Fiction

By Elsie Sze

MARGARET always listened to the rain. Usually, it fell in the afternoon there on the great island of Borneo, a land of tropical rainforests, of prevalent voodoos and once of tribal headhunters.

The rain descended like dense, unbroken threads of silk. It carved deep gullies in the soft, dark earth and made the leaves tremble in the lush, green forests. It splattered on concrete rooftops in the towns, and lashed at the shingled Chinese villages and the thatched Dyak longhouses.

Since childhood, Margaret had imagined hearing a tribal magic man’s voodoo chant in the thunderous downpours. Black magic could make things happen. Black magic could make things happen. But she wasn’t afraid. Sooner or later, the clouds parted and the sky brightened. The damp air cooled and smelled dewy-fresh, bringing a slight relief from the equatorial inferno. If the sun showed, there might be a rainbow.

In 1938, Margaret first met Min Kong at high school in Kuching, Sarawak’s capital in northern Borneo. Their parents were Chinese immigrants. Margaret’s family lived in Kuching. Min Kong came from Buso, a village 35 miles to the southwest.

They dated for a year. Min Kong shared his dreams of studying abroad at the University of Hong Kong, a respected and affordable institution. Four days on a steam freighter could take him there. He’d earn a degree in three years and return to work, earn a good salary, marry Margaret and start their family.

During a predictable afternoon rainstorm, Min Kong and Margaret, together in the room above a café that he rented from a Malay family, made love for the first time. She easily remembered his anxious caresses and a fierce plunge that tore her veil of maidenhood. She gave herself without reserve. From that day on, she’d be his alone. The future looked rosy.

Love marriages, not arranged ones, had become the norm. So Margaret and Min Kong told their families, became engaged and planned a wedding for after Min Kong returned from Hong Kong. His parents presented Margaret’s family with tea, bridal cakes, poultry, wine and tobacco. As a token of fidelity, Min Kong gave Margaret a jade phoenix pendant, one passed on to him from his grandmother.

By 1939, Hong Kong, a bustling British colony with modern department stores full of fine merchandise from Europe, had become much more developed than Kuching. The Japanese invaded China, but Hong Kong remained safe.

After Min Kong departed by boat, Margaret lived mainly for his letters. Sent by surface mail, they needed up to a month to arrive, but Margaret received one a week for a year.

In December 1941, the Japanese attacked and occupied both Hong Kong and Sarawak, sending Margaret into a frenzy of worry for her fiance. Min Kong’s letters stopped until April 1942 when Margaret received one more:

“Classes have been suspended. Food and medicine are scarce. There’s a curfew every night. The Japanese allow Hong Kong residents to leave for the free parts of mainland China. I should go to continue my studies at a Chinese university so that when the war ends, I’ll come home with a degree.”

For three years, no letters arrived. Fears consumed Margaret. She worried about Min Kong by day and yearned for him at night. She’d do anything for his return.

Black magic could bring him back. She seemed to hear those words in every rainstorm. Often she watched raindrops hit the river. The countless breaks on the water’s surface mesmerized her.

Two letters somehow delivered to Min Kong’s family explained that he studied for a wartime degree at a remote campus of Zhongshan University in an unoccupied part of Guangdong Province. He ended the letters by asking his family to tell Margaret his news and urging her not to worry because he had stayed reasonably well.

Margaret felt hurt. Why didn’t Min Kong write to her? Had she lost her place in his heart? She pondered such questions amid a rhythmic patter of rain water descending from the roof to a concrete patio. He loves me not. He loves me not. He loves me not.

The Pacific War ended when the Japanese surrendered in August, 1945. Hong Kong and Sarawak gained liberation.

Expecting Min Kong home at any moment, Margaret waited. By then, she’d waited six years.

In October 1945 the postman brought a letter postmarked Hong Kong. A glance at the envelope caused palpitations of Margaret’s heart.

Suppressing a smile, she excused herself from lunch and disappeared to the privacy of her bedroom. She stayed there, refusing to emerge. Her parents knocked at her locked door, but she didn’t answer. All afternoon, a torrential rain outside drowned out her parents’ pleas.

Finally, her father pried open the door and found her crouched in a fetal position on the floor. Her face looked ashen grey, her eyes red and bloated, as she stared into oblivion.

Reluctantly, Margaret eased her grip on the letter. With apprehension, her father scanned the contents:

“After the Japanese took Hong Kong, I fell ill with typhoid. Betty’s father, a doctor, treated me with scarce medicine. Her family took me in and nursed me to health. If not for her, I’d be dead.

“Betty and I fled with our classmates to a wartime campus. Classes would be held as we waited out the war. It was a hard time, but one of camaraderie, struggle and survival.

“For three years, Betty and I saw each other every day. I didn’t intend for things to happen as they did, but human emotions are unpredictable and often beyond control.

“Six years are a long time, dear Margaret. It wouldn’t be fair to expect you to be waiting. In my heart, I released you from our pledge long ago. I hope that you’ve found someone good, someone deserving of you. If I’ve hurt you by my marriage, please forgive me. I can only wish you happiness.”

As her father refolded the letter, Margaret issued a blood-curdling cry that resounded to the thunder outside. She heard rain beat at the window panes. Black magic could bring him back. Black magic could bring him back.

Margaret’s tears cascaded like the deluge outside. Long after the tears ran dry, there’d be no clearing in her mind, no rainbow in her heart and no dousing of the fire in her soul.

Early the next morning, Margaret boarded a motor launch on the Kuching River. It docked at Siniawan village where she hired a Dayak tribesman and his small boat to take her upstream. Soon they passed Buso, Min Kong’s village. Dense bushes along the riverbank hid the street and bazaar. Trees closed in as the river narrowed. Sometimes the Dyak man got out of the boat and pushed it to deeper waters.

At last, the boat moored beside a few longhouses on stilts. Margaret heard distant thunder. She felt raindrops, then a splatter and more, slapping her face. Rain pounded at the longhouse roofs as she went ashore. No umbrella could have helped. Quickly, she was soaked. Her shoulder-length hair dripped and covered part of her face.

Nervously, Margaret approached a longhouse where an old woman sat on the plank floor of a canopied veranda. The woman followed Margaret’s movements. Her bare breasts hung shriveled and low, touching her distended belly. She held a painted wooden doll, beckoning with it. Black magic could right a wrong.

The ancient woman smiled, exposing yellowed, broken teeth. She rose and entered the longhouse. At the door, Margaret lowered her head a little and followed.

Much later, Margaret emerged. Her eyes burned with wild intensity. Lifting her face to the dark sky, she let the rain again drench her. Her shrill and trembling voice rose to the elements. “I beg and dare you to cleanse me of my sorrow. Wash away the burden of my soul!”

Margaret walked away. As if in a trance, she marched into the rainforest, blending into the murky foliage.

From inside, the old woman appeared, waving her wooden doll. Only black magic could bring him back!

Years later, a tourist in the same section of forest where Margaret vanished found a buried jade pendant, one with a phoenix emblem.

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