Chapter 32
“I did that. I put the protective cover over our house so that nobody could come in. And if they did, they would never find their way out without my permission,” father said, his voice carrying a quiet pride. “Did you look at this house carefully? What do you see? If an intruder enters, all he will find is junk nothing worth stealing, nothing he can sell.”
“How did you do that, Dad?” she asked, my curiosity edged with disbelief.
“It’s an art I learned. An inheritance,” he paused, his eyes distant, as though reaching for something only he could see. “And now the time has come for me to pass it on. But who? I have searched for a successor. Nobody wants to carry the burden.” Without another word, he rose from his chair, walked to the display cabinet, and opened the glass door. From the shadows, he drew out a long bundle wrapped in red cloth. With deliberate hands, he unwrapped it, layer by layer, until the blade emerged.
A keris.
She sat frozen in the single sofa, watching as he pulled the keris from its sheath and raised it into the air. For a split second just long enough for doubt and wonder to collide, She saw his body glow faintly in the dark. She had seen many keris before, but always behind glass in galleries, or printed on pages of books.
This was the first time she had ever been so close to one and this one, in her father’s hands. He looked transformed. Radiant. Almost youthful, as though the weight of years had been lifted by the blade itself.
“You see this keris? Not a speck of rust since the day I received it. It is forged from a special metal.”
She looked at him, then at the keris glinting in his hand.
“Do you know whose keris this is?”
“No,” she whispered.
“This keris belonged to Dato’ Panglima Hitam.”
“The Black Warrior?” she asked, startled. She had heard the name before, always as a story, a shadow in Malay folklore. A legend to frighten children, nothing more. Father shook his head. His voice was low, steady.
“No. He is not a myth. He was real. And do you know who we are?”
She could only stare at him. “I have kept this secret for a long time,” he went on, “because I did not want to draw attention to our family.”
It was too much, too sudden the words swirled around her faster than she could grasp them. He caressed the keris, gazing at it with a look she knew well the same look her daughter would give her when she held a new toy she loved too much to put down.
“We are the direct descendants of Dato’ Panglima Hitam. And this,” he said, his voice almost reverent, “this is his keris. Our family inherited it.”
--------------
Father grew weaker with each passing day. Sometimes he slipped into a half-conscious state, his chest rising with ragged, uneven breaths before returning again, as if he had fought his way back from a dark shore. She rarely left his side. At night she unrolled a thin mat and slept on the floor beside his bed, her ears tuned to every change in his breathing.
The doctor had warned them gently but firmly: “His heart is very weak. His lungs are failing. He is slowly drowning in his own body. The oxygen panel will help, but only for a while.” One night, his voice broke through the hiss of the oxygen, faint but determined.
“I am tired, I am ready to go… but I can’t. Not yet. Not until I hand this over to the successor.” She leaned closer, holding his frail hand.
“What is it you need to hand over, dad?” His lips trembled. “The keris… the one I showed you the other day. I must pass it on.” Her heart pounded.
“To who, dad? Who is this successor?”
“I don’t know,” he whispered, each word a struggle. “Not just anyone can have it. Your brother… he wants it, but—” “
But what?” she pressed, her voice low, urgent. “Which brother? The second one?” He gave the faintest nod.
“He cannot have it.”
“Why not, Dad?”
“He only wants the keris,” Father said, his voice straining but firm. “But it is not possible. You cannot only take the keris and abandon the responsibilities that come with it. He is too temperamental. To hold this keris, one must master their anger, restrain their pride. Without that, it will destroy more than just the bearer.”
She leaned closer. “What responsibilities, Dad?”
He closed his eyes briefly, gathering strength before speaking again. “So many. This is not an ordinary keris. To inherit it is to inherit everything tied to it. Its history, its duties, its burden. Whoever holds it must honour it for life. Misuse it… and the curse will not only fall on you, but on the whole generation. That is why I cannot simply pass it on. Until it finds its rightful successor, I remain bound. I am ready to leave this world, but I cannot.”
Her eyes brimmed. “Then hand it to me, Dad. I will carry it for you.” His eyes snapped open, piercing hers. For a long moment he studied her face.
“Do you truly understand what you are asking? Do you know the weight of what you promise?”
“I cannot bear to see you in pain,” she whispered, clutching his hand. “If carrying this means you will be freed, then I will take it, whatever the cost. I promise. Please, let me.” Silence pressed between them. He stared at her so long that she felt the air itself grow heavy.
Finally, he spoke, slow and grave. “This keris is no ordinary weapon. You do not choose the keris. The keris chooses its successor. And when it does, it binds itself to them. No harm will come to that person. Blades may cut, accidents may strike, but they will rise again. Wounds heal faster than they should. Or sometimes… they never happen at all.” Her heart pounded.
“I don’t understand, Dad. What do you mean?” He drew a shallow, rattling breath. “I have been watching you all your life, waiting to know who it would be. I did not know until one day… I saw what I needed to see. That incident was not by chance. It was meant for me a sign.”
She swallowed, her voice trembling. “Please, Dad. Tell me. What did you see?”
“You,” he said, looking at her intently. “You are not like your siblings. I only wanted to test you… to see how sincere you truly are. You have a strong will. You are a natural-born fighter.” She frowned.
“I don’t understand. What do you mean?”
“Do you remember that evening?” His voice dropped lower, almost conspiratorial. “You were lying in your room. I came in, touched your head, examined your hands and legs. Do you know why I did that?” She shook her head. “No.”
“I was searching for something,” he said softly. “Now you tell me… what happened before you came running into the house and collapsed on the bed? You fell asleep almost immediately.” And just like that, memory came rushing back.
She did remember. How could she not? That was the day she had climbed the tree, a tall, swaying one because some naughty boys had placed a terrified kitten up on its branches. She had wanted only to rescue it. She reached the kitten, held it tight, but her foot slipped. She fell. Straight down. Onto the hard cement floor below.
The world had spun. And yet, when she opened her eyes, she was lying flat on her back, face up to the sky. The kitten was still cradled against her chest, alive and trembling, but unhurt. Somehow, so was she. No bruises. No broken bones.
Just fear, confusion, and a strange exhaustion. She had stumbled home, crawled into bed, and willed herself to sleep.
“I saw it,” her father said quietly. “I was at the window, doing my work. My first instinct was to run to you, but something held me back. I forced myself to stop and watch. And what I saw… convinced me. You were more concerned for the kitten than for yourself. And when I examined you later, there was not a single mark on your body. It was a terrible fall, the kind that should have left a child broken. But there was nothing. Nothing at all.”
She stared at him, stunned. “Oh.”
“I knew then I had seen the sign,” her father whispered. “But I also know there are other incidents… Do you remember? Anything out of the ordinary? Accidents, injuries that should have harmed you — but didn’t?”
She hesitated. “Yes, Dad… there were several. But I was so afraid. I thought they were just my imagination. And I knew no one would believe me if I spoke of them. So I kept them to myself.”
“Tell me now,” he urged. “All of them.” And so she did.
One by one, she told him the incidents she had hidden away, the moments of narrow escape, of strange protection. He listened without surprise, only nodding, as though each story was another piece of a puzzle he had already begun to assemble.
“When the time is right,” he said at last, his voice thin but steady, “a ritual must be performed. The keris will be transferred. And then… I will go.” She drew closer, her heart hammering.
---------------
“What happened in the cave? Who is in the cave?” If she was to inherit the keris, she needed to know everything. Her father’s gaze drifted far away, as if he were looking back across decades.
“An old man,” he said at last. “Very old. We were never told his name only to call him Mahaguru, the Honorable One. He was waiting inside the cave. He did not speak at first, only observed me in silence as I sat cross-legged before him. His eyes… they saw through me, as if weighing the truth of my soul.”
Her father paused, his breathing ragged, then went on. “He walked around me three times. I felt as if the mountain itself was circling me. Then he told me to recite a prayer, word by word after him. When I finished, he poured water over my head, and I felt… cleansed, emptied, as though I had been remade.”
She leaned forward, hanging on his words.
“Then,” he whispered, “he took out a bundle wrapped in red cloth. From it, he drew a keris. Not just any keris — the keris. He placed it in my hands and said: ‘This is the keris of Dato’ Panglima Hitam. Your family is blessed to inherit it. There are four keris in total. You are one of the four chosen to guard them. This keris will remain in your family, and must only be handed to your children. If you have none, you must choose the most faithful, most trusted among your students to carry the legacy forward.’”
Her father’s eyes glistened as he recalled the moment. “That was how it began for me. And now… the duty to must pass on.”
-------------
As soon as he placed the keris in her hands, his shoulders sagged, as though some invisible weight had finally lifted. “I am tired,” he whispered. “I want to rest.” She led him back into his room, helped him sit upright against the pillows, then hurried to the kitchen to fetch him a glass of water. Ten minutes later, when she returned, the glass trembled in her hand. His head had tilted to one side, his chest no longer rising. The silence was final. Her father had gone.
But his voice did not leave her. It lingered, woven into her very breath, echoing the words he had pressed into her: “A lot will happen once the keris is in your possession. Men will come, drawn to you. But they are not drawn to you, only to the power it carries. You must be strong. You must resist them.” Her grip tightened around the keris, still wrapped in its red cloth.
“You must find the man…” His last, unfinished sentence pulsed in her mind like a riddle, both warning and command. “The man… but how do I find this man?” My father’s words circled in my head like smoke, impossible to hold, impossible to ignore. If only he had finished the sentence, given me a clue before he drew his last breath. And then — “your twin'… the mirror image of you.” A twin I had never known? A shadow self wandering somewhere in the world? Was she real, or was this another riddle wrapped in the keris’ curse?
I stared at the blade wrapped in its red cloth. Its weight was more than iron it was inheritance, destiny, prison. Father’s voice echoed again: “To be handed only to your children… and if you have none, to a faithful, most trusted student.” I pressed my forehead against the keris. But how do I know who is worthy? How do I even know if I am worthy? The questions piled up, one upon another, until they felt heavier than the keris itself. Where should I begin? Where should I go from here? The only answer was silence.
