Kitabı oku: «The Book of Dragons», sayfa 3

HIKAYAT SRI BUJANG, OR, THE TALE OF THE NAGA SAGE

Zen Cho

Zen Cho (zencho.org) is the author of a short story collection, Spirits Abroad; two historical fantasy novels, Sorcerer to the Crown and The True Queen; and a novella, The Order of the Pure Moon Reflected in Water. She is a winner of the Crawford, British Fantasy, and Hugo awards, and a finalist for the Locus and John W. Campbell awards. She was born and raised in Malaysia, resides in the United Kingdom, and lives in a notional space between the two.

The day that ruined the naga sage Sri Bujang’s life dawned like any other, free of untoward omens. The mountains were wreathed by a romantic mist, out of which the peaks rose like islands in a vague gray sea.

A sage must be self-disciplined if they are to acquire sufficient merit to achieve liberation. Sri Bujang followed a strict daily routine. Every morning, he rose when it was still dark and did his stretches. These helped keep his long serpentine body limber and were good for opening his third eye.

As he contorted into spiritually rewarding shapes, sunlight spilled over the horizon, burning off the mist. Sri Bujang had all three eyes fixed on the ground, his mind a perfect blank, when suddenly the gold light turned gray. Lightning blazed across the sky, followed by the rumble of thunder.

The rain would have been obliterating for anyone who was not a naga. For Sri Bujang, of course, water was no different from air. With perfect clarity he saw the naga emerge from the forest—and recognized her.

“Kakanda,” said his sister.

Sri Bujang froze. His third eye snapped shut. It had always been considered rude in his family to have it open in mixed company.

“Adinda,” he said. If he’d had time to prepare, he might have come up with a greeting befitting a naga sage, suitably combining the gnomic and the nonchalant.

But he was not prepared. He had not seen any member of his family in centuries.

“How did you know I’m here?” he blurted out.

Sri Kemboja looked puzzled. “This mountain is named after you. Gunung Sri Bujang.”

“Oh, right,” said Sri Bujang. What would a sage do? he found himself wondering for an absurd moment.

He pulled himself together. Whatever he did was what a sage would do. Also, a sage would be gracious but detached. He would not greet his sister with the usual platitudes: comments on whether she had lost or gained weight, or questions about their relatives’ health. A sage would not care to know if anyone was missing him, or if they regretted how they had treated him back then.

“How can I help you?” he said.

He was pleased with the dignified sound of this, but Sri Kemboja’s expression was stony. She looked exactly like their father had the last time Sri Bujang had seen him, when they had quarreled and Sri Bujang had left home for good.

“It’s not me who needs help,” she said. “You have to come home, Kakanda.”

For years Sri Bujang had dreamed of receiving this appeal. It was not sagelike to feel vindicated, but nevertheless, Sri Bujang felt a little flutter of satisfaction below his rib cage.

“I told Ayahanda and Bonda already,” he said. “This is my life now. The sage of Gunung Sri Bujang cannot simply go off like that. I have responsibilities. This mountain is a keramat; people come on pilgrimage to see me. I’m the number two attraction in this area on TripAdvisor, you know, second only to a very famous nasi lemak stall!”

“Ayahanda is dying,” said Sri Kemboja. “Are you coming or not?”

Sri Bujang trailed after his sister as they descended toward the sea, hunching under the storm raised by their passage.

He was being magnanimous, he told himself. One couldn’t pick fights with one’s dying father. He would go and see his family, and then he would return to his work. He was not being feeble.

The plains had altered since he had last come down from the mountain. Humans had left their mark everywhere, with typical lack of consideration.

“They think this is their grandfather’s land, is it?” Sri Bujang grumbled. It wasn’t so bad for the gods and hantu, who had other dimensions to occupy; besides, small human-made altars dotted the earth, stocked with incense and offerings for tutelary spirits. But the humans had left little room for other corporeal species. “They should think of the other animals, not just themselves.”

“Ah, humans are like that,” said Sri Kemboja.

As they threaded their way around the various buildings, roads, and other human rubbish that littered the landscape, Sri Bujang began to develop an ache behind his sealed third eye. He paused at the shore, looking back. He could see the peak of his mountain in the distance, covered with virgin forest—a sanctuary from human thoughtlessness and familial encroachments alike.

“Come on,” said his sister impatiently. “At the rate you’re loitering, this whole seaside development will wash away in the rain.”

Sri Bujang found himself opening his mouth to snap, “So what?” He shut it before the words could escape, shocked at himself. The retort belonged to Sri Bujang before the mountain—the unenlightened young naga who had retreated precisely so he could transcend such pettiness.

“I was allowing a moment for reflection,” he said, with dignity.

Sri Kemboja’s answering snort did not improve his mood. He followed her into the sea, resentment brewing in his chest.

He cheered up as they approached his father’s kingdom. By the gates stood the proud figures of the white crocodiles who had guarded the kingdom since it was founded. Sri Bujang had always been a favorite of the captain of the King’s Guard. Pak Laminah had trained him in the military arts. Sri Bujang would have recognized his profile anywhere.

“Pak Laminah!” he cried gladly. The crocodile looked around.

It was not Pak Laminah. She had the same snout and the same green eyes, but she was a stranger.

“Ah, Your Highness is back!” she said to Sri Kemboja. She gave Sri Bujang a wary glance.

“Captain, can you spare a messenger to the istana?” said Sri Kemboja. “Tell them the princess has returned with the raja muda.”

When they had passed through the gates, Sri Kemboja said, “Pak Laminah is dead. Captain Hartini is his great-great-great-grandniece.” She seemed bemused that Sri Bujang hadn’t already known this.

Of course, he should have known Pak Laminah would no longer be living. It had been a long time since he had left home.

But the incident lent a nightmare quality to Sri Bujang’s procession through the kingdom. He felt like a mother who, having left her eggs safely buried, returns to find the sand scattered, her children devoured in the shell. This was no homecoming, but an arrival at a strange place—a place he did not know, that held uncertain welcome for him.

At the istana they were led into the audience chamber. It was empty, save for two dugong handmaidens and a faded heap on an ornate golden couch. For a split second Sri Bujang took this for an old bolster, limp and bulgy from too much use. It was only when Sri Kemboja went up to greet it that he realized what he saw.

The Naga King of the South China Sea, He Who Is as the Dust of the Almighty, Sri Daik lay coiled on the golden couch. His sides rose and fell irregularly. His scales were dull, as though he were molting. When he opened his eyes, there was no spark of recognition in them.

All resentment fled. Sri Bujang said, appalled, “Ayahanda!”

He was immediately conscious of a wave of cold disapproval from Sri Kemboja at his failure of tact.

“You look better today, Ayahanda,” she said. “Look, here’s Kakanda.”

Sri Bujang touched his snout to his father’s foreleg in a salam. Sri Daik said nothing at first, and Sri Bujang remembered that they had parted in extreme acrimony. In this very room Sri Daik had called him anak derhaka: ill-taught, unmannerly, and irresponsible; a traitor to God, his father, and his king. Sri Bujang for his part had said nothing, repeating a mantra in his head: I am going to seek liberation. I am going to seek liberation.

In a way, it was the same thing as asking himself: What would a sage do?

It was not what a good son would have done. Sri Bujang had departed in peace, making no apology, taking with him as little as he had ever given his parents.

He had not spoken to his father since. He winced now, bracing himself for rejection, dismissal, storms.

“The raja muda has come?” said Sri Daik finally. “Good, good. Have you seen Bonda?”

It was the voice that pierced Sri Bujang like a spear in his flank. Sri Daik was venerable—he had inhabited the South China Sea ever since there had been a South China Sea—but he had never before sounded old. Sri Bujang shook his head, speechless.

“You must go and greet her,” said Sri Daik. “She is somewhere around. These girls can tell you. She will be very happy.”

Even saying so little exhausted him. He shut his eyes. There was a silence, long enough that Sri Bujang wondered if his father had fallen asleep. But Sri Kemboja and the handmaidens waited, watching Sri Daik with calm expectancy.

After a while, he opened his eyes and lifted his head. A dugong rushed to his side.

“Which one are you? Balkis?” said Sri Daik. “I almost forgot. We must have the raja muda crowned as king. You will arrange the proclamation? Thank you.”

His eyes fluttered. Sri Bujang opened his mouth, but before he could object, his father roused again.

“Balkis! Are you still there? The regalia, remember to bring out the regalia. You must see if the royal dress fits the raja muda. Don’t forget, yes? You’re a good girl, Balkis.”

They waited for another half an hour, but this time it seemed Sri Daik had said all he had to say. The handmaidens ushered Sri Bujang and his sister out of the chamber.

“We’ll call you if His Majesty wants you,” said the one called Balkis. “The raja muda’s room will be made ready.”

Sri Bujang was staring straight ahead. Sri Kemboja had to repeat herself to get his attention.

“What?” he said.

“I said,” said Sri Kemboja, raising her voice, “are you sure my royal brother wants his room?”

The dugong Balkis’s forehead wrinkled. “But where else will His Royal Highness sleep until the coronation? We will prepare the royal bedchamber, but it cannot properly be used by His Royal Highness until after the ceremony.”

“Where, indeed?” said Sri Kemboja meaningfully. When Sri Bujang did not react, she lowered her voice and hissed, “You said you’d come back for a visit only! Then you were going to go back, no?”

The handmaidens looked away in embarrassment, pretending not to hear. Sri Bujang said absently:

“Did I say that?”

He had been too distracted by his distress over Pak Laminah to pay attention to his surroundings when he had entered the istana, and interior decoration had been the last thing on his mind during the audience with his father. But now that Sri Bujang looked properly, the signs of decay were everywhere in his father’s palace: buckling floorboards and rotting timbers, black mold creeping out from the corners.

The istana took its measure from the king. As Sri Daik faded, and his magic with him, the istana would follow. And the sphere of influence radiating out from the istana, which Sri Daik had built over so many hundreds of years—the nobles he had cultivated, the followers who depended upon him and gave him importance—all of that too would fall away.

“Well, that won’t work,” said Sri Bujang.

Someone would have to take it on. There was no one else. He was the raja muda. His parents had selected him to be the chief bearer of their hopes and disappointments.

It had been mostly disappointments so far … but that would change.

Sri Kemboja gaped. “You’re going to let them crown you? I thought you wanted to attain liberation?”

You couldn’t be a prince and a bodhisattva, which was why Sri Bujang had left home. Being a king would be even more of an obstacle to liberation.

Sri Bujang thought of Pak Laminah. He had been Sri Daik’s nest brother, closer to Sri Bujang than any of his blood uncles. When he had left home, it was Pak Laminah who had met him at the gates and pressed gold into his paws, refusing to take it back: “Up there, even to breathe you must pay. You will need it.”

Now Pak Laminah was dead, all that was left of him the eyes and snout of a stranger. What would be left of Sri Daik after his death, if Sri Bujang did not step up now?

“It doesn’t have to happen in this life,” he said, trying to ignore the wrenching at his heart. “Since Ayahanda intends to abdicate, I must discharge my duty as king. The next life will be soon enough to become awakened.”

“Really? You don’t mind waiting?” Sri Kemboja evidently could not believe her ears. “So you’re going to give up your mountain and all that nonsense?”

“No,” said Sri Bujang. If it mattered what became of his father after his death, so did it matter what became of Sri Bujang. To cease his efforts now would be to lose the prospect of liberation even in the next life.

Sri Kemboja was frowning, back on familiar ground—Sri Bujang the unreliable, from whom nothing could be hoped for. “Don’t play around, Kakanda. This is a serious matter. Ayahanda and Bonda have suffered enough. Either take it up, or let them know what to expect.”

Sri Bujang told Balkis, “I will sleep in my old room.” The handmaidens made an obeisance and left.

“You have to commit,” said Sri Kemboja. “How are you going to be king if you’re not willing to sacrifice?”

Sri Bujang assumed his most enigmatic smile, honed by centuries of practice. “I guess you’ll have to wait and see.”

Tapping the steering wheel, May Lynn noticed that her fingernails were too long.

It was not a new observation. They had been too long for weeks. The thought had gained the familiarity of a landmark one saw every day, like the mountain rising out of the bottom right-hand corner of the windshield.

May Lynn dug in her handbag for her phone and texted her mother: At Gunung Sri Bujang. The predictive text brought up the name of the mountain even as she typed At. She sent the same text message at the same time every day, to let Ma know she was almost home.

Ma wouldn’t let May Lynn cut her fingernails when she got back from work. Cutting your nails at night was bad luck, she said. She was not a woman who was easily parted from her convictions and it was not possible to persuade her that that was a superstition belonging to a time predating electric lights.

“… said the recent unseasonal rainy weather has increased the risk of accidents and asked motorists to avoid driving during storms. The government has formed a taskforce to investigate measures to prevent further landslides …”

Avoid driving, your head, thought May Lynn. How to avoid driving unless you want to sit at home all day? Maybe if there’s good public transport, that’s another story … What she needed to do was bring a fingernail clipper to the office and sort it out there during the day, away from Ma’s censorious eye.

But as she imagined it, she could see her coworker gazing incuriously over the divider between their desks. Her resolution wilted. Yasmin possessed the preternatural elegance generally found only in the very wealthy; she looked like she had never sweated in her life. It was impossible to clip one’s fingernails in front of Yasmin.

At this point, May Lynn’s train of thought was run off its tracks by an enormous crash of thunder. The world was plunged into darkness. As May Lynn peered up at the sky in confusion, it was split by a forked bolt of lightning.

Blinking away the dazzle, she almost missed the sight that would fill social media feeds and preoccupy the press for the next several weeks. By the time she rubbed her eyes and opened them again, the dragon had already leaped across the highway. It retreated into the distance, heading toward the mountains. The traffic light turned green, but for several long breaths, May Lynn and all the other motorists stayed where they were, watching after the dragon until it was lost behind a veil of rain.

“Ah, Adinda,” said Sri Daik. “You’re here?”

Sri Bujang was engrossed in studying a stele, so he didn’t look up until Sri Kemboja said:

“How could you?”

There was no mistaking who she was addressing; she would never have spoken to their parents that way. Sri Bujang said, “What?”

“I know what you’ve been doing,” said Sri Kemboja, in throbbing tones. “You don’t think I don’t know!”

Looking at his sister’s accusing face, Sri Bujang felt suddenly that he had hit his limit.

He had already been feeling hard done by. It was not that any drudgery was expected of him. Princes do not rub unguents on invalids’ scales, or feed them healing soups. Sri Daik was attended by physicians, magicians, great-aunts, lesser cousins, handmaidens and manservants, not to mention Sri Bujang’s mother, Sri Gumum. He had only to crook a talon for his every need to be supplied.

So it was not clear why Sri Daik and Sri Gumum felt it necessary to take up all of Sri Bujang’s time. Sri Gumum had difficulties with the servants. Sri Daik had a mind-boggling array of ailments. They both had strong views on tax policy and zoning, public transport and foreign affairs—the various matters of government with which a king should be well acquainted. They were determined to tell Sri Bujang about all these things, at length.

For one who had spent hundreds of years alone in a cave, this was acutely aggravating. Sri Bujang was accustomed to considering his spirit a precious commodity, to guarding his energies jealously from incursion. It was an unpleasant novelty to be treated as though his spirit was of no account.

“You!” he began, but before he could tell Sri Kemboja what he thought of her tone, their mother said:

“What do you mean, what Kakanda has been doing? He’s helping us with Ayahanda’s prescriptions.”

Sri Kemboja seemed to notice for the first time the stele propped up before Sri Bujang. The pawang’s inscription was as illegible as doctors’ handwriting is said to be, but still the occasional name of a healing spell or electuary could be discerned.

“What’s this?” she said.

“The girls are doing their best,” said Sri Daik. “But this old carcass needs so many spells and medicines, it’s hard for them to keep track.”

“Those naughty dugong forgot to give Ayahanda his dose,” said Sri Gumum. “Now the pain in his last pair of hind legs has come back! Whatever you say, it is not like having your own child tend to you.”

Before his parents could rejoin battle over what the handmaidens had done and what should be done to them in consequence, Sri Bujang said:

“I’m going to supervise the dosings from now on, make sure Ayahanda gets what he needs. Don’t worry, Bonda.”

Sri Daik nodded. Sri Gumum smiled. Their approval was a balm to Sri Bujang’s irritated soul, but the relief proved fleeting.

“Yes. Fine. Okay,” said Sri Kemboja. “That’s all very good. But have you told Ayahanda and Bonda about the destruction you’ve been causing?”

Sri Bujang glared at her. “What are you talking about?”

“Come, Adinda, this is not becoming,” said Sri Daik. “Even if you feel your royal brother is wrong, you should tell him gently. What is the matter?”

“Kakanda has been commuting,” announced Sri Kemboja. She turned to Sri Bujang. “You’ve been going back to your mountain, haven’t you? Did you think nobody would notice?”

Sri Bujang had indeed thought no one would notice. It wasn’t like his parents had shown any interest in what he’d been doing for the past several centuries.

He drew himself up. “Is that all? I’ve been going back, yes. I need quiet time for contemplation. It’s not like it’s interfered with my duties here.” He turned to his parents. “I haven’t neglected you, have I?”

He had thought this was a safe appeal, given how devoted he had been. But he saw at once that he was wrong. Sri Daik and Sri Gumum wore identical expressions of horror.

“Oh, Kakanda, how could you?” said Sri Gumum. “You said you were going to postpone all that nonsense to the next life.”

Sri Bujang had never mentioned this plan to his parents. He gave Sri Kemboja a burning look of reproach, which she pretended not to notice.

“I have postponed it,” he said. “But I’m not going to become awakened in any life if I stop self-cultivating altogether.”

“This is my fault,” said Sri Daik, with the quiet dignity of a martyr. “I am the one who called Kakanda back when he preferred to live on his mountain. In my youth, that was how things were done; children looked after their parents. But times are different now.”

Sri Bujang felt as though the floor had opened beneath his feet. “I—what—but what’s wrong with me going back? It’s just so I can keep up my practice.”

“Every time you come down your mountain, you cause a landslide,” said Sri Kemboja. “Did you not notice?”

Sri Bujang was about to protest that this was ridiculous, baseless, uncalled for. But as the memory of his last trip to the mountain came back to him, the denial died in his throat.

Could he really swear to the fact that there hadn’t been a landslide? As always, his arrival and departure had been attended by incalculable fuss. The mountain’s resident jungle spirits and animals were obsessed with protocol, and they loved a party. What with the clamor of their rites, he hadn’t had time to pay attention to the state of the soil. It was possible there had been a small landslide or two while he hadn’t been looking …

“And the flooding, whenever you go up from the sea,” said Sri Kemboja. “You didn’t notice that either?”

“Of course there was flooding,” said Sri Bujang crossly. “There’s always flooding whenever any of us goes anywhere. It’s just because of the rain.”

“And you don’t think that’s a problem?”

“Don’t fight, children,” said Sri Gumum, forgetting in her anxiety to prevent a quarrel that she was angry with Sri Bujang. “It’s natural of Kakanda to think the humans will be grateful. After all, they used to worship us for bringing rain. He doesn’t realize they have changed.”

“Kakanda can try to claim he’s doing it for the humans’ sake,” said Sri Kemboja. “But I don’t believe it! When did the humans ever like us bringing floods or landslides?”

“Adinda has a point, you know,” said Sri Daik to Sri Bujang. “Rain is good, but it must be the right amount. Too much causes difficulties for the humans. Maybe you forgot?”

Sri Bujang was not accustomed to considering humans outside their role as pilgrims to the mountain who left one offerings and made importunate requests.

“That’s what all this hoo-ha is about?” he said, baffled. “The humans?”

“Tok Batara Guru!” said Sri Kemboja. She flung up her forelegs and turned away.

Sri Bujang had so scandalized his parents that they did not even reprove her for the blasphemy.

“The humans have changed, Kakanda,” said Sri Daik. “They are not scared of anything nowadays. If you cause trouble for them, they will cause trouble for you.”

“We cannot take trouble right now,” said Sri Gumum. “Ayahanda is sick.”

The way they looked at Sri Bujang was familiar. This feeling, of being the cause of worry, the troublemaker, the disappointment, was one he knew.

“I know Ayahanda is sick,” said Sri Bujang. There was a bitter taste on his tongue. “Do you think I’m doing all this for fun?” He gestured at the stele.

“No. You are doing it because I asked,” said Sri Daik. “I should not have asked. It is better not to demand things of your children.”

“Kakanda, you spent so many years already on your mountain,” said Sri Gumum. “Isn’t it time to stop being selfish?”

“Selfish?” Sri Bujang echoed.

But it was true, wasn’t it? For he had escaped. All those years ago, he had hardened himself against the demands of love and duty, knowing that he would be used without mercy if he showed the least sign of yielding.

By his own creed, Sri Bujang’s life on his mountain required no justification. To gain enlightenment, to free oneself from the shackles of illusion, all expedients were permissible—even necessary. To his family, however, Sri Bujang had been born a debtor. His debts would not be paid off with anything less than his life.

He was distantly aware that Sri Kemboja had come back. She looked from him to their parents.

“Enough,” she said abruptly. “There’s no need to talk so much. Kakanda’s got the point already.”

Sri Bujang stared, too miserable to be comforted even by this unexpected show of solidarity. Sri Gumum, who could never resist having the last word, said:

“You cannot have both, Kakanda. You’ve had your fun, but you’re not young anymore. Now it’s time to focus on the family. Put aside other things. You understand that, right?”

“Yes,” said Sri Bujang, “I know.” But everything in him rose in revolt. They could try to take all that mattered to him, he thought, but they couldn’t make him believe his soul did not matter. That was the one thing they could not do.

The dragon had become such an everyday sight that May Lynn barely spared it a glance before turning back to her phone. Unbelievably, the message on the screen had not changed.

Besok? Where you want to eat?

The good thing about having overly long fingernails was at least you always had something to chew.

Besok boleh, she typed. It wasn’t too much to respond straight away, right? It was normal. They were arranging a normal evening meetup between colleagues, outside working hours, for general socializing purposes. Anywhere also can.

The blue double-tick appeared next to her messages, but Yasmin didn’t answer immediately. To distract herself, May Lynn looked up at the long line of traffic snaking ahead of her. The cause of the jam was still to be seen, framed between the trees by the side of the road.

The dragon was motionless, its head turned toward Gunung Sri Bujang. It was strange that it was lingering for so long. Usually it was only possible to catch a glimpse of the dragon as it made its way between mountain and sea.

Yasmin’s reply said, I’ll surprise you then. Can’t wait. ;)

The traffic inched forward. May Lynn disengaged the brake and let her car slide along, smiling helplessly. Outside, the dragon appeared and disappeared between the trees.

She was in a mood that conferred meaning on everything; the world seemed light and clear, bursting with possibility. The dragon’s silhouette was suddenly unbearably poignant, the swoop of its neck full of yearning.

The thunder made her jump and drop her phone. There was a cracking sound, but May Lynn barely heard it through the howling of the wind. Her phone had better not be broken. It would be the worst possible moment for it to happen. What would Yasmin think?

She saw the edge of her phone case and dived to scoop it up. Perhaps that was for the best. It meant she didn’t see the tree give way under the force of the storm, or the branch tumbling toward her, crashing through the windscreen.

Sri Bujang woke up under a ceiling of wood, not stone. This would be the case now, till the end of this life. Today and all the days after, he would be king and this would be his kingdom. The thought had the peaceful finality of death.

He slithered out of his bedchamber, raising his head to meet the day.

Sri Gumum was charging down the passage, followed by a thunderous-looking Sri Kemboja. With great weariness, Sri Bujang recognized on them the marks of a tempest in which he would unavoidably be involved.

“Kakanda, where have you been?” said his mother. “We couldn’t find you anywhere yesterday! I wouldn’t even have known you were back if Balkis hadn’t told me.”

“Do you need to ask where he was?” said his sister. “He was at his mountain, obviously.”

“Oh, no,” said Sri Gumum. “Kakanda wouldn’t do that, not at a time like this.”

“Wouldn’t he?” said Sri Kemboja. “You ask him!”

“What do you mean, ‘a time like this’?” said Sri Bujang. A chill presentiment touched him. “Is Ayahanda okay?”

His mother shook her head.

“Where is he?” said Sri Bujang. It was too soon. He had made his big sacrifice, the grand gesture that was to put him right with the family. Surely Sri Daik could not have left before Sri Bujang was able to tell him. “Can I see him?”

“Better not,” said Sri Gumum. “He’s very disappointed. You children don’t know, you think your father is invulnerable. All his life he has worked to build his reputation. Now he is having his name dragged through the human courts, and for what?”

“What?” said Sri Bujang.

The letter was written in the new Roman alphabet the humans had adopted in the past century. Emblazoned at the top were the words:

HANTU v Raja Naga Laut China Selatan, Sri Daik

“Ayahanda said the humans would cause trouble,” said Sri Gumum.

Sri Bujang scanned the letter slowly. He wasn’t used to the humans’ new script, and the legal jargon didn’t help. “But it says the case is brought by hantu.”

“H-A-N-T-U, not hantu,” said Sri Kemboja. “It’s an acronym.” She tapped the sheet with a talon. “See, it explains it here. Humans’ Association for the preservation of NaTure from the Unnatural. It’s an organization to tackle the ecological impact of spiritual and supernatural activity.”