‘Sarawak Folklore’ Gold Winner (Youth) – Christian Richardson Donald

Fairy Cave of Bau.

The Stone Mountain of Bau

Beyond the core of Bau town, not far from its bustling streets, rises a jagged limestone mountain the locals call Dorod Kapow, though the modern world knows only the Fairy Caves within. To a passing traveller, it is merely a mountain, a geological wonder of the Sarawakian landscape. But to those who still listen to the songs of the forebears, it is a monument to a hollowed-out humanity. It is a story not of stone, but of the coldness of the human heart.

Long ago, before the Krokong-Pejiru Road was paved by modern hands, a sprawling longhouse thrived upon the land. On the fringes of this bustling community lived two orphan siblings, a boy and a girl. Their parents had died before their soles even touched the earth, leaving their grandmother, Sumuk, to shoulder the burden of care.

Their home was a ramshackle bori umoh, a farmhouse that stood at a physical and social distance from the longhouse. While the community celebrated the bounty of the earth, the trio existed in a relentless cycle of threadbare clothes and empty bellies, quietly ostracised from the thriving settlement nearby.

When the season of Gawai came, the longhouse pulsed with life. The villagers held a feast of thanks for the Spirits and a plea for the coming year’s bounty. As the rhythmic thrum of gongs began to pulse through the trees, the orphans gazed from afar with a mixture of hope and hesitation. They had long yearned for belonging in their community and the dignity of a shared meal.

“Sumuk, can we go to the longhouse for the Gawai festival?” asked the girl.

“Yes, we will go in the best clothes we have,” Sumuk replied, her voice acting as a fragile shield against their poverty.

But the longhouse was no sanctuary. As the orphans stepped into the light of the celebration, the air curdled with the villagers’ disdain. To the merrymakers, the orphans were not neighbours, but a harsh blemish on their sacred gratitude to the Spirits. To hasten their departure, the villagers handed them bundles of buan leaves, claiming they were heavy with the finest meat and fish. Fooled by the villagers’ masquerade, the orphans went back to their bori umoh with naive joy.

The crushing betrayal was revealed when Sumuk unfurled the leaves. The anticipated scent of a harvest feast was replaced by the dry, metallic stench of bleached chicken bones and charred scraps of glutinous rice. It was a mockery that transcended mere bullying, a spiritual insult to the memory of the orphans’ parents and the Spirits of the land.

“They have invited their own end,” Sumuk whispered, her grief hardening into a cold, ancestral fury.

With sacred authority, she instructed the orphans to catch a black cat and a pail of water. “Dress the cat in black cloth before soaking it wet at the longhouse. Then, release it into the festival’s heart.”

She then set chicken cages upon the orphans’ heads, commanding them to keep them on lest they be claimed by the curse. “If the villagers laugh, their laughter will calcify in their throats, condemning them,” she added. “When the deed is done, flee into the night. Do not look back.”

The orphans walked, carrying Sumuk’s words with them. Retribution struck with surreal speed. Under her grim instructions, the siblings returned to the festival with the soaking black cat. As the animal darted through the longhouse, the villagers erupted in booming, arrogant laughter, mocking the orphans’ silly present. They were entirely unaware that their laughter was the final weight upon the scales of divine justice.

The orphans fled into the dark jungle just as a thunderous roar split the sky, shaking the earth beneath them. In a horrific, silent sweep, the laughter froze. One by one, flesh hardened into limestone and rice wine thickened into mud. The villagers finally realised that they had offended the Spirits, but it was too late to repent.

Within seconds, the vibrant longhouse and everyone within were calcified until the pride of the village was nothing more than a jagged monument of stone. The two orphans and Sumuk survived, their fortunes shifting as the landscape itself had.

Today, the stone mountain remains a silhouette against the Sarawak sky. I often think of those orphans when I look toward Bau. The legend endures not to frighten us, but to remind us that the most dangerous thing in this world isn’t an ancient curse; it is a heart that has forgotten how to be kind to those who have nothing left but their dignity. — DayakDaily

Christian Richardson Donald.

A native of Kuching, 17-year-old Christian Richardson anak Donald balances his academic life with a strong passion for creative writing. When he is not working on his latest stories, his absolute favourite pastime is singing.