The Blood Canvas

Chapter #20 - Kampung Inderawasih

The evening wind on the hilltop behind Kampung Inderawasih blew hard, carrying the smell of wet earth and fallen frangipani flowers. Below, the lights of the village houses looked like wandering fireflies, flickering weakly in the darkness of the mortal world.

However, on the hill, a celestial drama was unfolding, witnessed by only three lives, an old man full of past sins, a policeman who kept his promise, and a young man who held the destiny of life at his fingertips.

Hamzadi stood on the edge of a cliff, facing the darkness of the starless night.

In his right hand, he held the Guru's Brush, the last heirloom of Tok Guru made of black beg wood and horsetail hair. In his left eye ah, his left eye was gone through the sacrifice of Art.

His left eye socket was now wide open, emitting a deep purple light that pulsed, like a heart exposed. This light was no ordinary light, it was the breath of the Ancient Devil writhing awake from his long sleep. Each pulse sent a powerful wave of pain through Hamzadi’s entire nervous system, as if hot nails were being driven into his brain.

“Hungry… I’m hungry…”

The voice was no longer a whisper. It was a roar that shook Hamzadi’s ribs. The devil, the Little Antichrist, the King of Jinns, or whatever he was called, was trying to break through the prison walls of Hamzadi’s corpse. He wanted out. He wanted to eat the sky.

“Be patient,” Hamzadi whispered, tears of blood flowing from his empty left eye.

“I’m preparing your meal.”

Behind him, Ustaz Ismail Bakri sat cross-legged on the ground, clutching a kokka wooden prayer bead. His mouth was pursed as he recited the Hizib Bahr, trying to build a wall of strength to prevent the evil aura from spreading to the village below. Manly sweat soaked his tattered white robe.

Inspector Rizal stood not far away, clutching his empty pistol. He knew bullets were useless here, but holding the pistol gave him a false sense of security. He looked at Hamzadi with blurry vision. He saw a friend who was preparing to die. It seemed that he was witnessing death on the gallows.

"Hamzadi... You don't have to do all this alone. Let's find another way." Rizal called, his voice breaking. He began to feel sad, his heart whispering memories of the first time they met.

Hamzadi turned his head slightly. His face was pale, black veins appeared on his neck and cheeks. He smiled softly, but it was a very sadistic smile but full of love.

"There is no other way, Rizal. Pandika is for me. He said that art is eternal. But he was wrong. Real art is sacrifice. To create something beautiful, you have to sacrifice a part of yourself in order to save humanity."

Hamzadi looked back at the sky.

"Ustaz said you are thirsty for emotions, right? Do you want to feel what it feels like to be human? Do you want to feel love? Do you want to feel longing? Okay. I am for you all." Hamzadi said to the devil in his eyes.

Hamzadi raised the Master Brush to the sky. He didn't dip the brush into any paint stains. Instead, he stabbed the tip of the brush into his own left chest.

Syrup!

The brush penetrated skin, flesh, and touched the walls of bone or every muscle.

Hamzadi groaned, but he did not pull it out. He let the bristles absorb the blood from his chest, the blood that carried memories, the blood that carried feelings.

When he pulled the brush out, the bristles glowed with a dazzling golden light. It was not physical blood. It was Soul Essence.

“Eat this,” Hamzadi whispered.

He began to paint in the air.

His movements were slow at first, like those of a weary dancer. He swept the brush to the right, forming a streak of golden light that floated across the night sky. The streaks did not fade. They remained there, burning the night air.

Hamzadi went to the left again, this time in sapphire blue, the color of sadness.

“What are you doing, human? Why do you feel so hot?” the demon asked, his voice slightly disturbed.

“It’s a feeling of longing, stupid,” Hamzadi replied as he continued painting.

He drew the face of an old woman smiling as he held out a plate of boiled sweet potatoes. Mak Ipah Lang's face.

Every stroke of the brush demanded a high price. Every time Hamzadi drew the outline of Mak Ipah Lang's face in the sky, he felt the memory being pulled out of his head.

He drew Mak Ipah Lang's smile, and suddenly he forgot what it felt like to be hugged by the woman. He remembered the facts, but the feeling was gone, sucked into the drawing to be fed to the Devil.

"More! This tastes good! I want more!" the devil shouted.

Hamzadi cried. He knew what was happening. He was extinguishing his own humanity. He was feeding the giant his soul so that the giant would be full and sleep.

"Take it..." Hamzadi shouted.

"Take it all."

Hamzadi drew again. This time he drew the face of a fierce but loving old man. Guru Ketuk. He drew when Tok Guru taught him to hold a brush for the first time. He drew the feeling of pride when he was praised. The feeling of pride disappeared from his chest, into the sky.

Then, he drew the face of a handsome, arrogant but lonely young man. Pandika.

Hamzadi drew the memories of them bathing in the river. He drew the memories of them sharing rice packets. He drew the memories of Pandika saving him from being bullied by other village servants.

And finally, he drew Pandika's last moments. Pandika's sacrifice in the world of painting.

"This is forgiveness," said Hamzadi, as he drew a white line that united Pandika's face and his in the sky.

In the sky, the light painting began to form a very beautiful and terrifying panorama. The faces of Hamzadi's memories merged into a man-made Aurora Borealis that illuminated the sky of Kampung Inderawasih. The colors of gold, blue, red, and white swirled like a living galaxy.

The villagers who were still awake from their sleep, who were outside their homes, looked at the sky with their mouths open.

"Subhanallah... what is that?"

"The northern lights? In Malaysia?"

Little did they know that the beautiful light was the biography of a man who was extinguishing himself.

On the hill, Hamzadi's body was getting weaker. His legs were shaking. Blood was dripping from his nose and ears.

"Enough, Hamzadi! Stop!" shouted Rizal. He ran to catch Hamzadi.

"DON'T CLOSED!" shouted Hamzadi. His voice echoed with the power of Satan.

Hamzadi turned his head. His left eye was now tightly closed, but a purple light still shone from between his eyelids. The devil was almost full. He was beginning to feel sleepy, drunk with such strong human emotions.

"A little more... One more..." Hamzadi's breath was ragged.

Hamzadi looked at Rizal. He looked at Ustaz IsmailvBakri.

He raised his brush for the last time.

"This is for a future where I will not exist.”

The devil was sleeping. He had been drugged with enough emotional doses to put him to sleep for another hundred years.

Hamzadi dropped his hand.

He stood stiffly on the edge of the cliff. The night wind blew through his hair.

“Hamzadi?” Rizal called softly.

Hamzadi didn’t answer. He slowly fell to the ground.

“Hamzadi!”

Rizal and Ustaz Ismail Bakri rushed towards him. Rizal took Hamzadi’s head.

“Madi, wake up Madi. Don’t do this to me,” Rizal patted Hamzadi’s cheek, even though he was a great man, his soul still had a residue of fear and panic...

Hamzadi’s right eye slowly opened.

He looked at Rizal’s face. His gaze was blank. Very blank. Like looking at a stranger.

“Mr... Mr. Who?” Hamzadi whispered

Rizal’s heart seemed to stop beating. The thick, manly tears of a policeman finally spilled.

“I am Rizal, Madi... Your friend. Your partner.”

Hamzadi frowned, trying to process the name.

"Rizal..." He said the name without any tone.

"Sorry. I don't remember." Hamzadi replied weakly.

Ustaz Ismail Bakri held Hamzadi's wrist. His pulse was there, but weak.

"He's still alive, Rizal," Ustaz said, his voice trembling with restraint.

"But... the Hamzadi we knew is gone. He shared all his memories with the devil. He remembered your name as a fact, but he didn't remember the feeling of being friends with you." Ustaz tried to explain to Rizal.

Hamzadi tried to get up. He politely pushed Rizal's hand away.

"I have to go back. There's someone waiting for me. An old woman cooking boiled sweet potatoes. What's her name?" said Hamzadi. He looked towards the village below.

"Mak Ipah Lang..." Rizal replied, sobbing.

"Yes, Mak Ipah Lang. I had to tell her that I wanted to go far."

Hamzadi staggered to his feet. He ignored Rizal and Ustaz who were crying. He walked down the hill like a robot programmed for a final mission.

The devil in his left eye was asleep. But the price was Hamzadi's own soul. He was now just an empty Guardian. A container without content.

A YEAR LATER

Bukit Bintang Street was back to its usual busyness. People of all kinds, races and smells crowded the sidewalks, chasing a world that could never be enough. Giant LED signs lit up advertising the latest beauty products and smartphones.

In a rather secluded corner, near a dark back alley, sat a man.

The mysterious man was wearing a tattered jacket that covered most of his body. His hair was shoulder-length, a little messy but clean. He wore a black eye patch over his left eye.

In front of him, there was an easel and a canvas. No one noticed his presence. He seemed to be part of the shadow of the building. He didn’t contact customers. He didn’t sell paintings. He just painted.

A young girl, perhaps a traveler, stopped in front of him.

“Excuse me, are you an artist?” the girl asked.

The man looked up. His right eye looked at the girl. Those eyes were very old. Eyes that had seen the end of time and chosen to remain silent.

He didn’t answer. He just pointed to the empty chair in front of him. The girl sat down, smiling sarcastically.

“Please do a quick sketch.”

The man picked up a charcoal pencil. He started to run.

But he didn’t draw the girl’s face.

He drew a black body perched on the girl's shoulder. A spirit creature was whispering gloom into the girl's ear.

The man's hand moved quickly. Each time he scribbled on the paper, he silently recited the spell. A silent spell. He took a deep breath. He opened his left eyelid a little. Just a few.

A faint purple light shone out from the slit of the eyelid, flashing towards the creature on the girl's shoulder.

The creature screamed silently, terrified at the sight of the sleeping King in the man's eyes. The creature jumped and ran away, disappearing into the hustle and bustle of the city.

The man closed his eyes again. He continued to draw, this time drawing the girl's face with a happier smile.

He handed her the drawing.

"Wow, how beautiful. You make me look very happy," the girl said. He held out a RM50 bill.

The man shook his head. He pushed the money away. He pointed to his chest, then to the girl's chest.

“Free,” he whispered in a husky voice he rarely used.

“Rejoice.”

The girl thanked him and walked away, feeling the weight on her shoulders suddenly lifted.

The man was Hamzadi, he leaned against the wall. He was reborned? He is not dead? He was tired. Feeding the devil took a lot of energy. Every day, he had to find ‘little sins’ or ‘people’s sorrows’ to absorb into his eyes, so that the devil would stay full and sleep.

That's his job now. Sin Eater. Sin Eater.

Across the road, a black Perodua Aruz car was parked.

Inside the train, ASP Rizal was watching Hamzadi through the window. Beside him, Ustaz sat holding a stick.

"He looks thin," Rizal said.

"But he's calm, he's accepted his fate." Ustaz replied.

"Ustaz, do you think he remembers us?" Rizal asked.

"He remembers what we look like. But he doesn't remember why we're important. To him, we're just characters in his history that have been erased."

Rizal complained. He opened the dashboard drawer, took out an old photo. The polaroid photo, taken a year ago, showed Hamzadi, Rizal and Ustaz Ismail Bakri eating nasi kandar together after Hamzadi left the hospital before the incident on the hill. At that time, Hamzadi was still laughing.

"I miss the old Ustaz. The stubborn Hamzadi. The rowdy Hamzadi."

"The Hamzadi who used to be dead, Rizal.

He died as a hero on that hill. The one who is still alive now is the Guardian. We must respect his sacrifice.”

Rizal kept the picture.

"How is Mak Ipah Lang?"

"Died last month," Ustaz Ismail Bakri answered slowly.

"She slept peacefully. Hamzadi is coming for the funeral. She didn't cry. She just stood looking at the grave for a long time. After that, he placed the painting on the grave and left."

"What painting?"

"A painting of boiled sweet potatoes."

Rizal chuckled, but tears welled up in his eyes.

"Boiled sweet potatoes... Oh, Hamzadi..."

Ustaz Bakri patted Rizal's shoulder.

"Let's go. We can't stay here long. Hamzadi's aura is very strong now. If we get close, the 'thing' in his eyes will be awakened by our smell."

Rizal started the train engine. He looked at Hamzadi one last time.

"Goodbye, partner," Rizal whispered.

The car slowly left Bukit Bintang, leaving Hamzadi alone in the middle of a sea of ​​people.

Hamzadi watched the car go by. There was a slight pain in his chest. It felt like deja vu. An endless longing.

He held his chest. Empty.

Suddenly, his left eye throbbed slowly. The devil was delirious in his sleep.

"Hamzadi... where is Pandika?" asked the voice in his head.

Hamzadi took his pencil back. He flipped his sketchbook to the very back page.

There, there was a very detailed portrait drawing. A portrait of two young men sitting on the bank of a river, covered in paint, laughing happily.

Hamzadi couldn't remember when he drew this picture. He couldn't remember who the man next to him was in the picture. He couldn't remember the name of the river.

But every time he looked at this picture, he felt at peace.

"Pandika is here, he's safe." Hamadi whispered to himself.

Hamzadi closed his sketchbook. Heavy rain began to fall, drenching Kuala Lumpur.

He didn't move. He opened a new canvas.

This world was full of ghosts. The ghost of poverty, the ghost of loneliness, the ghost of revenge. And while the ghosts exist, Hamzadi will continue to paint.

Because he is no longer just a street painter.

He is the Legacy of Bloody Canvas. He is the Prisoner of the Spirit. And this is his eternal punishment or secret he had to keep forever.