Note: Sharing something I wrote… damn, about 17 years ago, because a friend was talking about local myths and fictional takes on them and I swore I had this lying around except the site it was located has changed so much. So, just in case. Don’t judge the quality of the writing. iirc I wrote this after watching the Puteri Gunung Ledang, which I thought had its merits but it did lead me to another angle.
High in the highest peak of the mountain known far and wide as Ledang, there lived a princess of renowned beauty and grace. It was said that she was the daughter of one of the lords of faerie and her mother was a lady of heaven herself. It was said that she was their youngest, most-beloved child, who chose the mountain as her home because it was where earth and heaven met in times of the full moon. It was said that she possessed all the wonders of faerie magic and the wisdom of the high heavens. She knew the ways of the stars, the flight of the birds, the song of the trees. But many tellers would not dwell in her knowledge of the arts and instead (such being the way of common men) would sing praises to her beauty – of her eyes gleaming with the shine of the Northstar, of her skin that was as fine as the petals of a fresh frangipani, of her slim fingers, her willowy figure. Her hair was said to be a curtain of ebon silk, falling past her shoulders, down her back, almost to her slim ankles encircled with fine gold filigree. No man had ever seen her, yet all loved her.
This is not her story.
Close to the royal courtyard of the great kingdom of Malacca, there lived a great admiral of renowned stealth and cunning. It was said that before his birth his mother was blessed with a dream from the Prophet himself and his father dreamt of the moon falling from the sky into his lap. It was known that he was the only child, but he had four other friends who were as close as brothers. It was said that his beloved ‘keris’ was a weapon that he’d won by vanquishing the fierce Javanese warrior, Taming Sari, and claimed the dagger for himself as Taming Sari lay dying by his feet. He was a fair and just man, qualities that remained even as his hair turned gray and his strength turned from the vigour of a young man to the wiry power of an old warrior. He had the king’s ear, for whatever value that may be. True to his name – Tuah – he had a long and fortunate life. All who knew him admired and feared him in equal measure. Those that did not know enough knew only to cry out his name with fervour when he passed the harbour on the way to the royal court.
This is not his story.
This is a story of a selfish man who had the unfortunate luck to be born a king. He never wanted for anything, he never worked for anything. He was never taught the value of ‘no’, and thus never learned the value of anything. His kingdom had the same worth as the set of ceremonial clothes that he was bequeathed to. He was neither happy nor unhappy, and unfortunately he was neither just nor fair. He came from a long line of great kings who’d built the kingdom into what it was, but he himself was not great, because the line was falling into ruin and excess, and the only lesson that he ever learned was that he was king and all that there is under the sky and below the earth and in between was his.
This king had a son, a boy of five – possibly the only thing in the world he valued more than his own life, but even this is doubtful. He loved his son like he loved his favourite horse – with a sort of detached superior affection that unconsciously mocks the very thing that it loves.
His people loved him because that was what was required of them. He cared not the reasons why they bowed to him, only that they did. His people had no complaints, because even one man cannot undo the machinery of what makes a state that had been operating for centuries. Unless it is for some extraordinary cause.
This is where our story begins.
More accurately, our story begins just after Admiral Tuah returned from his mission to Mount Ledang. The king had been possessed with a fancy – his lands extended from the Straits of Malacca to the Titiwangsa range, or so he was told. He was the sovereign of the Almighty, and as such he was taught that all souls that occupy his domain belonged to him. He thus reasoned: if all souls belonged to him, if every blade of grass, every sigh of the wind, every trembling heartbeat of all living creatures are in his grasp, then it is mere formality that he asked for the hand of the legendary princess of Mount Ledang, for in all fact she has long since belonged to him.
As he reasoned so, he began to imagine, the words of the court narrators taking shape in his mind. Her eyes he imagined to be like the dark kohl-ed eyes of his Arabi concubine; her skin like those of the Chinese princess sent to him not two months ago; her hair as thick and long as the Pattani courtesan that he had asked for last week; her fingers nimble as the pale European slave he was gifted with that evening. In his mind, she was already unwrapped for his delectation: her trembling thighs are as new and as familiar as the limbs of his subjects that he had taken pleasure in, she would sigh and moan as his favourites would, she would caress and adore him like the village girls that had caught his eye every so often. He cared not for (or had forgotten) her intelligence, her wisdom, her oft-mentioned but never remembered trickery. The more he thought about it, the more flushed and hot he would become, and even as he gracelessly pleasured himself with his servants, all he could see was this creation of his mind – he imagined her warm, willing, welcoming; wanting his every touch and never having enough.
It began to plague him, this vision. He became restless and could never be sated. He seemed to be in a state of perpetual arousal and his every move would be anchored to the thought of the Princess in his mind. He imagined her sitting by his feet as he listened to his ministers. He imagined her hand in his as he passed through his domain. He imagined the heat of her skin in the cool night, and thought her voice would be far more melodious than that of the court entertainers. It came to pass that gradually his vision took such shape that he swore he could see her walking amongst his courtiers, amongst his subjects, gracefully, never quite touching the ground. In moments of tenderness he imagined her to be the perfect mother to his son, not remembering the warning from the elders of the folly of having a faerie mother for a human son.
Thus he sent his most trusted warrior with a delegation asking for the Princess’s hand. Under the pain of death, he commanded that they return with an answer within a month – never mind that the mountain lay on the very borders of his kingdom and the climb was steep. He never found out (and would not have bothered) that Tuah’s strength almost gave out, as the old warrior’s strength was no match for the enchantments the Princess had conjured surrounding her home. But he was still cunning, and saw through the trickery, and commanded a young lieutenant to lead the delegation up on the mountain, as he waited with a few more men at the foot of it. Thus it was never Tuah who saw the Princess, though he was the one who knew just exactly what the Princess’s answer meant.
This was never his story. And for now, the story belongs to the young lieutenant, Tun Mamat:
He would later agree with the king that the Princess was indeed one of incomparable beauty. But he would never tell that she lived in a simple hut, made of weathered bones, with roof of brittle hair. He would tell his king that the Princess’s skin was indeed so fine that she seemed to have her own lustre in the midst of the misty gloom. But he would not tell his king that her blood-red lips had a peculiar smile and that her eyes told him that she knew exactly the measure of his feckless king. He would tell his king that her voice was as tremulous as that of a nightingale but he would not tell his king that her laugh chilled the blood in his veins. He would say that this was a woman of anyone’s dreams, but he would not say that he did not want her as his queen.
He told the king that he relayed his request.
“Well,” the king leaned forward eagerly, “what did she say?”
“She said,” Tun Mamat looked down and saw his hands were trembling slightly. Beside him, the Admiral said nothing. “She said that she needed proof of your love, and as the king of the greatest kingdom under God and the ruler of the high heavens, it would be a small matter.”
“Indeed it would!” the king exclaimed. “Nothing is too great for so fine a princess.”
“She asked for seven conditions to be met,” Tun Mamat said heavily, and hoped the king would see her answer for what it truly was.
It was a futile hope.
“She said, ‘you are a great king, and your wealth is surely immeasurable.’”
The king nodded.
“She said, ‘build me a bridge of gold from your city to my mountain so that I can come to you.’”
“She said, ‘build me a bridge of silver from my mountain to your city so that you can come to me.’”
“Done!” the king exclaimed in delight at such a simple request.
The Malaccans were great builders, but they never had to consider using precious metals for their work.
There was also the fact that Ledang was seven days away on foot and in between there were acres of jungle to contend with.
No one dared to tell the king that the royal treasury had not enough gold and silver to make one bridge, let alone two. The Prime Minister grew frantic as he sourced for raw ores from the mines of the kingdom, and later from their neighbours. To pay for that, heavier and heavier tax was imposed. All manner of duties were introduced. The people grew dishevelled as they were forced to pawn off their belongings to pay for the taxes. The traders began to stay away from the ports as the levy grew more exorbitant and ridiculous. Soon the taxes alone was not enough – the ores had all been mined and they still needed more for the last stretch of the bridges. The Minister began to barter their goods for foreign gold and silver. The people grew thin as they ran out of things to eat. Still they loved their king, because that was the way of things.
In the meantime, the king dreamed of warm skin, dark eyes and a willing mouth.
Eventually the bridges were finished, gleaming in the sunlight and moonlight, a work of such artistry and strength that belied the fact that the stores are empty, the treasury had been ransacked and the people too heartsick and poor to care.
The king imagined the princess was pleased.
“She said, ‘you are a great king, and you rule over creatures great or small, including this humble self.’”
The king smiled confidently.
“She said, ‘prove the loyalty of your most lowest subjects. Bring me seven trays of the hearts of lice, and seven trays of the hearts of mosquitoes.’”
“Not a problem at all,” the king replied, seeing the gentle curve of her hips swaying towards him.
In the beginning, the people reacted as the way people would react in the face of a ludicrous request. But it is their king, and they would submit, because that was the way of things.
Warriors were sent into the deepest jungle, where still water bred vicious mosquitoes that cared not that they were sent by the king. Dirty men were encouraged into the city square, and the people had no choice but let the lice roam freely upon their heads.
People began to fall sick. Shivers and sallow skin, emaciated frame compounded by hunger, all this grew to be a familiar sight. The ticks and the mosquitoes grew drunk with blood and became careless, and they would flop contentedly even as trembling fingers would crush their wings and legs and pick at their bloodswollen bodies to get to their hearts. It was not a great accomplishment that they managed to fill all fourteen trays altogether just as the bridges were finished.
But they did what they did because it was the way things were, even as one after another fell to the deliberate plague.
In the meantime, the king dreamt of a soft voice caressing his temples and promising him ecstasies untold that only the lords and ladies of faerie and the high heaven would know.
“She said, ‘you are a great king, and your sovereignty encompasses all living things, from the humble lichen to the great cengal trees deep in the heart of the jungle.’”
The king made a sound of impatience. Of course – it went without saying.
“She said, ‘gift me seven great urns filled the juice of the young betel-nut, for I had learnt of its potency and it will not grow in the cold climate of my mountain.”’
The king was too caught up by the Princess in his mind, who was kissing his temple and leaning so close he could almost taste the scent of her skin. But he nodded anyway, for it did not sound like an unreasonable request.
But the king knew not of herb lore, and all he knew of young betel-nuts were the prettily arranged rows in the brass containers that he would present to visitors. He sent forth the command to his people, and Despair began to spread, as the insanity of their king became more apparent.
The betel-nut yields so little juice. For a teaspoon of its dark red juice, they had to gather a bushel of nuts. Soon, the land was stripped bare, to make room for its palm trees to grow. No one could survive on the bitter fruit alone, but that was the king’s degree, and that was the way of things.
Eventually seven great urns were filled with the red juice of the young betel-nut, every drop of which was not unlike the blood of the people that they had given up for their king.
In his mind, the King had taken the Princess many many times.
“She said, ‘your kingdom is great and your people are many, surely it is not too much trouble to ask for seven great urns of tears of your people.’”
“Of course,” replied the king, and he could feel her hand stroking his belly.
After all that she asked for, it was no trouble at all.
Tun Mamat took a deep breath. “Finally–”
“Yes?”
“She said, ‘If your love for me is strong and true, it must be beyond wealth, beyond glory, beyond kin. There is no other greater sign of love than that of sacrifice.’”
Tun Mamat could not bear to look at the king’s eager face. “She said – she asked for a bowl of your son’s blood, Your Highness.” He produced a battered ceramic bowl, deep and wide.
The court was silent. The king was pale. But he was barely listening, for he was imagining the beautiful children he would share with this vision of beauty.
“Done.”
A mad king was still a king, even if he cared not for your sorrows, your tears, your toils and your fears.
Even if he was your father.
The king stepped through the prince’s royal quarters, his ceremonial keris unsheathed, its wavy blade glimmering dully in the lamp-lit night. With his every step, he could hear the Princess, her voice promising him that soon, soon they would be together.
His son was deeply asleep. He had sent away the guards, the nanny, all the servants. Some glimmer of doubt began to rise in his mind, but the Princess was foremost and she above all, was what he desired.
The bowl was already by the boy’s bedside.
He knelt. Some form of paternal instinct was warring with his lust, and it showed through his shaking fingers, the sweat on his brow. He took a deep breath as he poised his keris over one small delicate wrist.
“You would do this for me, my Lord?”
He whirled around. Soft voice, but quite unlike the one he was used to imagine. It was a tremulous voice, unaffectedly melodious, but underneath it all was a thread of tempered steel and cold fire.
She was more beautiful than he had imagined. She wore nothing but a faded sarong, but her dark eyes were more beautiful than anyone with Arab blood, her skin was finer than Chinese porcelain, her long dark hair, swaying lightly in the breeze, was beyond the most precious silk. The sarong only hinted at her slim figure, as she stood tall and proud. Her beauty was terrible to behold.
He found he could not speak so he nodded jerkily.
The Princess moved towards him – he found his breath was coming shorter and shorter as she came nearer. Close enough to kiss, but she did not touch him. Her stare flayed him, even as she spoke,
“I asked you for bridges of silver and gold, and you built them. I asked you for trays of the hearts of your smallest subjects, and you gave them. I asked you for urns of blood and tears, and you made it happen. Blindly you agreed, and blindly you followed.”
She moved away and sat down on the bed. For a moment the king wanted to scream warning at her, as she dared to touch his sleeping son.
“Did you not think for a moment that I know exactly what you are?” she asked, her voice still low and soft.
“I am the king. I am the Sultan,” he replied.
“You are a selfish king, and a foolish Sultan,” she answered back. “Your people are dying, your kingdom is in ruins, and you are about to drain the blood of your kin.”
“What more do you want from me?” he cried. “You haunt my dreams in the night and I see you from the corner of my eye in the day. I’ve done this all for you!”
“You have done nothing for me. Not even the idea of me, for the apparition that is beside you is none of me.” She turned to face him and he shrank back in terror. Belatedly he realised that faerie and human were never meant to be.
“You are the ruler of the land. But my father is the ruler of the air and my grandfather is the ruler of sky. You grasped too far, my lord, and your foolishness has caused great sorrow. I am beyond you.” She stood up and walked backwards even as she said, “your home is Malacca. My home is Ledang. Never the twain shall meet.
Seven impossible tasks I had set before you, and still you persist in your foolish desire. In another existence I may not have been so kind, and you would have lost your son as well as your kingdom.”
And in an instant, she was gone.
In retelling this story, some said that the Princess went off with the king’s son, as his punishment for his hubris. Some said that after that night, the king repented and he finally became a good and just ruler, and the people forgave him for his fit of madness because that was the way of things. Some said he never even got as far as the bowl, for he realised then that he would not have sacrificed his son so.
But those are all fairytales and myths. The history books however, will tell you that Malacca fell during the time of Sultan Mahmud.
Mount Ledang still remains.
END
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