All eyes turned to me, smiling in quiet expectation. I felt a small jolt of panic — they had been such wonderful friends on this trip, and I didn’t want to disappoint them. Writing was something I usually did in silence, without an audience. My stories lived in notebooks, half-finished, waiting for me to shape them into something whole. Now, for the first time, I wondered what it would be like to give them a voice.
And so I began my story:
She tried to sleep, but it wouldn’t come. For nearly two hours she had been tossing on the bed, shifting from one side to the other. Now and then she reached for her book, hoping the pages might lull her into drowsiness. They didn’t. Tomorrow she had to drive back to Kuala Lumpur, and she needed rest.
Instead, her mind was a jumble thoughts scattered like puzzle pieces without the picture on the box to guide her. No matter how she turned them, they refused to fit.Finally, she got up and went down to the kitchen. The house was quiet, the kind of deep silence that seemed to listen to you. It was her family’s house a double-storey bungalow her mother had bought a few years earlier. The only landed property they owned.
Like many Singaporeans, their life had been in public housing, and owning land in Singapore was beyond reach. In Johor, though, her mother had managed it. She had saved carefully, dipped into her CPF, and bought this house after her father retired.She still remembered her first visit the surprise, almost disbelief. She had grown up in a compact flat, and the sheer size of the place unsettled her.
How on earth would they maintain it? The thought of living in such a big house felt strange, even unsafe. This part of Johor had its share of break-ins, and the quiet here was different from the quiet in Singapore it carried edges.This time, she had come because her father was visiting Johor for his monthly stay.
He planned to be here a week. She had no pressing plans, and with her husband overseas for a month, she decided to make the drive down. She’d dropped her daughter off at a friend’s house for the school holidays better to let her stay somewhere lively than be trapped in the stillness of her grandparents’ place.He was sitting in the dark, the only light coming from the porch outside. When she asked, he said he couldn’t sleep either, that he just wanted to sit for a while in the living room.
She went to the kitchen, fetched a cold Coke, and joined him. For a moment, it was simply father and daughter, side by side in the stillness.She reached for the light switch, but he stopped her. She let her hand drop. She understood — she, too, had the habit of sitting in the dark. There was something about it, the way shadows softened everything, that made it easier to feel at peace, to let your guard down. He looked tired. The illness had carved lines into his face, hollowed his cheeks.
He had lost so much weight. She knew his gouty arthritis had worsened, and now it had led to mild renal failure and heart trouble. The doctor had shown her the X-rays: the enlarged heart, the faint shadows of fluid in his lungs. He had warned her to be prepared that it could happen suddenly. Her father began talking about the house, his voice low and steady.
Then about her siblings his sadness over her second brother, who had turned into a devout, unforgiving man after becoming a born-again Muslim. The distance between father and son had widened into a chasm, fuelled by resentment over the second marriage after her mother’s death.
“He’s never accepted it,” her father said, his eyes fixed somewhere in the shadows.
She hesitated, fingers tracing the condensation on her Coke can. Then, quietly, she said,
“There’s something I’ve wanted to ask you, Dad… for a long time.”
Her father looked at her with an approving nod. “Go on — what is it you’ve been wanting to ask me?”
“It’s about our kampong house,” she said. “Somebody once told me a story that someone broke in while we were out, and when you came back, you found him wandering inside, going in circles, unable to find the door. Is that true?”
He laughed, the sound warm but tinged with effort. “It’s really funny. Yes, it happened.”
“What exactly happened that day?”
“I did that,” he said, straightening a little. “I put a protective cover over our house so that nobody could come in. And even if they did, they wouldn’t get out without my permission.” There was a flicker of pride in his voice.
“Look at this house what do you see? If a stranger walks in, all they’ll notice is junk. Nothing worth stealing, nothing worth selling.”
She tilted her head, studying him. “How did you do that, Dad?”
“It’s an art,” he said quietly, “something I learned… something I inherited.” He paused, his gaze drifting away as if searching for the right words.
“And it’s time for me to pass it on. But to who? That’s the problem. I’ve been looking for someone willing to take it up. No one wants it. So, I carry it alone.”
He suddenly stood up without another word and crossed to the display cabinet. I watched as he opened the glass door and reached inside, his movements deliberate. From the top shelf, he took out a bundle wrapped in a length of deep red cloth.My eyes followed every motion as he loosened the folds.
The cloth fell away to reveal a keris its hilt carved and worn smooth with age, the sheath dark and polished.I stayed seated in the single sofa, my breath caught in my chest. He drew the keris slowly from its sheath, and for a split second I swear it his body seemed to glow in the dim light, as though the blade itself had awakened something in him.
I had seen many keris before, but always in glass cases at galleries or printed in books. This was the first time I had been so close to one, and not just any keris this was my father’s, in his hands. In that moment, he looked… different. Radiant. Younger.
“Do you see this keris?” he said, holding it aloft. “It has never rusted since the day I received it. It is made from a special metal. Do you know whose keris this is?”
I shook my head.“This,” he said, his voice steady with pride, “belongs to Dato’ Panglima Hitam.
”The Black Warrior. I had heard the name before a shadowy figure from Malay folklore but I had always thought him just that: a legend, a story to tell children."
“No,” my father said, reading my thoughts. “He is not a myth. He is real. And alive. Do you know who we are?”
I could only stare at him.
“I have kept this a secret for a long time,” he continued, “because I did not want to bring attention to our family. But it is time you knew. We are the direct descendants of Dato’ Panglima Hitam. And this” he looked down at the keris with the same adoring gaze I had seen my daughter give a new toy...
“this is his keris. It has been passed down through our family.”
I stopped mid-sentence. They were all watching me, eyes expectant.
“Go on… why stop?” someone urged.
“I don’t know,” I said, suddenly self-conscious. “I’m not sure you want to hear the rest. It’s all… rubbish, really. Just the by-product of my own imagination.”
“No! Not rubbish,” Kevin protested. “Please we’d love to hear it.” So I went on.
“They say the keris should only be handed down to a male in the family. But if there is no male, a daughter will be chosen. When the time is right, it will be transferred… and then the keeper will go. A ritual must be performed.”
I let my voice drop lower.
“As soon as he placed the keris in her hands, he said he was tired and wanted to rest. She led him back to his room, helped him to sit upright. Ten minutes later, she returned with a glass of water. He was gone. The old warrior had left and the lineage had passed to the daughter.”
I could see their faces in the firelight, drawn in now.
“His last words kept echoing in her mind: You must find the man. He will help you find your twin sister. She holds the other keris. There are four in total. Two were already thrown into the river. Only two remain. She is your exact mirror image.”
“And…?” Mark prompted.I shrugged.
“I can’t think of anything else right now.”
Silence settled over the group, the kind that belongs to campfires and unfinished stories. Kevin finally broke it, exhaling.
“Wow. You have to send it to us when you finish the whole thing.” I wasn’t sure I could. But maybe I’d have to try.
Later, lying in my tent, I couldn’t sleep. The story I’d just told kept replaying in my head, scene by scene. How on earth had I come up with it?
We moved out early the next morning, aiming to reach the peak within three hours. The trail quickly became more challenging steeper, the ground tangled with thick roots and slick from the damp air. My shoes were wet, every step a test of balance. At one point, the earth gave way under my foot and I almost slid into a narrow cave hidden by roots. My heart lurched. I grabbed onto the nearest branch, my fingers clenching hard.
Suresh was there in an instant, catching my hand and steadying me. We paused so I could catch my breath, my pulse still thudding in my ears, before pressing on. Soon we reached the rock wall. Mark, who had been here before, went up first, finding footholds with practiced ease. From the top, he secured a rope and tossed it down to the rest of us.
Kevin went next, demonstrating the technique step by step. Grace followed, nimble and confident, hauling herself up without trouble. Then it was my turn. I tried once, twice but my arms felt like lead.
The rope burned against my palms. I couldn’t push myself up. My frustration bubbled over.
“Suresh,” I called up, my voice low, “why don’t you go on with them to the summit? Don’t let me delay you. I’ll wait here.”
From above came his firm reply. “We don’t do that. We came here as a team, we move up as a team. Now watch me. I’ll go first, then you reach for my hand. I’ll pull you up. Deal?”
His words stung, not because they were unkind, but because they reminded me how quickly I’d given up. Why couldn’t I be like Grace? Suresh climbed up without hesitation, then lay flat on his stomach at the edge. The guys held his legs as he reached down toward me.
“Come on, Nita. Try again. Don’t give up. Look at me… reach out for my hand.” I gripped the rope, summoned whatever strength I had left, and hauled myself upward. My other hand shot out, fingers stretching toward his. He caught it firmly, the warmth of his grip cutting through the cold air, and pulled me up over the ledge. For a moment, I just sat there, catching my breath, the summit still ahead but already feeling like I’d conquered something bigger than the mountain.
We reached the summit at last, the wind cool against our faces. Before us stretched the Malacca Straits, hazy under a cloudy sky, yet still magnificent. Even through the mist, I could see towns scattered far below, their shapes softened by distance.
The feeling was almost unreal. Two days ago, I had been at the base, looking up at this very peak, wondering if I could make it. Now I was here, standing where the mountain met the sky. Looking down at the valley and tracing the path we had taken, I realised the summit was more than just a point on a map it was proof.
Suresh and I sat side by side on a smooth rock, gazing at the valley. “I love climbing mountains,” he said quietly. “Because up here, I feel like I’m part of it all the trees, the rocks, the wind. You become part of the mountain.”I nodded, understanding now what he meant.
“I’ve learned something too,” I told him. “The mountain peak is like wisdom. You only reach it by staying on the path… and being in a team. I’m glad I came along. Thank you for inviting me.”
“You’re welcome,” he said. A pang of guilt made me add, “Still, I feel like I slowed everyone down. I wish I could be as strong as Grace. She’s full of energy.”
He glanced at me, his voice steady. “I would go anywhere with you.” I turned my gaze toward the horizon, pretending I hadn’t heard, though my heart had caught the words. I couldn’t bring myself to meet his eyes.
Sitting there on the summit, I realised it wasn’t about the conquest of reaching the top. It was about being here after the slips, the aching muscles, the moments I doubted myself and seeing the world spread out in every direction.
From this single spot, I could watch the sun set and rise without moving an inch. I could feel the wind shift, coming from the east, the west, the north, and the south, as if the mountain itself was breathing.
The words of Mahatma Gandhi came to mind: “I do not want my house to be walled in on all sides and my windows to be stuffed. I want the culture of all lands to be blown about my house as freely as possible. But I refuse to be blown off my feet by any.”
Here, on this peak, I understood exactly what he meant.
