hand, but Hanna shrank from him.
“Han… what aren’t you telling me?”
She looked away without answering. Something was different about her; he could tell. Vincent was tempted to push her, but he knew she must have called him here for a reason; after all, that stubborn, fearless girl was never afraid to speak the truth—or at least, what she believed to be true.
He held his tongue. The silence drew long, but at length:
“I never graduated from that wretched place; I was expelled. Can you imagine? That glorified asylum for lunatic women threw me out, they had no method left for me to endure. I was ‘incurable’, they said. A ‘lost cause’.”
“Are you saying Father… lied?”
She chuckled bitterly. “I’m saying St. Mary’s turned me away because I wouldn’t pretend. No, because I couldn’t pretend not to see the things that I see, the things I’ve always seen…”
There was a quiver in her voice. Vincent held his tongue. He was afraid she might withdraw once again, but that was not the case.
“Father took me with him after I was expelled. We sailed with the East India Company, across the sea to the island of Borneo, and yes, I suppose the stories were true—how they traded me for dear Father’s services when they had nothing left to give. After all these years, it may as well be. The chieftain had long since died, but we did manage to find my tribe, and ask them about my… Condition.”
Hanna spat that word out like a curse. She continued.
“I suppose that was Father’s way of showing that he cared, though I don’t believe the trip was for purely selfless reasons. Whatever the case, we spoke to them, and they told us that some women of the tribe are born to be… There’s no English word for it, but, Manang. Like a shaman, witch, wyrd woman. Some are born carrying a penunggu, a spirit bound by blood that grants us this sight beyond sight…”
Vincent reached out again and this time, she did not draw away.
“There are things in this world that are not of it. Things that are hurting, and want to hurt us. I… I see them, lurking within the in-between spaces, waiting. Watching.” She took his hand. “I know it’s hard to believe, but I can prove it to you. I can show it to you. It’s why I asked you to come here, I just need you to trust me.”
She squeezed tight.
“Please, Vincent?”
And for a moment, Hanna was a little girl again, crying in his arms and pointing into the shadows. There was only one thing he could have said.
“Of course.”
***
By the time Father Vincent, Paul and the huntsmen arm themselves and rush over to the collapsed hut, the Ape has taken its prize and bolted into the rainforest.
The party gives chase through the dense underbrush, running after the blur of the Ape’s red hair, following the breadcrumb trail of black feathers. They forge their way through streams and up hills, down muddy slopes and through branch and bush. Father Vincent’s legs grow numb—as much as he’s acclimatized, his stamina is still no match for the local Dayaks, especially Paul’s, despite the man’s age. The sleepless night takes its toll, and excitement can only sustain the priest for so long. The world bleeds into a smear of paint, his mind racing somewhere between the strangling ficus root matrices and sago palms. Time and space contract and expand under the shadow of towering belian ironwoods. He wills himself forwards but with each step, he falters farther and farther behind the huntsmen, behind the flashes of red—
Hanna…
“Father!” Paul calls out, “look!”
The party halts. The priest takes a moment to catch his breath, and wobbles over to join Paul, huddled behind a mossy rock.
Peering out cautiously, Father Vincent sees what must be the Ape’s haunt: an unknowably old, impossibly large meranti. Ancient twisting roots writhe and coil out from the dirt, coiling together to form a gnarled trunk the width of several men standing with arms outstretched. Skulls and bones adorn the lower branches, a mockery of the soul trophies of the Dayak headhunters. Above, the tree’s canopy is thick and dense with foliage, to the point of blotting out the sun, casting the ground below it in perpetual shadow.
And in the shade, nestled in a crook at the base of the old tree, is the Ape.
Like the fetid champion of some foul deity, the beast lounges without a care in the world. Up close, its size is simply unnatural; even hunched over, the Ape is a foot taller than Father Vincent, who is by no means a small man. Worse still, the stench of wet decay emanating from the beast is compounded by its sheer mass, the swollen physique under its blood-red hair suggesting monstrous strength, made all the more daunting in light of how shockingly quick the Ape was to outstrip even the swiftest of the huntsmen.
But despite its stature, it is the creature’s eyes that strike fear in the priest. The two black marbles lodged in the Ape’s flanged face suggest a cruel intelligence, and malice.
Father Vincent readies his rifle, only for Paul to put his hand on its barrel.
“No! It is too strong here. We must prepare.”
You can’t be serious.
“This is no small Antu, Father. It is a cursed thing. It is an eater of the dead. We must set traps and bring more warriors, or else it will eat our souls and—”
“It will do no such thing!” Father Vincent hisses.
“But Father…”
The priest brandishes the silver cross around his neck.
“You professed the faith did you not? ‘Yea though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil for thou art with me.’ Don’t you believe? God walks with you.” He grabs Paul by the shoulder. “God walks with us.”
But the head huntsman shakes his head.
“Yes, Father, I believe, but these men,” he gestures to the party, “these men do not. Not yet. They only know the old ways. That will change, I know, but to ask them to risk their lives when they have not yet been saved…”
I just need you to trust me.
“Do not make me do it, Father. Please.”
I just need you to—
Father Vincent sighs, and drops his weapon. Paul beams in response.
As much as it pains the priest, there’s no denying the head huntsman’s wisdom. The priest is a stranger to the land, and though guided by faith, there are strange things in the dark corners of the island that he is not, and perhaps will never be privy to. Hanna herself… Well. She had her delusions, but they had a certain grip on her. Perhaps he ought to relent, in light of the fact. Perhaps he ought to give it more credence. Perhaps—
CRUNCH.
A loud noise breaks through the ticket.
Hollow bones splinter under aged teeth, followed by a sickening tearing. Father Vincent looks up to find one of the black wings, his black wings, in the beast’s paws. It’s eating it, the priest realizes. The Ape bites down again, ripping meat and feathers from the limb like leaves from a branch and in that moment, he isn’t really there.
Hanna…
Long hallways and empty rooms. Shadows and silence.
CRUNCH.
Please, Vincent.
In that moment, something takes over the priest.
Please.
In that moment, he isn’t really there, anymore.
Of course.
A gunshot cracks the silence.
Paul looks to the priest in horror.
The bullet lodges itself in the folds of the Ape’s torso. The beast drops its meal and howls like the screams of the damned, rattling the priest to the bone. It thrashes in pain, clawing at the bleeding wound, looking around for the culprit and Paul goes to pull Father Vincent out of sight, but it is too late.
The Ape spots him, and charges.
No time to think. The priest pulls the bolt on his weapon and fires –only to find that his rifle has jammed. He goes for his sidearm, but Paul shoves him aside. The huntsmen run in front of the priest with spears aimed at the careening Ape, and Father Vincent sprawled out, frozen on the ground as he watches the beast send them flying, their bodies crashing into rocks and trees with sickening thuds.
All hell breaks loose. Paul commands his men to:
“LARI!”
Run.
The Ape lays its hands on a huntsman who’s a little too slow, and breaks him in half.
“Father, lari!”
It pummels another into the dirt, cracking him open like a melon.
“VINCENT!”
The Ape turns to Father Vincent now. It bears down, raising its arms overhead—but just as the fists come down, Paul grabs the priest by the collar and yanks him out of danger. Without missing a beat, Paul buries his weapon into the beast’s side with one hand, and with the other, shoves Father Vincent away screaming, “LARI!”
The priest snaps out of his stupor—just as the Ape snatches Paul by the arms, lifting him off his feet. Paul fights its grip, but the beast is far too strong and with an awful roar, the Ape pulls, crucifying him, ripping the older man apart and dousing the priest in a shower of blood and offal.
Father Vincent scrambles and takes flight.
***
The manor had been empty for quite some time. There was little use for their childhood home, ever since Vincent was sent to Oxford and Hanna to St. Mary’s. The two walked in through the baroque main doors, up the rickety grand stairs and under a cracked crystal chandelier, past the foyer and to the right, to come face-to-face with a familiar, cobwebbed hallway.
“Do you remember what happened that day?” Hanna asked.
Vincent nodded.
“I was afraid. But I gathered my wits, and walked into the dark.”
“And then the door.”
“Yes. I remember thinking that it was sure to be locked. I tried the handle. I hoped it would not budge, but it did. Then you came up beside me and took my hand. I pushed it open and…”
“And?”
Vincent frowned. He harbored doubts about his own recollection, and had come to terms with the nagging memories in his own way, but now? Staring down that same old hallway, Vincent was gripped by the same strangling sensation, the very same that implored him to…
Doubt.
“There was nothing,” Vincent said, at length, “just an empty room lit by a single window that nobody’s used since God knows when.”
“Nothing?”
“Nothing.”
A hint of disappointment in Hanna’s eyes. Vincent sighed. “I care about you, Han. You know that, right? It’s just… The things you say, I just have a hard time… You know.”
“Yes, well. ‘Blessed are those who have not seen, and yet believe.’”
“I haven’t been going to church nearly enough to take that leap of faith,” Vincent said with a chuckle. Hanna didn’t so much as crack a smile. It was the most serious he had ever seen her, and something about that frightened him and for a brief moment, he considered that he could just turn around, walk away. He could have just left her there and hell, it might even be the right thing to do, given the circumstances.
But then she took his hand, and in a soft voice, said, “This time you won’t have to.”
***
Father Vincent wakes up in the barouk, though he sorely wishes that he hadn’t.
To his shame, the women of the village tend to him dutifully. It is the crueler punishment; their heroism is not something he can bear. The priest would much rather have died at the hands of the Antu than have them clean his wounds and bring him medicine, despite knowing that the hunters—husbands, fathers, brothers and sons, will not return.
Father Vincent dares not meet their eyes. He lies in silence, with only himself for company.
Hanna.
His thoughts take him back to the old manor, the cobwebbed hallway, the empty room. Back to Hanna, holding his hand as he pushed open the door, like he did when they were children; except this time, the room was not empty.
“What is this?”
Sunlight poured through the one window onto a simple wooden table and two chairs. On the table was a small leather pouch and nothing else. “Sit with me,” Hanna said, pulling up a chair. Vincent joined her. “For all his faults, Father did have good instincts. The Manang, the power of sight, much of the deep knowledge has been lost, but these—”
She pulled open the pouch’s drawstrings, emptying out a handful of strangely shaped dried mushrooms. Hanna pinched one between her fingers, holding it up to the light.
“These have been used by Manang for eons. While Manang are born with the gift of sight, there are rituals that allow others to learn it.”
She reached over and placed the mushroom in Vincent’s hand, taking one for herself.
“One last time. Do you trust me?”
It was wrong and he knew it, but he couldn’t bear the thought of losing her again. Vincent cursed under his breath, saying, “Of course.”
She smiled.
“Then eat, and take my hands.”
He did as he was told. Hanna did the same, and reached over. “Follow my breathing. Slowly, like this…”
“Alright.”
Minutes passed.
“Focus on the beat of your heart.”
Nothing but silence. Vincent grew anxious.
“I don’t think it’s working.”
“Shh.”
More minutes still, but nothing changed.
“Han…”
“Mmh.”
“I don’t feel it.”
Nothing.
“Han?”
“Hmm?”
“I think it’s not working. I don’t feel anything.”
“Focus.”
“I said, I don’t feel—”
A cold hand rested on his shoulder. Vincent leapt out of his chair.
“WHAT IN GOD’S NAME—”
“Shh. All’s well. All is well…”
Then the room spun, as if he had a few whiskeys in him. Vincent held onto the table and sat back down. He took a few deep breaths and calmed his nerves—though it certainly didn’t help that the entire time, Hanna was looking behind him.
“I know you saw her all those years ago,” she said, “I know because I saw her too. I still see her, right here, right now.”
“Han this isn’t funny.”
“And I’m not laughing. Think, what happened to Mother?”
Vincent took a moment to collect himself, then: “Mother died giving birth, to me. Father never bothered to hide that fact.”
“Put the pieces together. This room, this place; this used to be their bedroom. But Father couldn’t bear to stay in it alone, not after what she did to herself.”
Then, the spinning room was a writhing mosaic.
“You see her in your dreams, don’t you?” she said, “She comes to you in a white dress and black wings. You can’t see her face, but you know it’s her.”
“I… I…”
Sweat trickled down his temple. He shook his head to clear it, to no avail. “Why do you think Father is so detached?” she continued, “or why he never speaks about her? Father covered it up and convinced everyone that Mother died a tragic death in childbirth, but the truth is she didn’t just die. She took her own life.”
Hanna grabbed Vincent’s face and pulled him close. “Focus!” she hissed. “Listen. I learned a lot in Borneo. Black wings are given to those who choose to find their own way out of this world, and your mother? There was a rotten, wicked thing in that head of hers that wouldn’t let her go, and it was too much for her in the end.”
The veins under Hanna’s skin crawled like shriveled fingers, clawing at her face. “Please…” Vincent muttered, “Han what are you—”
“That rotten, wicked thing took root in her every time your father came home smelling of alcohol and another woman’s perfume. Every time he left her cold and alone in this God-forsaken manor. Something in her cracked and broke open and that rotten, wicked thing took its place because THAT’S WHAT ROTTEN, WICKED THINGS DO. Understand? When you take something away, SOMETHING ELSE TAKES ITS PLACE.”
And then Hanna glowed, her irises a million shimmering shades of red, her voice a forever echo as she pushed Vincent back down and pointed behind him, screaming.
“And I know this, I’ve always known this because SHE tells me EVERYTHING, all the time. Every—damned—DAY!”
He wanted to turn and look, but his world no longer obeyed any rules. He blinked once, twice, and like a magician’s trick, Vincent was a fly on the wall, watching himself watch Hanna—no, watching himself watch Hanna watch himself, and then he blinked again: once, twice, thrice, and saw—
—wings are midnight black, a shadow on the forest floor. Thick, matte feathers hang off sleek bones, articulated joints ending in bloody—
“Mother…?”
A lady in a white dress with great black wings for arms, wrapped around herself like a cloak. Vincent jumped out of the chair, startled out of his skin onto the writhing floor, the coiling, twisting floor turning into ancient, gnarled roots. The walls of his mother’s old bedroom rotted and melted and recomposed themselves into the bark of an unknowably ancient tree that should not have been, that was too big to exist, too old to exist, and—
“Han… Han? Hanna. Please. What’s… What’s this…”
Then, there was a stretching of worlds.
A pair of hands covered in red hair reached out from an impossible space.
The red hands grabbed the lady’s wings. She screamed and screamed and thrashed and fought but no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t break free. The hands squeezed and pulled and ripped her wings out of their sockets with a sickening pop and the lady collapsed into a pile, fading into nothing, as her wings turned to dust in those red palms.
“Hanna…”
And out of an impossible space stepped a red Ape wearing his father’s face, bearing down on him, lifting its arms high.
“Please…”
The Ape’s fists came down—
“HANNA!”
—only to strike nothing as Vincent was pulled away by the scruff of his neck. Vincent looked up at his savior and—
“We’re going to be alright. Everything’s going to be alright.”
Hanna in her frilled white frock, great black Hornbill wings for arms, carried Vincent away like a dog biting the scruff of his neck, flying through the ceiling. The manor shrank as they soared, and Vincent threw his arms around Hanna’s waist as they picked up speed, faster and faster with each wingbeat. The air grew thin as they cleared a blanket of white, and still they rose, faster, farther, until the world below was the size of a marble and they were alone, blissfully alone with the clouds at their feet, amidst the sun and stars.
And then she smiled the sweetest, warmest, brightest smile that Vincent had ever seen.
“I am Manang,” she said.
And:
“I am Inchin Temaga.”
Then her frilled white frock frayed, transforming into hundreds of thousands of black feathers, or rather, a dress made of hundreds of thousands of black feathers.
“I am the daughter of Singalang Burong, and my house is the sky.”
She wrapped her wings around Vincent, and he felt a rippling under his skin, spreading across his torso, back, arms and legs; but there was no pain, only warmth. Moments later, the same midnight black feathers sprouted out of his back, weaving themselves together into a coat and clothing him. Hanna—Inchin—leaned in. “My feathers will guide you back to me, when you are ready.”
She smiled again, and for a moment, she was little Hanna again.
“Will you promise me something, until then?”
Vincent nodded. “Anything.”
Tears welled in the corners of her eyes as her smile grew brighter still.
“Don’t let that rotten, wicked thing get you.”
Then, there was a stretching of worlds, and a familiar strangling at Vincent’s neck. Then he watched, helpless, as a pair of red hands reached out from an impossible space to grab hold of Hanna’s wings, and she struggled and thrashed but could not escape. The hands pulled, as far as her Hornbill wings could stretch, pulling and pulling and crucifying her in the abyss, ripping her apart.
***
“Ghosts?” said Bishop Bertram. “Really?”
Father Vincent nodded. “Yes, your Excellency. Reports suggest that Gospel affords the indigenous Borneans relief from their Pagan phantasms. Some have already begun accepting the faith, in fact. They are ready.”
The old man grunted and considered him through steepled fingers. He was not convinced, but Father Vincent was undeterred. A minute passed in silence, until:
“Why did you come here?” the bishop asked.
“I’m sorry?”
“You were an Oxford scholar. You have wealth. It isn’t common for one such as yourself to choose the life of the cloth.”
“I don’t believe that precludes me from the vocation.”
The bishop looked away. “No. No, of course not.”
The old man then rose from his seat, and fetched a thick, leather-bound book from the shelf beside him. He placed the tome gently on his desk. “I have served at this seminary for many decades now,” he said, flipping through its pages, “and forgive the blasé generalization, but there are two kinds of men who join: those called to serve a higher power…”
The bishop stopped at Father Vincent’s entry.
“…and those running from the Adversary.”
Father Vincent didn’t budge. “I loathe to bring up a man’s history,” the bishop continued, “especially one who has served the seminary so faithfully but you must admit that you have a… unique connection with this island. Your adopted sister, she was—”
“A Pagan.”
“—troubled, Vincent. A lonely, troubled girl snatched from her family at a young age.”
“I stand corrected. She was a Pagan and a liar.”
The bishop frowned. “I have been a friend of your family’s since I was a priest. You and I both know this conversation is long overdue. Ten years ago, the constabulary found you next to your deceased sister in your childhood home. Her death was ruled accidental, poisoned by some Bornean fungi, and your father… It seems he let his obsessions consume him in the end, despite my pleas. He never returned, did he? By all accounts, he lost himself in the jungle, after your sister’s death.”
Father Vincent shrugged, and looked away.
“I’ve made my peace.”
A paltry offering. For a moment, Father Vincent feared he might have been too flippant, and that Bishop Bertram might have taken offence—but that wasn’t the case. At length:
“The parable of the Prodigal Son. What does it teach us?”
The priest bowed his head.
“Forgiveness, your Excellency.”
Don’t let that rotten, wicked thing get you.
The bishop nodded. “The holes left by the wounds we bear are an invitation, and forgiveness the only salve. It is how we keep the Adversary from conquering the emptiness in us. It is how we bring light to dark hallways left untrodden. Do you understand?”
“I… suppose.”
“In quieter moments, it may have occurred to you that perhaps, had your sister accepted the Lord our God into her heart, things would be different. That perhaps if you yourself had done the same, things would not have transpired as such. What I mean, Vincent, is that you have a hole in your heart, and it is eating at you. It drives you, but it may also be what destroys you. If you are to embark on this Mission, it must be for the right reasons. You must be vigilant and steadfast—but you must also be kind.”
“Yes. Yes… I…”
“The Lord our God died for our sins; there is nothing He cannot forgive. Nothing that you, your sister, your father, your mother—nothing that they have done or ought to have done. Pray for forgiveness, so that the hole in your heart may be filled with the grace of God, because the Mission will be nothing like you have experienced. It will demand everything of you, and you will be made to give even more still.”
Bishop Bertram leaned in and looked Father Vincent in the eye. “Only through the Lord will you survive. Only by His forgiveness will you succeed. Do you understand?”
Father Vincent nodded. “Yes, your Excellency.”
“Good. Good. Then I will keep you in my prayers, child, and by the grace of God, you shall have your Mission.”
***
The sky threatens a thunderstorm as Father Vincent makes his way back to the Ape’s haunt. After the events of the last few days, he had almost forgotten that monsoon season was just around the corner. It makes no difference though; as he sat alone in the barouk, surrounded by grief, the priest made up his mind.
No, that decision was made a long, long time ago.
Perched on a hill overlooking the Ape’s haunt, he is ready. He spent his time recuperating, praying, planning and thinking; thinking of his mistakes, of Paul and the huntsmen, of his father’s cold distance, his mother’s empty despair. Of little Hanna, clinging onto his arm and pointing into the dark, pleading for his help.
Will you promise me something, until then?
And as he checks the bolt-action rifle in his hands and the sidearm on his hip, locking the sleeping Ape in his sights, Father Vincent can’t help but smile, and whisper, “I’m sorry, Han.”
The priest waits for the moment between his breaths, and squeezes the trigger.
CRACK.
Bullseye.
Do you trust me?
The bullet punctures the Ape’s right eyeball. It jolts awake, howling in pain, red hands clawing at its face. The priest wants to fire again, and again, and again; but he holds fast, choosing patience over fury.
Trust over doubt.
The Ape collects itself at length, seething as it looks around for the perpetrator, blood and vitreous humor oozing out its face. Father Vincent takes the opportunity to pull the bolt and chamber a new round, the click of metal-on-metal alerting the Ape to his position. The brief distraction is just long enough for him to draw a bead on the Ape’s other eye, and fire once more. This time, however, the round doesn’t quite find its mark; it punches into the beast’s orbital bone, and the Ape is hurt, but its blood is boiling now. Enraged, it doesn’t feel pain quite the same way.
And it has spotted him.
Please.
The Ape roars, and charges.
Father Vincent does nothing. He has prayed for this moment. As the Ape scrambles up the hill, half-blind and frothing at the mouth, the priest knows its brute strength and ferocity will not matter. Because in its haste, the Ape puts its weight on a thin layer of sticks and leaves, breaking the concealed trap and stumbling into a trench of sharpened bamboo spikes.
The Ape howls, and howls, and howls.
This time, the priest rechambers, and fires.
Please.
Father Vincent fires round after round after round. He cannot be precise at that range, going for volume instead. The Ape thrashes, trying to free its foot from the priest’s trap while shielding itself from the hail of bullets. Father Vincent reloads a second clip and expends that too—yet the Ape does not go down. The shots find their mark again, and again, but the Ape simply refuses to die. It doesn’t even slow down.
In fact, it’s coming loose.
Ghosts, really?
The priest draws his sidearm and empties the revolver into the Ape. It flinches hard, and breaks the bamboo spikes impaling its foot.
Will you promise me something, until then?
Father Vincent picks up the spear by his feet and says one final prayer.
Anything.
He leaps onto the Ape, thrusting the weapon downwards. The two collide with a meaty smack, as he sinks the spear into the creature’s chest. Father Vincent feels one of its lungs go pop, and there’s no time to think; with one hand firmly on the spear, the priest draws his last weapon—a jungle knife—and with a mighty roar, he sinks it into the Ape’s neck.
The beast does not howl this time, but whimpers.
Don’t let that rotten—
The wounds have taken their toll.
Don’t let that rotten, wicked thing get you—
But the Antu Rimba does not go quietly.
With the last of its terrible strength, the Ape wraps its arms around Father Vincent, squeezing tight. The priest struggles against it, to no avail, and the two fall together, backwards down the hill, crashing through the rainforest and collapsing in a bloody, broken heap.
***
“Vincent! Vincent, come out you rascal. I want you to meet someone.”
The boy obeyed, and found a little girl standing by his father, at the doors to his childhood home. She was a tiny thing, olive-skinned and dark-haired, staring at him with big, round, honey-brown eyes—a mere shadow, huddled in behind his father’s trouser leg. The boy raised an eyebrow, incredulous, but his father was having none of it.
“Well, go on. Introduce yourself.”
The boy relented and offered his hand.
“Hullo. My name’s Vincent.”
The manor felt so big back then. Every word was an echo, every footstep an announcement. The boy did not get a response, and so he tried again, offering his hand once more.
“Nice to meet you, miss...”
She didn’t dare take it, staying huddled behind his father’s leg. The man laughed. “Now now, don’t be shy—oh, that’s embarrassing. I don’t believe they gave you a name…”
He turned to Vincent. “Why don’t you do it?”
The boy pondered for a moment. He was an avid reader and had a curious mind, and had many names at his disposal—but one stood out from all the rest. He wasn’t sure why, but it seemed apt at the time. The boy smiled, and said:
“Hanna.”
His father nodded approvingly. The boy offered his hand to her again.
“Nice to meet you, Hanna.”
She could not possibly have understood him, but perhaps something in his tone reassured her. Like a scared animal, Hanna crept out and, sensing no danger, took Vincent’s hand, smiling the biggest, warmest, brightest smile that the boy had ever seen.
***
Rainfall.
To his surprise, Father Vincent wakes up.
He doesn’t remember freeing himself from the grasp of the dead Ape, nor does he remember crawling out from under it. Bloody, bruised and battered, the priest is nevertheless thankful for the sharp pain shooting through his chest with each breath. The landing must have broken a number of his ribs. He tries to move but his limbs ignore him. He tries to call out, but then remembers that he elected to fight the Antu on his own.
Thunder in the distance.
Lightning cracks the sky.
He realizes he will not escape the monsoon floods, but it doesn’t matter anymore. He is content to lie there—perhaps even deserves to. The rain pours, breaking through the jungle canopy as Father Vincent’s eyes grow heavy. The world fades, but in his last moments, the priest spies something in the sky above.
He blinks once, twice, but the vision does not leave him.
Father Vincent can’t help but chuckle.
“Ghosts. Really? Hah.”
There is a beating of wings in an impossible space. There is no pain—only warmth, and light. The priest cracks a smile and, with a whispered prayer, watches midnight-black feathers dance above him, in the rain.
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As Father Vincent makes his way through the crowd of Dayak huntsmen, he is gripped by a sensation he has not felt since his time at the seminary, before the Mission. He is familiar with it of course, which is why he knows that it is not the stifling Bornean heat nor the sweltering humidity that strangles him as he pushes through the last row of clamoring natives to find:
“Dear God!”
The wings are midnight black, a shadow on the forest floor. Thick, matte feathers hang off sleek bones, articulated joints ending in bloody nubs. They resemble those of a hornbill, albeit far too large for any such avian in the area. The priest kneels down to examine them, and it is immediately obvious that the wings were not voluntarily divested from whatever bore them—they were torn.
And they were torn fresh.
Father Vincent calls for the head huntsman.
“Gather a few men. Tell them to take these to my quarters, gently if you please. I must study them. I must…”
A wiry older man steps forward with spear in hand, bare-chested save a myriad of spiraling black ink, clad from the waist down in rough pelts. Baptized by Father Vincent himself as “Paul” barely two months ago, he is one of the few Dayaks with a serviceable grasp of English and is a wizened, hardened man—but the sight of the great wings casts a shadow over his face. Paul mutters under his breath and calls to the crowd. Two huntsmen come forth, and though the same expression falls over them, they do as Paul commands, taking the wings and gingerly placing them on their shoulders.
The sun sets as the hunting party makes its way back to the village. The march is uneventful, and the chatter amongst the group in their native dialect—Jagoi or Biatah, Father Vincent isn’t quite sure which—is largely unintelligible, save one word:
Antu.
Ghost.
“Ghosts?” Vincent laughed. “Really?”
Hanna nodded. She pointed down the cobwebbed hallway lined with empty frames, past the reach of his candlelight.
Vincent took one look at the cracked floorboards and leaky ceiling, the thick layer of undisturbed dust and told her, “You’re not going in there.”
Hanna sulked. Vincent remained adamant.
“You know better than that. We’re not supposed to be here, especially not at night. Father would be furious if he knew.”
If he cared.
“Now come, we’ll be late for supper if we don’t—”
A thump.
The blood drained from Vincent’s face. He was frozen in place, waiting for another—but there was nothing. Nothing except a dead silence weighing long and heavy, and he wasn’t sure, but he could’ve sworn that there was something else in the dark just barely beyond his sight. Not a presence, but the shadow of a presence, like the impression of someone or something that ought to be familiar, something like—
Mother…?
“Hanna did you…?”
She shook her head, pointing harder.
“That’s not funny, Han. Cut it out.”
Hanna shook her head again.
Resigned, Vincent said, “Fine. You win. I’ll take a look—but I’m only doing this because I love you. Alright?”
She smiled a big smile, bright and warm as sunshine, and Vincent couldn’t help but smile back. He never could say no to her, not since the first day Hanna was adopted into the family, from a land far, far away. He ruffled her black hair and met her big, shining eyes, pinching her brown cheeks. Hanna scrunched up her face and despite it all, Vincent laughed, then sighed.
“Alright then. No use putting it off…”
The boy pulled up his trousers, and, with all the deluded conviction of youth, puffed out his chest and stepped into the dark.
The party returns by nightfall.
Past the carved stone Dayak totem poles, the rows of wooden longhouses on stilts, the women of the village come out to greet them. One by one, they balk at the sight of the wings, huddling the children behind their patterned skirts. Word of the party’s arrival travels like wildfire. Within minutes, an elder lady appears, bearing writhing black tattoos on her forearms and hands. She comes up to Paul and they exchange heated words, and Father Vincent takes the opportunity to usher the huntsmen bearing the wings to his quarters, a little wooden hut away from the village longhouses.
Though he does his best to shut out the whispers, he can’t help but overhear the word.
Antu.
The priest finds no appetite for supper that night, nor any restful sleep.
It isn’t like him to ignore the villagers, to leave Paul to fend off the elders on his own, but he has much on his mind this night, too much. Under the flickering light of a rusty oil lamp, Father Vincent paces back and forth in his little hut, puzzling over the great wings laid out carefully on the rattan mat before him. He concedes that he is, in all likelihood, simply mistaken. Ockham’s razor would suggest the same: the rational man ought to view the wings as an anomalous curio, perhaps the result of the unchecked gigantism of an aberrant fowl, but nonetheless derived from a creature of this land.
Father Vincent, however, is not such a rational man. Not anymore.
“Damn you. Damn it all…”
He thinks of her.
Hanna…
Of fear.
Of doubt.
“Why now? After so long, why—”
There is a heavy footstep, and twigs snap in the dark.
Father Vincent is startled out of his reverie. There is another footstep, and a muted grunt that’s heavy and wet. The priest rushes to grab his rifle, praying that he remembered to keep it cleaned and loaded. He is acutely aware of the wild things that stalk the island: snakes thrice the length of his body, wild boars with foot-long tusks, crocodiles with teeth like knives or—
Another footstep. Another heavy grunt. It’s a large animal, by the sounds of it.
“Come on you bastard…”
The thing is circling his hut. Father Vincent hugs the bolt-action close as an easterly breeze carries the stench of wet hair and overripe fruit, unwashed flesh and rotting meat. There is another footstep. Another grunt. Father Vincent is poised to fire, each breath tighter than the last, heart beating a war-drum in his ears.
“SHOW YOURSELF!”
And then, nothing.
Nothing, save cicada songs and rustling leaves, village dogs howling in the distance. The priest lays his weapon down and takes one deep, gulping breath after another.
“Ghosts?” said Vincent’s father, “really?”
He nodded. Vincent’s father was unconvinced. “Tsch. The fanciful imagination of a child. I had hoped Father Bertram’s sermons would dispel such inclinations…”
The man furrowed his eyebrows and rubbed his temple. A common mood; Vincent rarely caught his father smiling, except when he was about to leave on an expedition, or had just returned from one. It was for that reason that the boy did as he was told: bowed his head and kept to his books, attended Mass every week, mouthed the requisite prayers; all in the hope of putting a smile on his father’s face, just once.
Then again, after what happened to Mother…
“But she insists,” the boy said, “she won’t take no for an answer.”
The man sighed.
“I should have known better than to say yes to that chieftain. He was a little too eager to offer your sister in trade, in hindsight. Perhaps he knew there was something amiss about her.” He chuckled. “What a strange land indeed…”
The boy’s father drifted off. Vincent was, admittedly, a little disappointed—but not surprised. It was not easy to pry his father away from the study, away from the myriad curios in his possession, the anthropological puzzles that, to his father, begged to be solved. The boy didn’t quite share his father’s passions, but he tried.
“…I do believe this mystery merits another journey; don’t you say?”
Vincent did his best to love him, he really did.
“Yes, Papa. But what of Hanna?”
The man frowned as if bothered by a fly.
“I shall arrange her to be sent to St. Mary’s,” he said, after a short deliberation, “the nuns will straighten her out.”
“The… boarding school?”
He nodded curtly. “It will do you both good to spend time away from each other. You are both coming of age, and it is about time the two of you learned to live independently.”
“But Father—”
“I will not entertain this topic any longer, Vincent. Now go back to bed. Father Bertram is due to arrive in half an hour and we have much to discuss. I do not wish for us to be disturbed.”
He dismissed the boy with a wave of his hand, and so Vincent left the man alone, surrounded by silver crosses and eastern tapestries, talismans and shrunken heads.
“In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti.”
The congregation chants: Amen.
The Dayak tribe is gathered before Father Vincent, around the central fireplace of the barouk, the village’s round, wooden town hall. Where once hung a cluster of human skulls now hangs a wooden cross adorned with a bronze figure of the Lord, glowing in the morning sun. Father Vincent has, or rather, had a sermon in mind, but is far too groggy to remember it, distracted by the events of the night before.
Nevertheless:
“Forgiveness.”
The crowd looks on.
“Today’s sermon is about… forgiveness. It is, perhaps, the most important concept in the Good Book. After all, who here has not been wronged? Who here has not wronged another? Let us take…”
The priest haphazardly flips through his Bible to arrive at: “the Book of Matthew, chapter 8. Peter came up to Jesus and asked, Lord, lord… He asked, how many times ought he forgive his brother’s sins against him? Seven times? Less? More? No! For Jesus said to him then, not seven times, but seventy-seven. Now…”
No good. He has to wing it.
Wing it. Ha.
“…then take a look at Acts chapter 2… Peter says to them, repent! Repent and be baptized in the name of Jesus Christ for the forgiveness of your sins! Do so and you will receive your…”
A bead of sweat rolls down his forehead.
“…you will receive the gift of the Holy… Spirit. The Holy Spirit…”
He feels it, the squeezing grip of a feeling he thought long banished.
“…the Holy…”
He thinks of Hanna.
Of fear.
Of doubt.
He thinks of cobwebbed hallways and Hanna, small and frail, tugging at his sleeve, pointing at something hidden in the shadows. He thinks of—
Antu.
—his father’s obsession with gods, God, the divine and the arcane, how much Vincent tried to love him for it, understand it, even when he was rejected by his father, only to end up on the same forsaken island that was the locus of his thoughts of—
“Antu!”
More than that, he thinks of locked rooms and apparitions, hearsay and make-believe. He thinks of old wives’ tales and half-remembered dreams, regrets and resolutions. He thinks of the seminary and Bishop Bertram, the hours—no, days of prayer, denunciation, atonement—
Forgiveness.
And—
“ANTU!”
Father Vincent looks up. Paul is pointing and yelling.
“ANTU RIMBA! LOOK!”
The Ghost of the Jungle.
A series of gasps rolls over the congregation.
Father Vincent runs to the barouk’s window. Squinting in the noon sun, he sees an ape-like figure, perched like a gargoyle atop his hut. The creature is covered head-to-toe with long, matted, fire-red hair, hanging all the way to its feet like a cloak. Flanged cheeks comprise the bulk of the Ape’s sagging face, framing a pair of sunken eyes and a flat nose. It is a haggard, misshapen thing with elongated arms and grasping fingers, lumps of muscle and fat under layers of old, mottled flesh.
“Father!” Paul exclaims, “we must fight!”
Ghosts? Hah. Really?
“WE MUST FIGHT THE ANTU!”
But before the priest can respond, the Ape lifts its arms up high, and brings them crashing down on Father Vincent’s hut.
The thatched roof stands no chance. The Ape collapses into the priest’s quarters and the congregation erupts; some scream, some run, some go for their weapons. Paul pushes his way to the priest, imploring him to help, and in a daze, Father Vincent complies; but as they run towards the collapsed hut, he knows that the Ape—this thing the Dayaks call Antu Rimba—is after the same wings that refuse to leave his mind.
“Ghosts?” Vincent laughed. “Really?”
Hanna simply nodded.
They sat on the porch of the lofty Jacobean manor house they had grown up in. She had written to Vincent pleading for him to return home, promising him a secret that she could only deliver in person. It was spring then, the air chilly by any measure, but it didn’t bother her. She sat still in her cream-white frilled frock, black hair pinned in a neat bun and an inscrutable expression on her face.
Vincent sighed.
“Come on, Han. I haven’t seen you in ages. Why bring it up now? I thought you graduated from St. Mary’s; Father told everyone you passed with flying colors, ‘a remarkable recovery’, he said.”
Hanna gave him a strange look, and in a soft voice asked, “Do you know what a Manang is?”
Vincent shook his head.
“I didn’t either,” she continued, “not until Father brought me back last winter.”
“Back where? You left the estate? Why don’t I know about this?”
Vincent reached out to take her hand, but Hanna shrank from him.
“Han… what aren’t you telling me?”
She looked away without answering. Something was different about her; he could tell. Vincent was tempted to push her, but he knew she must have called him here for a reason; after all, that stubborn, fearless girl was never afraid to speak the truth—or at least, what she believed to be true.
He held his tongue. The silence drew long, but at length:
“I never graduated from that wretched place; I was expelled. Can you imagine? That glorified asylum for lunatic women threw me out, they had no method left for me to endure. I was ‘incurable’, they said. A ‘lost cause’.”
“Are you saying Father… lied?”
She chuckled bitterly. “I’m saying St. Mary’s turned me away because I wouldn’t pretend. No, because I couldn’t pretend not to see the things that I see, the things I’ve always seen…”
There was a quiver in her voice. Vincent held his tongue. He was afraid she might withdraw once again, but that was not the case.
“Father took me with him after I was expelled. We sailed with the East India Company, across the sea to the island of Borneo, and yes, I suppose the stories were true—how they traded me for dear Father’s services when they had nothing left to give. After all these years, it may as well be. The chieftain had long since died, but we did manage to find my tribe, and ask them about my… Condition.”
Hanna spat that word out like a curse. She continued.
“I suppose that was Father’s way of showing that he cared, though I don’t believe the trip was for purely selfless reasons. Whatever the case, we spoke to them, and they told us that some women of the tribe are born to be… There’s no English word for it, but, Manang. Like a shaman, witch, wyrd woman. Some are born carrying a penunggu, a spirit bound by blood that grants us this sight beyond sight…”
Vincent reached out again and this time, she did not draw away.
“There are things in this world that are not of it. Things that are hurting, and want to hurt us. I… I see them, lurking within the in-between spaces, waiting. Watching.” She took his hand. “I know it’s hard to believe, but I can prove it to you. I can show it to you. It’s why I asked you to come here, I just need you to trust me.”
She squeezed tight.
“Please, Vincent?”
And for a moment, Hanna was a little girl again, crying in his arms and pointing into the shadows. There was only one thing he could have said.
“Of course.”
By the time Father Vincent, Paul and the huntsmen arm themselves and rush over to the collapsed hut, the Ape has taken its prize and bolted into the rainforest.
The party gives chase through the dense underbrush, running after the blur of the Ape’s red hair, following the breadcrumb trail of black feathers. They forge their way through streams and up hills, down muddy slopes and through branch and bush. Father Vincent’s legs grow numb—as much as he’s acclimatized, his stamina is still no match for the local Dayaks, especially Paul’s, despite the man’s age. The sleepless night takes its toll, and excitement can only sustain the priest for so long. The world bleeds into a smear of paint, his mind racing somewhere between the strangling ficus root matrices and sago palms. Time and space contract and expand under the shadow of towering belian ironwoods. He wills himself forwards but with each step, he falters farther and farther behind the huntsmen, behind the flashes of red—
Hanna…
“Father!” Paul calls out, “look!”
The party halts. The priest takes a moment to catch his breath, and wobbles over to join Paul, huddled behind a mossy rock.
Peering out cautiously, Father Vincent sees what must be the Ape’s haunt: an unknowably old, impossibly large meranti. Ancient twisting roots writhe and coil out from the dirt, coiling together to form a gnarled trunk the width of several men standing with arms outstretched. Skulls and bones adorn the lower branches, a mockery of the soul trophies of the Dayak headhunters. Above, the tree’s canopy is thick and dense with foliage, to the point of blotting out the sun, casting the ground below it in perpetual shadow.
And in the shade, nestled in a crook at the base of the old tree, is the Ape.
Like the fetid champion of some foul deity, the beast lounges without a care in the world. Up close, its size is simply unnatural; even hunched over, the Ape is a foot taller than Father Vincent, who is by no means a small man. Worse still, the stench of wet decay emanating from the beast is compounded by its sheer mass, the swollen physique under its blood-red hair suggesting monstrous strength, made all the more daunting in light of how shockingly quick the Ape was to outstrip even the swiftest of the huntsmen.
But despite its stature, it is the creature’s eyes that strike fear in the priest. The two black marbles lodged in the Ape’s flanged face suggest a cruel intelligence, and malice.
Father Vincent readies his rifle, only for Paul to put his hand on its barrel.
“No! It is too strong here. We must prepare.”
You can’t be serious.
“This is no small Antu, Father. It is a cursed thing. It is an eater of the dead. We must set traps and bring more warriors, or else it will eat our souls and—”
“It will do no such thing!” Father Vincent hisses.
“But Father…”
The priest brandishes the silver cross around his neck.
“You professed the faith did you not? ‘Yea though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil for thou art with me.’ Don’t you believe? God walks with you.” He grabs Paul by the shoulder. “God walks with us.”
But the head huntsman shakes his head.
“Yes, Father, I believe, but these men,” he gestures to the party, “these men do not. Not yet. They only know the old ways. That will change, I know, but to ask them to risk their lives when they have not yet been saved…”
I just need you to trust me.
“Do not make me do it, Father. Please.”
I just need you to—
Father Vincent sighs, and drops his weapon. Paul beams in response.
As much as it pains the priest, there’s no denying the head huntsman’s wisdom. The priest is a stranger to the land, and though guided by faith, there are strange things in the dark corners of the island that he is not, and perhaps will never be privy to. Hanna herself… Well. She had her delusions, but they had a certain grip on her. Perhaps he ought to relent, in light of the fact. Perhaps he ought to give it more credence. Perhaps—
CRUNCH.
A loud noise breaks through the ticket.
Hollow bones splinter under aged teeth, followed by a sickening tearing. Father Vincent looks up to find one of the black wings, his black wings, in the beast’s paws. It’s eating it, the priest realizes. The Ape bites down again, ripping meat and feathers from the limb like leaves from a branch and in that moment, he isn’t really there.
Hanna…
Long hallways and empty rooms. Shadows and silence.
CRUNCH.
Please, Vincent.
In that moment, something takes over the priest.
Please.
In that moment, he isn’t really there, anymore.
Of course.
A gunshot cracks the silence.
Paul looks to the priest in horror.
The bullet lodges itself in the folds of the Ape’s torso. The beast drops its meal and howls like the screams of the damned, rattling the priest to the bone. It thrashes in pain, clawing at the bleeding wound, looking around for the culprit and Paul goes to pull Father Vincent out of sight, but it is too late.
The Ape spots him, and charges.
No time to think. The priest pulls the bolt on his weapon and fires –only to find that his rifle has jammed. He goes for his sidearm, but Paul shoves him aside. The huntsmen run in front of the priest with spears aimed at the careening Ape, and Father Vincent sprawled out, frozen on the ground as he watches the beast send them flying, their bodies crashing into rocks and trees with sickening thuds.
All hell breaks loose. Paul commands his men to:
“LARI!”
Run.
The Ape lays its hands on a huntsman who’s a little too slow, and breaks him in half.
“Father, lari!”
It pummels another into the dirt, cracking him open like a melon.
“VINCENT!”
The Ape turns to Father Vincent now. It bears down, raising its arms overhead—but just as the fists come down, Paul grabs the priest by the collar and yanks him out of danger. Without missing a beat, Paul buries his weapon into the beast’s side with one hand, and with the other, shoves Father Vincent away screaming, “LARI!”
The priest snaps out of his stupor—just as the Ape snatches Paul by the arms, lifting him off his feet. Paul fights its grip, but the beast is far too strong and with an awful roar, the Ape pulls, crucifying him, ripping the older man apart and dousing the priest in a shower of blood and offal.
Father Vincent scrambles and takes flight.
The manor had been empty for quite some time. There was little use for their childhood home, ever since Vincent was sent to Oxford and Hanna to St. Mary’s. The two walked in through the baroque main doors, up the rickety grand stairs and under a cracked crystal chandelier, past the foyer and to the right, to come face-to-face with a familiar, cobwebbed hallway.
“Do you remember what happened that day?” Hanna asked.
Vincent nodded.
“I was afraid. But I gathered my wits, and walked into the dark.”
“And then the door.”
“Yes. I remember thinking that it was sure to be locked. I tried the handle. I hoped it would not budge, but it did. Then you came up beside me and took my hand. I pushed it open and…”
“And?”
Vincent frowned. He harbored doubts about his own recollection, and had come to terms with the nagging memories in his own way, but now? Staring down that same old hallway, Vincent was gripped by the same strangling sensation, the very same that implored him to…
Doubt.
“There was nothing,” Vincent said, at length, “just an empty room lit by a single window that nobody’s used since God knows when.”
“Nothing?”
“Nothing.”
A hint of disappointment in Hanna’s eyes. Vincent sighed. “I care about you, Han. You know that, right? It’s just… The things you say, I just have a hard time… You know.”
“Yes, well. ‘Blessed are those who have not seen, and yet believe.’”
“I haven’t been going to church nearly enough to take that leap of faith,” Vincent said with a chuckle. Hanna didn’t so much as crack a smile. It was the most serious he had ever seen her, and something about that frightened him and for a brief moment, he considered that he could just turn around, walk away. He could have just left her there and hell, it might even be the right thing to do, given the circumstances.
But then she took his hand, and in a soft voice, said, “This time you won’t have to.”
Father Vincent wakes up in the barouk, though he sorely wishes that he hadn’t.
To his shame, the women of the village tend to him dutifully. It is the crueler punishment; their heroism is not something he can bear. The priest would much rather have died at the hands of the Antu than have them clean his wounds and bring him medicine, despite knowing that the hunters—husbands, fathers, brothers and sons, will not return.
Father Vincent dares not meet their eyes. He lies in silence, with only himself for company.
Hanna.
His thoughts take him back to the old manor, the cobwebbed hallway, the empty room. Back to Hanna, holding his hand as he pushed open the door, like he did when they were children; except this time, the room was not empty.
“What is this?”
Sunlight poured through the one window onto a simple wooden table and two chairs. On the table was a small leather pouch and nothing else. “Sit with me,” Hanna said, pulling up a chair. Vincent joined her. “For all his faults, Father did have good instincts. The Manang, the power of sight, much of the deep knowledge has been lost, but these—”
She pulled open the pouch’s drawstrings, emptying out a handful of strangely shaped dried mushrooms. Hanna pinched one between her fingers, holding it up to the light.
“These have been used by Manang for eons. While Manang are born with the gift of sight, there are rituals that allow others to learn it.”
She reached over and placed the mushroom in Vincent’s hand, taking one for herself.
“One last time. Do you trust me?”
It was wrong and he knew it, but he couldn’t bear the thought of losing her again. Vincent cursed under his breath, saying, “Of course.”
She smiled.
“Then eat, and take my hands.”
He did as he was told. Hanna did the same, and reached over. “Follow my breathing. Slowly, like this…”
“Alright.”
Minutes passed.
“Focus on the beat of your heart.”
Nothing but silence. Vincent grew anxious.
“I don’t think it’s working.”
“Shh.”
More minutes still, but nothing changed.
“Han…”
“Mmh.”
“I don’t feel it.”
Nothing.
“Han?”
“Hmm?”
“I think it’s not working. I don’t feel anything.”
“Focus.”
“I said, I don’t feel—”
A cold hand rested on his shoulder. Vincent leapt out of his chair.
“WHAT IN GOD’S NAME—”
“Shh. All’s well. All is well…”
Then the room spun, as if he had a few whiskeys in him. Vincent held onto the table and sat back down. He took a few deep breaths and calmed his nerves—though it certainly didn’t help that the entire time, Hanna was looking behind him.
“I know you saw her all those years ago,” she said, “I know because I saw her too. I still see her, right here, right now.”
“Han this isn’t funny.”
“And I’m not laughing. Think, what happened to Mother?”
Vincent took a moment to collect himself, then: “Mother died giving birth, to me. Father never bothered to hide that fact.”
“Put the pieces together. This room, this place; this used to be their bedroom. But Father couldn’t bear to stay in it alone, not after what she did to herself.”
Then, the spinning room was a writhing mosaic.
“You see her in your dreams, don’t you?” she said, “She comes to you in a white dress and black wings. You can’t see her face, but you know it’s her.”
“I… I…”
Sweat trickled down his temple. He shook his head to clear it, to no avail. “Why do you think Father is so detached?” she continued, “or why he never speaks about her? Father covered it up and convinced everyone that Mother died a tragic death in childbirth, but the truth is she didn’t just die. She took her own life.”
Hanna grabbed Vincent’s face and pulled him close. “Focus!” she hissed. “Listen. I learned a lot in Borneo. Black wings are given to those who choose to find their own way out of this world, and your mother? There was a rotten, wicked thing in that head of hers that wouldn’t let her go, and it was too much for her in the end.”
The veins under Hanna’s skin crawled like shriveled fingers, clawing at her face. “Please…” Vincent muttered, “Han what are you—”
“That rotten, wicked thing took root in her every time your father came home smelling of alcohol and another woman’s perfume. Every time he left her cold and alone in this God-forsaken manor. Something in her cracked and broke open and that rotten, wicked thing took its place because THAT’S WHAT ROTTEN, WICKED THINGS DO. Understand? When you take something away, SOMETHING ELSE TAKES ITS PLACE.”
And then Hanna glowed, her irises a million shimmering shades of red, her voice a forever echo as she pushed Vincent back down and pointed behind him, screaming.
“And I know this, I’ve always known this because SHE tells me EVERYTHING, all the time. Every—damned—DAY!”
He wanted to turn and look, but his world no longer obeyed any rules. He blinked once, twice, and like a magician’s trick, Vincent was a fly on the wall, watching himself watch Hanna—no, watching himself watch Hanna watch himself, and then he blinked again: once, twice, thrice, and saw—
—wings are midnight black, a shadow on the forest floor. Thick, matte feathers hang off sleek bones, articulated joints ending in bloody—
“Mother…?”
A lady in a white dress with great black wings for arms, wrapped around herself like a cloak. Vincent jumped out of the chair, startled out of his skin onto the writhing floor, the coiling, twisting floor turning into ancient, gnarled roots. The walls of his mother’s old bedroom rotted and melted and recomposed themselves into the bark of an unknowably ancient tree that should not have been, that was too big to exist, too old to exist, and—
“Han… Han? Hanna. Please. What’s… What’s this…”
Then, there was a stretching of worlds.
A pair of hands covered in red hair reached out from an impossible space.
The red hands grabbed the lady’s wings. She screamed and screamed and thrashed and fought but no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t break free. The hands squeezed and pulled and ripped her wings out of their sockets with a sickening pop and the lady collapsed into a pile, fading into nothing, as her wings turned to dust in those red palms.
“Hanna…”
And out of an impossible space stepped a red Ape wearing his father’s face, bearing down on him, lifting its arms high.
“Please…”
The Ape’s fists came down—
“HANNA!”
—only to strike nothing as Vincent was pulled away by the scruff of his neck. Vincent looked up at his savior and—
“We’re going to be alright. Everything’s going to be alright.”
Hanna in her frilled white frock, great black Hornbill wings for arms, carried Vincent away like a dog biting the scruff of his neck, flying through the ceiling. The manor shrank as they soared, and Vincent threw his arms around Hanna’s waist as they picked up speed, faster and faster with each wingbeat. The air grew thin as they cleared a blanket of white, and still they rose, faster, farther, until the world below was the size of a marble and they were alone, blissfully alone with the clouds at their feet, amidst the sun and stars.
And then she smiled the sweetest, warmest, brightest smile that Vincent had ever seen.
“I am Manang,” she said.
And:
“I am Inchin Temaga.”
Then her frilled white frock frayed, transforming into hundreds of thousands of black feathers, or rather, a dress made of hundreds of thousands of black feathers.
“I am the daughter of Singalang Burong, and my house is the sky.”
She wrapped her wings around Vincent, and he felt a rippling under his skin, spreading across his torso, back, arms and legs; but there was no pain, only warmth. Moments later, the same midnight black feathers sprouted out of his back, weaving themselves together into a coat and clothing him. Hanna—Inchin—leaned in. “My feathers will guide you back to me, when you are ready.”
She smiled again, and for a moment, she was little Hanna again.
“Will you promise me something, until then?”
Vincent nodded. “Anything.”
Tears welled in the corners of her eyes as her smile grew brighter still.
“Don’t let that rotten, wicked thing get you.”
Then, there was a stretching of worlds, and a familiar strangling at Vincent’s neck. Then he watched, helpless, as a pair of red hands reached out from an impossible space to grab hold of Hanna’s wings, and she struggled and thrashed but could not escape. The hands pulled, as far as her Hornbill wings could stretch, pulling and pulling and crucifying her in the abyss, ripping her apart.
“Ghosts?” said Bishop Bertram. “Really?”
Father Vincent nodded. “Yes, your Excellency. Reports suggest that Gospel affords the indigenous Borneans relief from their Pagan phantasms. Some have already begun accepting the faith, in fact. They are ready.”
The old man grunted and considered him through steepled fingers. He was not convinced, but Father Vincent was undeterred. A minute passed in silence, until:
“Why did you come here?” the bishop asked.
“I’m sorry?”
“You were an Oxford scholar. You have wealth. It isn’t common for one such as yourself to choose the life of the cloth.”
“I don’t believe that precludes me from the vocation.”
The bishop looked away. “No. No, of course not.”
The old man then rose from his seat, and fetched a thick, leather-bound book from the shelf beside him. He placed the tome gently on his desk. “I have served at this seminary for many decades now,” he said, flipping through its pages, “and forgive the blasé generalization, but there are two kinds of men who join: those called to serve a higher power…”
The bishop stopped at Father Vincent’s entry.
“…and those running from the Adversary.”
Father Vincent didn’t budge. “I loathe to bring up a man’s history,” the bishop continued, “especially one who has served the seminary so faithfully but you must admit that you have a… unique connection with this island. Your adopted sister, she was—”
“A Pagan.”
“—troubled, Vincent. A lonely, troubled girl snatched from her family at a young age.”
“I stand corrected. She was a Pagan and a liar.”
The bishop frowned. “I have been a friend of your family’s since I was a priest. You and I both know this conversation is long overdue. Ten years ago, the constabulary found you next to your deceased sister in your childhood home. Her death was ruled accidental, poisoned by some Bornean fungi, and your father… It seems he let his obsessions consume him in the end, despite my pleas. He never returned, did he? By all accounts, he lost himself in the jungle, after your sister’s death.”
Father Vincent shrugged, and looked away.
“I’ve made my peace.”
A paltry offering. For a moment, Father Vincent feared he might have been too flippant, and that Bishop Bertram might have taken offence—but that wasn’t the case. At length:
“The parable of the Prodigal Son. What does it teach us?”
The priest bowed his head.
“Forgiveness, your Excellency.”
Don’t let that rotten, wicked thing get you.
The bishop nodded. “The holes left by the wounds we bear are an invitation, and forgiveness the only salve. It is how we keep the Adversary from conquering the emptiness in us. It is how we bring light to dark hallways left untrodden. Do you understand?”
“I… suppose.”
“In quieter moments, it may have occurred to you that perhaps, had your sister accepted the Lord our God into her heart, things would be different. That perhaps if you yourself had done the same, things would not have transpired as such. What I mean, Vincent, is that you have a hole in your heart, and it is eating at you. It drives you, but it may also be what destroys you. If you are to embark on this Mission, it must be for the right reasons. You must be vigilant and steadfast—but you must also be kind.”
“Yes. Yes… I…”
“The Lord our God died for our sins; there is nothing He cannot forgive. Nothing that you, your sister, your father, your mother—nothing that they have done or ought to have done. Pray for forgiveness, so that the hole in your heart may be filled with the grace of God, because the Mission will be nothing like you have experienced. It will demand everything of you, and you will be made to give even more still.”
Bishop Bertram leaned in and looked Father Vincent in the eye. “Only through the Lord will you survive. Only by His forgiveness will you succeed. Do you understand?”
Father Vincent nodded. “Yes, your Excellency.”
“Good. Good. Then I will keep you in my prayers, child, and by the grace of God, you shall have your Mission.”
The sky threatens a thunderstorm as Father Vincent makes his way back to the Ape’s haunt. After the events of the last few days, he had almost forgotten that monsoon season was just around the corner. It makes no difference though; as he sat alone in the barouk, surrounded by grief, the priest made up his mind.
No, that decision was made a long, long time ago.
Perched on a hill overlooking the Ape’s haunt, he is ready. He spent his time recuperating, praying, planning and thinking; thinking of his mistakes, of Paul and the huntsmen, of his father’s cold distance, his mother’s empty despair. Of little Hanna, clinging onto his arm and pointing into the dark, pleading for his help.
Will you promise me something, until then?
And as he checks the bolt-action rifle in his hands and the sidearm on his hip, locking the sleeping Ape in his sights, Father Vincent can’t help but smile, and whisper, “I’m sorry, Han.”
The priest waits for the moment between his breaths, and squeezes the trigger.
CRACK.
Bullseye.
Do you trust me?
The bullet punctures the Ape’s right eyeball. It jolts awake, howling in pain, red hands clawing at its face. The priest wants to fire again, and again, and again; but he holds fast, choosing patience over fury.
Trust over doubt.
The Ape collects itself at length, seething as it looks around for the perpetrator, blood and vitreous humor oozing out its face. Father Vincent takes the opportunity to pull the bolt and chamber a new round, the click of metal-on-metal alerting the Ape to his position. The brief distraction is just long enough for him to draw a bead on the Ape’s other eye, and fire once more. This time, however, the round doesn’t quite find its mark; it punches into the beast’s orbital bone, and the Ape is hurt, but its blood is boiling now. Enraged, it doesn’t feel pain quite the same way.
And it has spotted him.
Please.
The Ape roars, and charges.
Father Vincent does nothing. He has prayed for this moment. As the Ape scrambles up the hill, half-blind and frothing at the mouth, the priest knows its brute strength and ferocity will not matter. Because in its haste, the Ape puts its weight on a thin layer of sticks and leaves, breaking the concealed trap and stumbling into a trench of sharpened bamboo spikes.
The Ape howls, and howls, and howls.
This time, the priest rechambers, and fires.
Please.
Father Vincent fires round after round after round. He cannot be precise at that range, going for volume instead. The Ape thrashes, trying to free its foot from the priest’s trap while shielding itself from the hail of bullets. Father Vincent reloads a second clip and expends that too—yet the Ape does not go down. The shots find their mark again, and again, but the Ape simply refuses to die. It doesn’t even slow down.
In fact, it’s coming loose.
Ghosts, really?
The priest draws his sidearm and empties the revolver into the Ape. It flinches hard, and breaks the bamboo spikes impaling its foot.
Will you promise me something, until then?
Father Vincent picks up the spear by his feet and says one final prayer.
Anything.
He leaps onto the Ape, thrusting the weapon downwards. The two collide with a meaty smack, as he sinks the spear into the creature’s chest. Father Vincent feels one of its lungs go pop, and there’s no time to think; with one hand firmly on the spear, the priest draws his last weapon—a jungle knife—and with a mighty roar, he sinks it into the Ape’s neck.
The beast does not howl this time, but whimpers.
Don’t let that rotten—
The wounds have taken their toll.
Don’t let that rotten, wicked thing get you—
But the Antu Rimba does not go quietly.
With the last of its terrible strength, the Ape wraps its arms around Father Vincent, squeezing tight. The priest struggles against it, to no avail, and the two fall together, backwards down the hill, crashing through the rainforest and collapsing in a bloody, broken heap.
“Vincent! Vincent, come out you rascal. I want you to meet someone.”
The boy obeyed, and found a little girl standing by his father, at the doors to his childhood home. She was a tiny thing, olive-skinned and dark-haired, staring at him with big, round, honey-brown eyes—a mere shadow, huddled in behind his father’s trouser leg. The boy raised an eyebrow, incredulous, but his father was having none of it.
“Well, go on. Introduce yourself.”
The boy relented and offered his hand.
“Hullo. My name’s Vincent.”
The manor felt so big back then. Every word was an echo, every footstep an announcement. The boy did not get a response, and so he tried again, offering his hand once more.
“Nice to meet you, miss...”
She didn’t dare take it, staying huddled behind his father’s leg. The man laughed. “Now now, don’t be shy—oh, that’s embarrassing. I don’t believe they gave you a name…”
He turned to Vincent. “Why don’t you do it?”
The boy pondered for a moment. He was an avid reader and had a curious mind, and had many names at his disposal—but one stood out from all the rest. He wasn’t sure why, but it seemed apt at the time. The boy smiled, and said:
“Hanna.”
His father nodded approvingly. The boy offered his hand to her again.
“Nice to meet you, Hanna.”
She could not possibly have understood him, but perhaps something in his tone reassured her. Like a scared animal, Hanna crept out and, sensing no danger, took Vincent’s hand, smiling the biggest, warmest, brightest smile that the boy had ever seen.
Rainfall.
To his surprise, Father Vincent wakes up.
He doesn’t remember freeing himself from the grasp of the dead Ape, nor does he remember crawling out from under it. Bloody, bruised and battered, the priest is nevertheless thankful for the sharp pain shooting through his chest with each breath. The landing must have broken a number of his ribs. He tries to move but his limbs ignore him. He tries to call out, but then remembers that he elected to fight the Antu on his own.
Thunder in the distance.
Lightning cracks the sky.
He realizes he will not escape the monsoon floods, but it doesn’t matter anymore. He is content to lie there—perhaps even deserves to. The rain pours, breaking through the jungle canopy as Father Vincent’s eyes grow heavy. The world fades, but in his last moments, the priest spies something in the sky above.
He blinks once, twice, but the vision does not leave him.
Father Vincent can’t help but chuckle.
“Ghosts. Really? Hah.”
There is a beating of wings in an impossible space. There is no pain—only warmth, and light. The priest cracks a smile and, with a whispered prayer, watches midnight-black feathers dance above him, in the rain.
Derek Kho is a Malaysian writer, poet, dancer and performer. He has been published by Fusion Fragment, Solarpunk Magazine, Dragon Soul Press and Fixi Novo, amongst others. In writing this story, he drew inspiration from the indigenous cultures of Sarawak, his home, and their long history with Christian missionaries. You can find him at @derekkho on Instagram.
“Antu” by Derek Kho. Copyright © 2025 by Derek Kho.
“Antu” by Derek Kho. Copyright © 2025 by Derek Kho.
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