The Blood Canvas

Chapter #4 - Hantu Raya Eid - Mubarak

The sun on Friday morning began to creep up on the Kuala Lumpur horizon, but its light seemed faded, as if covered in a thin haze that enveloped the city. To city dwellers, it might be just ordinary air pollution.

But to Hamzadi, the haze smelled fishy. It was the negative energy left over from the Hantu Raya explosion in his house last night that had not yet been completely dissipated by the wind. Hamzadi did not sleep for a minute.

He spent the rest of the night cleaning his house. The cracked walls were temporarily patched with cement mixed with prayer water. The iron door of the Red Room of Death was temporarily propped up with nibong wood, but he knew that it was all just a short-term solution and that the house was actually leaking.

The foul smell of the creatures inside the prison house had spread out. Hamzadi looked at his hands. On his fingers, there were black marks that were hard to remove, the marks of holding the set of bone brushes that he had taken from the safe last night. The brushes were now neatly stored in a special leather case tucked into his waist, next to a dagger.

"I need more ink," Hamzadi muttered in worry.

The bone brush was no ordinary brush. It couldn't smear ordinary oil paint. It needed a strong intermediate medium and a mixture of blood, ipuh tree sap, and gold powder, all of which were difficult to obtain and quite expensive. Hamzadi reached for his duffel bag, he couldn't go to Bukit Bintang today. The place was too open.

He needed to go to a place where the "old people" gathered. A place where mystical transactions took place behind the scenes of cheap souvenir shops, shops that ordinary people saw as useless and unnecessary to enter.

Shops where people said, 'Live shy, die reluctant'.

Jalan Petaling.

The atmosphere on Jalan Petaling was bustling as early as 10am with foreign tourists began to flood the green-roofed alley, haggling over prices for imitation handbags and grade AA watches. The smell of roasted chestnuts and rotten tofu stung his nose.

Hamzadi walked quickly, his head bowed, his hat partially hiding his face. He slipped into a narrow alley between shops selling traditional Chinese medicine. At the end of the alley, there was an old grocery store with a decaying sign that read "Sin Hwa Grocery Store". He had arrived.

The doorbell rang as Hamzadi pushed open the dusty glass door. Inside, the store smelled of dried herbs and old paper. An old Chinese man, completely white-haired and wearing a thin white singlet, sat counting abacus seeds at the counter.

"What do you want, young man? The shop is not fully open yet," said the old man without looking up.

"I want to find 'Red Ink'," Hamadi replied curtly. He placed a RM50 note on the counter, but folded the corners into a triangle, in fact that was one of the secret codes.

The old man's hand stopped moving on the abacus. He looked up. His eyes were narrow but sharp, staring Hamzadi up and down. He saw the gray aura enveloping Hamzadi, the sign of someone who had just fought a deadly battle.

"Ah... Hamzadi. Long time no see," said the man, known as Uncle Ah Hock among ordinary traders, but known as 'Tok Hock Cha' in the mystical world. Tok Hock Cha was a retired former Taoist practitioner who sold raw materials for both white and black magic practitioners. He was neutral. He was in business and his place would certainly not be disturbed.

"I don't have time to chat, Tok Hock Cha. I want that stuff. Grade A, not the cheap one," said Hamzadi firmly.

Tok Hock Cha sighed softly. He got up and walked trudging to the back of the shop, kicking the beaded curtain. A minute later, he returned with a small glass bottle filled with a thick, blackish-red liquid.

"The blood of a cobra, mixed with 24-karat gold powder and the ashes of an unclaimed Buddhist monk in a sacred temple. This is hot stuff. If you use this, your spirit will also be hot," Tok Hock Cha warned as he placed the bottle on the table.

"How much?"

"You don't have to pay money. I just want you to promise me one thing," Tok Hock Cha said, lowering his voice.

"If you see Pandika... don't tell him I sold you this stuff. I don't want to get into trouble with that crazy maniac."

Hamzadi fell silent. It seemed that news of Pandika's return had already spread on the underground market. Hamzadi nodded, took the bottle and put it in his bag.

"Thank you."

Hamzadi turned to leave. However, as soon as his hand touched the doorknob, the doorbell rang from outside. The door was pushed open.

A woman stepped in.

Hamzadi had to take a step back to make way. The woman was wearing a modern navy blue baju kurung that wrapped her body perfectly. Her hair was tied neatly, revealing a white jinjang neck hanging out. Her face was beautiful, like a model in a cosmetics advertisement, with smooth skin without any blemishes.

The smell of expensive perfume, the smell of roses and vanilla, filled the narrow space of the shop, drowning out the smell of Tok Hock Cha's herbs.

"Sorry," the woman said in a soft voice, her lips forming a sweet smile at Hamadi.

Hamzadi simply nodded and tried to step out. His hunter's instincts gave no warning of danger. There was no black aura, no foul smell, no heat. The woman looked like an ordinary human who might have gotten lost in an old grocery store.

"Wait a minute, sir," the woman suddenly called out.

Hamzadi stopped at the sidewalk of the shop. He turned around. The woman didn't go inside the shop, instead turning to look at Hamzadi.

"You... the mysterious street artist, right? The one that went viral on i********: last week?" the woman asked, her eyes shining with interest.

Hamzadi frowned. Viral? He never knew anyone was filming him. This is bad. Public exposure is poison to his work and bad luck for his drawings.

"Wrong person, miss," Hamzadi denied, trying to walk away.

"No, I'm sure it's you. Hamzadi, right?"

Hamzadi's feet were glued to the tarmac. He never told anyone his name when he painted on the street.

He was only known as "Abang Pelukis or Pelukis Jalanan". How did this woman know his real name?

Hamzadi turned his body completely to face the woman. His hands automatically moved to his waist, ready to reach for the dagger.

"Who are you?" Hamzadi asked, his tone turning cold.

The woman chuckled, covering her mouth politely.

"Oh, don't be so harsh. My name is Maya. I've been looking for you for a long time. I'm a fan of your art. Your style of painting is very alive. It's like you draw people's souls into the paper.”

That last sentence made Hamzadi's hair stand on end.

"What do you want?"

"I want a portrait. Now. Here. I'll pay three times as much. RM200. Can I?" Maya asked. She pointed to a worn wooden bench by the side of the alley.

Hamzadi wanted to refuse. He wanted to run away from there. His hunch began to feel bad. Even though there was no evil aura, there was something wrong with this woman named Maya.

Something too perfect. But, a part of him wanted to know. Was this another one of Pandika's games? If so, he needed to know what the message was.

"Okay. But it's just a pencil sketch. I'm not using paint today," Hamzadi said, lying.

"It's okay. Even a pencil is enough to capture my aura and essence," Maya replied as she sat on the bench with a very upright posture. Too upright.

Hamzadi took out his sketchbook and a charcoal pencil. He began to sketch. As usual, Hamzadi activated his inner vision. He narrowed his eyes, trying to penetrate the woman's physical layer to see the aura or spirit within.

However, what he saw almost broke the pencil in his hand.

This woman in front of him had no aura. There was no red, blue, or black around her body. In fact, she had no internal organs that glowed like a living human. Behind that beautiful skin, Hamzadi saw only dense darkness and a wooden structure? A human with no sense of any internal organ.

The woman's bones weren't calcium.

They were wood and her flesh was wax. Hamzadi took a slow breath, trying to hide the shock on his face. This wasn't a human and this wasn't a ghost possessing humans.

This was a Living Wax Doll. A very complicated form of ancient magic, where worshippers would fashion a statue out of beeswax and grave soil, then insert a "khadam" to move it. It was a biological robot version of magic.

“The Sacred Wax Lady?”

"Why stop? Aren't I beautiful?" Maya asked. Her eyelids didn't blink. Since then, she hadn't blinked even once.

"You're too beautiful, Maya. Like a statue," Hamzadi replied sarcastically.

His hand went back to sketching, but this time he delicately drew the symbol of the destructive spell on the paper, hidden in the portrait's hairline.

"You know, Hamzadi… Many people say that art is eternal. But Andika says, art is sacrifice. To create something great, something must be destroyed. Your art is irreplaceable."

Maya began to speak, her voice remaining soft but her tone flat and emotionless.

"So Pandika sent her toy doll for an art lecture to me?" Hamzadi cut in. He was too lazy to act.

Maya's smile widened. So wide that the tip of her lips seemed to crack slightly, revealing a layer of white wax under her face powder started to melt down and drip.

"She was disappointed that you didn't come to visit her last night. The Raya ghost was just a postman. But you killed her postman. It's rude."

"The postman broke into my house. I just returned the hard fruit nails, what do you really want?" Hamzadi replied. She put the sketchbook down.

Maya slowly got up. Her movements were a little stiff, making a soft creaking sound like a dry wooden joint.

"Mr. Pandika wants to make sure you come to the exhibition tomorrow night. He's worried you're scared. So, he told me to give you a 'gift' of motivation."

Maya reached into her handbag. Hamzadi was ready to dodge for any weapon.

However, Maya didn't pull out a knife or a gun. She pulled out an old, crumpled Polaroid photo. She threw the photo at Hamzadi's feet. Hamzadi looked at the photo. His blood immediately rushed to his face.

His heart seemed to be torn out. It was a photo of an old woman smiling in the courtyard of the village house. The woman who raised Hamzadi after the death of his parents. The only surviving family member. Mak Ipah Lang.

"Don't... If he tries to touch Mak Ipah Lang..." Hamzadi's voice trembled, low and dangerous.

"He hasn't touched you. Mak Ipah Lang, you're fine in the village. Cooking gulai, I think, But, the protection in the village is getting weaker, right? The invisible fence that your late teacher made has started to rot." Maya said casually.

Maya took a step forward and suddenly she stopped.

"If you don't come to the National Art Gallery tomorrow night, and if you don't bring the Bone Brush. Andika will send his friends to visit Mak Ipah Lang. Maybe they'll have a feast."

Anger exploded in Hamzadi's chest. The biggest taboo in their martial arts world. Don't involve innocent families. Andika had crossed the final line.

"You..."

Hamzadi didn't reach for his dagger. Instead, his anger made him reach for the bottle of Red Ink he had just bought.

He opened the bottle's cap with his thumb, and with a quick movement, he splashed a little of the blood-mixed gold liquid towards Maya's face.

"Arghhh!"

For the first time, Maya's voice turned into an ugly and hoarse scream, like the voice of an old man. The Red Ink liquid was extremely hot and sacred. When it touched Maya's waxy skin, a mystical chemical reaction occurred.

Maya's beautiful face began to melt. Its fake skin melted away like a candle placed next to a roaring fire, revealing a black wooden frame carved with spells beneath it. Its fake eyes rolled to the ground. The people on Jalan Petaling began to scream in horror at the horrific sight.

"Ghost! Ghost!" a bag dealer shouted.

But Hamzadi ignored the crowd. He charged towards the struggling Lady Wax Doll. He grabbed the creature's wooden neck.

"Tell your master. I'm coming. And I'll make sure he's my last painting." Hamzadi whispered right into the creature's half-melted ear.

The doll laughed, even though its mouth was gone, its voice coming from its chest cavity.

"Hi hi hi hi... good... bring the brush and bring the anger, that's what it wants..."

With one hard snap, Hamzadi snapped the doll's wooden neck.

The doll's body instantly went limp, falling prostrate to the ground in a heap of melted wax, baju kurung cloth, and rotting wood as her skeleton.

Black smoke billowed from the remains of the doll, forming the letter 'A' in the air symbolized Pandika before disappearing in the wind. Hamzadi stood panting in the middle of the alley. People began to gather from a distance, smartphones raised to record.

"Crazy... he broke that woman's neck!"

"Eh, that's not a person! That's a wax statue!"

"Call the police!"

Hamzadi realized he couldn't wait there. He grabbed his duffel bag and the polaroid photo of Mak Ipah Lang on the ground. He pulled his hat down, covered his face and ran into the crowd of stunned people.

He had to move fast. Pandika wasn't just baiting him, he was manipulating his emotions. Pandika wanted Hamzadi to be angry.

He wanted Hamzadi to come with revenge, not strategy, because revenge would weaken the defenses of one's soul, making it easy for magic to penetrate. But Hamzadi had no choice. Mak Ipah Lang's safety was everything.

As he ran away from the hustle and bustle of Jalan Petaling, Hamzadi made a decision. He could no longer fight alone. The knowledge he had might be enough to catch the street ghosts but to fight Pandika, who was called the Maestro of black magic, he needed an ally.

He remembered a name his late teacher had once mentioned. A former Islamic medicine practitioner who had cleansed Andika once before but failed to complete it. A man who now lived in exile on the outskirts of the city, hiding from the world.

"Ustaz Ismail Bakri" whispered Hamzadi as he jumped into a taxi that was already waiting on the side of the road for customers who needed his services.

"I have to find Ustaz Ismail Bakri before tomorrow night."

The taxi sped away, leaving the remains of a still-smoky candle on the tarmac of Jalan Petaling, a silent witness that this war had begun to claim victims, even if it was just a statue for now.

In the sky, black clouds began to gather. A rainstorm was going to hit Kuala Lumpur this evening. And it would be a rain of blood. He better reach home fast.

To be Continued ….