BESERK! Page 6

  They first made sure that the ones that desecrated them were punished. They had created a slave from the living and used it as a tool for punishment. They also knew the pain and anguish of lurking as spirits, in the land of the living, infinitely.

  To prevent any others from joining them. They had commanded their slave, Ganesh, to wrench out the hearts of the freshly dead.

  Now these four youths would no longer lurk in the living world as the Spirits of the Ancient Slaughtered had. To be tortured and abused every time they were desecrated. They wished to escape to their own kind. But this would be only when their last rites were performed according to the religious rituals. Until then, as long as they were desecrated by the living they would reap revenge again and again till eternity

  Man is dust and dust he will return to.

  Death brings man to dust.

  Dust is death.

  Death is dust.

  And it was believed that the living and the dead should never be rested together.

  The End

  3. The Moken Prophecy

  Chapter 1: The Moken Prophecy

  Merigui Archipelago, Myanmar, June 1984.

  Off the Andaman Sea, Ahata Island, one of the innumerable small islands scattered close to the Myanmar mainland, a Moken tribal ritual was in progress.

  Rain beat down on sea and land, in curtains. It was the wet season of the monsoon. Ferocious waves, a metre and a half high, battered the coast. On the high ground, away from raging sea was a shelter built on silts and made of wood, bamboo and pandanus leaves.

  A similar, but silent storm was raging inside the shelter.

  The Moken shaman studied the blood clotted entrails with the gentleness of a surgeon. He was sombre when he spoke minutes later. Light from the torch fire glistened in the sweat of his face and blood on his fingers. It was evident the shaman was shaken up by his own words. It made his dark, gaunt face look even more sallow.

  The words brought stillness in the shelter. The Moken men gathered there grew grim. Silence reigned in the shelter. The steady beat of the rain and occasional thunderclaps outside, sounded ominous. The shadows cast by the torchlight were the only things that stirred.

  Matu, in particular, felt a chill in his heart. The shaman’s words were the dismal prediction of his unborn child. He was here to seek favors from the ancestors for the child and predict its future.

  Matu was to have his second child after a span of ten years. But all he got was terrible news. His sight shifted to the turtle lying before the crossed-legged seated shaman. He had captured the turtle alive for the ritual of sacrifice and future prediction. It symbolized all female forms—especially women giving birth.

  The turtle lay on its shell; it’s under side cut out with a knife. Blood and entrails were spilling from the open gash. The fore pair of flippers feebly moved. And its glassy eyes oozed a mucus-like liquid every time it blinked pitifully. He instantly felt connected to the pain of the creature.

  The shaman once again dug his blood-stained fingers into the turtle’s entrails. For a moment or two he searched inside, and then withdrew his fingers. More gore and entrails spilled out. This time he prescribed a minor remedy for the dismal prediction, difficult but not impossible.

  In the center of the shelter was a wooden totem, hand carved and painted. It had the head of a shark. It’s wide mouth gaping open, exposing rows of serrated teeth. The shark’s head continued with a body of a man. This half-shark, half-man, held a harpoon in one hand and a hook in the other.

  The shaman quickly offered the dying turtle to their shark God. The shark was the only creature the Moken feared at sea. He stoked herbs into a smoldering fire, creating pungent smoke. Gathering a few smoldering herbs, he began to encircle the totem. In a slow droning voice he recited a few incantations. He blew the pungent smoke in the four directions, then skywards and earthwards.

  Moments later he ordered the dead creature to be buried in the sand. It was puzzling for the Moken. The shaman was supposed to feed on the freshly sacrificed turtle, especially the head, flippers and blood.

  He explained—it was bad to feed on the turtle, for the sacrifice had brought an ill-omen for the Moken. He also ordered all the edibles that were prepared for the revelry later on, to be thrown away.

  Obediently, the men carried out the dead turtle to be buried.Baskets of rice flour cakes, roasted sandworms, sea snails and oysters meant for the revelry were buried with turtle. Even a fermented drink prepared from honey served as a beverage was poured into the sand.

  Reluctantly, one by one the men left. Matu was last to leave. Just as he moved away, he heard the yapping of wild dogs. They had come to feed on the buried turtle. For one last time he looked at the totem-pole. The shark-man seemed to be grinning at him evilly. As he walked homewards he sincerely wished his child would be born dead.

  x x x

  Late next morning the child was born. It was a boy. The shaman named him Phut. With fear in his heart Matu received the news. His elder child, Tiga, a boy of ten sat beside him wondering why his father appeared so disturbed.

  The shaman did not disclose to Matu another bit of bad news relating to his son. During the night a very strange thing had occurred. The wild dogs of the island had dug out the buried turtle but had not even taken a bite of it. It was a very unlikely thing.

  Wild dogs relish turtles’ flesh. They were known to hunt turtles when they came on the island beaches to lay eggs. Neither had they eaten the other eatables buried with it! For some reason they had scattered it wildly on the beach. Even these beasts had rejected the sacrifice! Indeed something was vile!

  It was looked upon as a very ill omen by the Moken.

  Secretly, the shaman had some men clear the beach. The dead turtle was weighed down with a stone and thrown back into the sea where it belonged.

  November 1991.

  The flotilla of kabangs drifted out to sea. Equipped to spend the next six dry months in open sea till the beginning of the wet seasons. A kabang is a small hand-made wooden houseboat of the Moken. It has a low roof and is wide enough to shelter a mere four to five members. And a sail made of pandanus leaves.

  Matu sat on the low stern as the kabang dipped and rose. Beside him Tiga fished for dinner. From inside the kabang, childish laughter could be heard.

  “Eat your food, Phut,” his mother ordered. “Don’t be a bad boy or I will tell the shark to bite you.”

  “No mother, I will not eat! I can kill any shark!” cried the child defiantly, “I will not eat until you tell me a story!”

  “Don’t talk like this Phut!” His mother reprimanded him. “You are getting worse day by day!”

  “Mother, I just want to hear a story!” He shrieked stubbornly. Crossing his arms, he stood before her in open defiance.

  The boy was getting impossible with each passing day. And it was his father’s fault entirely. He never disciplined him nor did he let her do it. She never understood why. He had not been so with Tiga, their elder son.

  “Which one do you want?” the mother asked resignedly.

  “Queen Sibian!” was the child’s quick reply.

  The boy was getting impossible with everyday, Matu sighed softly. No matter how many times Phut heard it, he was never satisfied. His mother always told it to him as a fairy tale. About a beautiful queen and a handsome king living in the sea and falling in love…It always ended in a happy ending.

  But in reality, Queen Sibian had more significance to the life of the Moken. It was time Phut was told the truth of the Queen, instead of this romantic trash.

  Probably if he had told his wife of Phut’s dismal prediction, she would never tell her son her version of the story. Nobody in the village knew about the prediction, except the shaman and the men gathered that fateful night.

  Queen Sibian was an ancestral island queen. She was in love with a Moken tribesman. The Moken were considered lowly in rank and status, almost worthy of being her slave. But against all opposition she ma
rried him. A few months later she found her Moken husband making love to her younger sister.

  Enraged, she laid a punishment on all the Moken society.

  The entire Moken’s life cycle would be spent on the kabang. They would be born, live and die in their kabangs. Just as the child’s umbilical cord was attached to the mother, the same way they would be attached to their kabang for their entire life. The shark would be their eternal predator.

  However later she relented... She permitted them to live for roughly three months on land—during the wet months. The rest of the eight to nine months they were to live in their low-roofed kabangs, just like the turtle. And as the turtle remained connected to the land and sea, so would the Moken tribe.

  In accordance to her punishment, the Moken had spent their lives for generations in the same fashion, untouched and unspoilt by civilization. The British, the Japs, the Dutch and the French came and left but had no effect on them. It was only recently that things were changing.

  Sails of pandanus leaves on kabangs were being replaced with plastic… kabangs were also being motorized…the Moken were being trapped and caged like wild animals, thanks to the governments of Myanmar and Thailand…

  The Myanmar government was trying to create a permanent Moken national park as a tourist attraction. The government of Thailand had done it and was successful. If it was so, the end of the Moken was imminent.

  Also, his son’s dismal prediction could not be ignored. He often wondered if his son was somehow connected to Queen Sibian. He shuddered with the thought.

  When he turned to look at his son, he was huddled in his mother’s lap. Listening wide eyed to her story while feeding on a stew of boiled fish, seaweeds and rice.

  Who would believe such an innocent child could bring so much disaster in the world of the Moken!

  Chapter 2: The Moken Prophecy

  April 1992.

  It was a late rainy afternoon when a trawler docked on the shore near the Moken settlement on Ahata Island. Its presence instantly created a flutter in the sleepy colony. Everyone in the colony recognized the trawler. It was a dirty, dingy kind of craft but they knew it was trouble. They had nicknamed it Ghost-Boat. It looked like a ghost boat with nobody in sight. The craft simply docked there, its engine purring gently in the water.

  The Headman of the Moken colony readied to meet the trawler. He could not dare to keep it waiting. This trawler was actually a disguised craft which belonged to the Burmese navy. Mainly used to catch or kill pirates rampant in these parts. But the trawler was now synonymous to a naval craft by pirates and others alike.

  The Headman hurried out in the pouring rain and stood before the trawler. It was a whole minute before two naval ratings, toting sub-machine guns appeared. A few moments later Captain Foki appeared on the deck. Another sub-machine gun toting rating, held an umbrella over his head.

  Captain Foki was a Burmese naval captain whose duty was to clean the Andaman Seas of pirates. A scourge to these parts, and he did his job with a fierce dedication. It was known that he had a terrible hatred towards pirates. And viewed all pirates as personal enemies.

  Captain Foki was a short, obese man with a pasty skin almost to the point of unhealthy yellowness.He was completely bald and had a head resembling a bowling ball. His eyebrows and mustache were wispy bits of hair. While his eyes were mere slits that completely disappeared into the folds of facial flesh whenever he laughed, which he did often. He perpetually stank of sweat, rice wine and fish.

  The Captain drew his short structure on the deck with an effort. Seeing his gathered audience he began laughing at nothing amusing. It rang with an unpleasant sound in the silent noon.

  Barely containing his laughter, he focused on the Headman. “Seen any pirates recently, eh Headman?”

  The Headman stood silent. Every Moken gathered there stood with their heads bowed. The only sound was that of the pouring rain.

  “Still not seen…no pirates…? You damned Moken!” He chided. His eyes no longer held mirth, now they were right on the Headman. “Are you all blind or are the pirates invisible?” He continued. “From where do you get your plastic for sails, oil to run your engines…rice to eat…?” Running a lascivious eye over one of the woman nearby, he continued, “See this healthy one, she has fed well on rice and fish!” He ended chuckling with laughter.

  The Headman waited patiently till his laughter subsided, then said. “We are honest men Captain. We trade with all people…people those who wish to trade with us. We know no difference of pirate from fisherman.”

  Once again the Captain’s eyes narrowed down on the Headman. “Do you really do not know pirates?”He saw the Headman wilt under his gaze. “I will show you pirates!” Turning to his men, he ordered. “Get the prisoners up here!” He looked at the Headman and began laughing. “I will show you pirates…real genuine pirates!”

  Three men were brought up to the deck, bloody and blindfolded. Their hands were bound behind and their feet were bare and bloodied. They were dragged off the trawler onto the beach.

  Part of the gathered group began to leave the place. Captain Foki grabbed a sub-machine gun and fired in the air. “Stay!” The captain ordered. “Children and women in the front! Let them see what I do to pirates and their well-wishers. No trial…no imprisonment...direct death!” Another burst of sub-machine gunfire shattered the air. Reluctantly the children and women shifted in the front.

  The struggling pirates were booted and punched and bound to trees. “Now watch this!” He rubbed his hands in glee, as his naval ratings knelt, aiming their guns at the pirates. “This is what happens to pirates and traitors of our country. Shoot!” He ordered.

  A quick burst of sub-machine gunfire erupted, killing the pirates instantly and shattering the silence of the beach.

  Slowly, the sound died down to be replaced by muffled sobs.

  The captain walked around the corpses, as if surveying his work of art. Now bloodied and dangling lifelessly from the trees. “This will happen to each one of you if you protect the pirate dogs.”

  As he began to head to his trawler, he stopped and turned. “For your ignorance, eh Headman your colony will have to pay. I will take this one.” He grabbed a woman’s arm and burst out laughing. Turning to his men he said. “Lads, take your pick miserly. We can always share them, sows. Keep some for the Moken national park… the government tourist attraction.”

  He stopped before the Headman. Keeping his hold on the struggling woman, he said. “And lads shoot anyone who comes in the way.” Dragging her he took her on the trawler and addressed the gathering. “Ah Moken Filth! The next time I pass this way I will send them, sows back to you. But I want to see the pirates rotting skeletons dangling from these trees just as I left them. Make no mistake to bury them. I want the other pirate dogs to see their kind....Rot! What fun it will be!”

  With that the trawler left the island leaving behind only grief, pain and death.

  October, 1994.

  Phut sat on the floor in his shelter and wept. He had been crying all morning. His companions and friends were going diving, to hunt in the shallows. Only he was forbidden by his father to join them. It was unfair.

  The Moken colony, docked on an island, was a beehive of activity. Soon the dry season would begin, and the nomadic Moken would be back to their sea faring life. The men worked on the last moment repairs of the kabangs. While the women, on preparation for their four months at sea.

  That left the little girls and boys. Girls' beach-combed for all type of shells to be used in barter. And the little boys were sent out as divers to hunt in the shallows.

  They were encouraged to go out diving and swimming. At times they were even coerced to do so. After all, these little boys were the future of the Moken. It was unimaginable for a Moken male not to be an expert in this art.

  Hearing the excited chatter of his friends, Phut, climbed to his knees and watched through the slit of his shelter.His friends were gathered on the beach. Th
ey were all ready to go diving, to hunt in the shallows.

  Every time he went diving with his friends, he was accompanied either by his father or brother. While the other boys came unaccompanied. In the beginning, he thought nothing of it but recently it was becoming embarrassing. He felt like a cripple or a retard, even though he was the best diver and swimmer among all his friends.

  His companions said nothing to him but he knew behind his back they sniggered. He wondered why they never teased him or even picked a fight with him. It was very unusual. Maybe it was the fear of his father or brother.

  More tears streamed from his eyes with the thought. He watched his friends laugh and boast before the hunt. He knew what the topic was: the dare.

  The dare was as usual-who could bag the biggest prey. This meant fish, mollusks, crab, oysters or maybe the odd eel or ray. Each carried rattan baskets with lids for the purpose. They pulled down their traditional goggles. This eyewear was wooden, hand-carved, fitted with glass and sealed with tree sap.

  All of a sudden an idea occurred to him. Maybe he could slip out for the hunt and return back before his father realized. He grabbed his goggles and his rattan basket. Cautiously, he slipped out and looked around.

  The whole colony was busy at work. Tiga was on the beach cleaning barnacles and algae from their kabang’s hull with a smoldering branch. Father and the other elders would be on the other side of the island, building kabangs for the young men who were to marry. It was a tradition that had been carried on for generations.

  Stealthily, he raced for the sea, diving into it. At the late hour of the morning the sea was more than tepid. He loved its feel against his skin as he began to swim towards the bottom. The aquamarine color of the sea never failed to delight him. Its transparency was such that the sea bed several meters below was visible. Coral reefs of every hue decorated the bottom. Dark green forest of seaweeds waved as he swam by. Shoals of fishes of every type darted by him.

  His friends had spread out in the forest of seaweed, hunting for prey. Quickly he joined them. A while later he had found nothing. He came up for a breath of air. Above, he surveyed the place. His brother was still working on the kabang. It would not be long before he would finish the job.