Mengkuang Mak Tia - The Curse bath

Behind the cassava plantation, where the paved road ended, sat a small village called Kampung Alur Dalam. It was the kind of place most people passed without noticing. No resorts. No tourists. No beautiful beaches. Just red mud, wooden houses on stilts, the river, and the constant noise of the plywood factory. The factory was the biggest employer in the area. Almost every family had someone working there. And almost every morning, the village woke to the same sound. Machines. Heavy trucks. Men shouting across the loading area. The smell of fresh-cut wood mixed with smoke from the kitchens. For people like Yati, it was simply life. Nothing special. Nothing exciting. Just another day. Yati lived in one of the oldest houses near the edge of the plantation. The house leaned slightly to one side. Whenever heavy rain came, she wondered if it would finally collapse into the river. Her mother always laughed when she said that. "It has survived longer than you have," Mak Tia would say. "Then maybe it knows how to survive." Yati would smile. "Maybe it knows it's too stubborn to die." But lately, Mak Tia didn't laugh as much. She was getting weaker. And Yati had started noticing. She noticed how her mother held the wall when she walked. How she stopped halfway up the small wooden steps to catch her breath. How her hands shook when she cooked. How she sometimes sat quietly by the window for a long time without saying anything. Yati was twenty-eight. In Kampung Alur Dalam, that was considered late for a woman to still be single. Most girls married young. By twenty, many already had children. By twenty-eight, some women in the village already had teenagers. Yati had neither a husband nor children. But it wasn't because nobody wanted her. It was because almost everyone did. Yati was beautiful in a way that made people stare. Her skin was unusually fair, almost too pale for someone who lived under the Borneo sun. Her long black hair fell straight down her back. Her eyes were dark and calm. Her face was soft, but there was something about her that made people remember her after she walked away. At the factory, the men noticed her the moment she arrived. Motorcycle riders slowed down when they passed her. The old men at the warung sometimes stopped talking just to watch her walk by. They called her Puti Salju. Snow White. They said it as a joke. But their eyes were serious. Yati hated the nickname. She hated the attention even more. Her supervisor, Encik Rahim, was one of the worst. He already had three wives, but that never stopped him from finding excuses to visit Yati's station. "Yati, your work is very neat." He always said it while standing too close. "Very neat." Sometimes she could smell the clove cigarettes on his breath. Yati would move away. "I have finished this section, Encik." "Good. Good." He would smile and stay anyway. The younger men from the packing section were no better. They often followed her to the bus stop after work, pretending they happened to be waiting for the same bus. Yati knew exactly what they were doing. She simply ignored them. She had learned that looking interested only encouraged people. So she kept her eyes down and waited for the bus. When it came, she got on quickly. When she reached her stop, she walked home without looking back. It had become a routine. Work. Bus. Home. Her mother. That was enough for Yati. She didn't need a man. At least, that's what she told herself. Her mother knew better. Mak Tia had been a widow for twenty years. Her husband had died in a logging accident. A tree fell on him. One morning, he had left home as a husband and father. By evening, Mak Tia had become a widow. There had been no warning. No goodbye. Just a body brought home and a funeral three days later. Yati had been eight years old. She still remembered standing beside her mother's skirt during the burial. She remembered the rain. She remembered the smell of wet soil. And she remembered her mother crying without making a sound. After that, Mak Tia raised Yati alone. She worked when she could. She borrowed money when she had to. She went hungry so Yati could eat. She never complained. Yati never forgot it. That was why she refused every proposal. She couldn't leave her mother. Not now. Not when Mak Tia was getting weaker. "I can't leave Mak," Yati always said. That simple sentence had ended five proposals. A rich palm-oil trader from another district. A young teacher. A mechanic. Two brothers from a nearby village. All had shown interest. All had been rejected. People started talking. "She's too picky." "She thinks she's too beautiful." "Maybe she wants a rich man." "Maybe she has someone secretly." Yati heard the rumours. She didn't care. Let them talk. Her mother came first. But Mak Tia cared. She cared about every word. Every whisper. Every look. Because Mak Tia knew the village. She knew how quickly kindness could turn into gossip. She knew how quickly gossip could turn into trouble. A beautiful woman living alone was never truly alone. Someone was always watching. Someone was always waiting. And once Mak Tia was gone, there would be nobody left to stand between Yati and the people who wanted something from her. That thought kept Mak Tia awake at night. Sometimes she would lie on her mengkuang mat and listen to the river. She would hear footsteps outside. A motorcycle passing. Men laughing somewhere in the distance. Then she would look at Yati sleeping nearby. Her daughter looked peaceful. Too peaceful. Mak Tia would whisper to herself. "Who will protect you when I'm gone?" She already knew Yati's answer. Nobody. Yati believed she could take care of herself. Mak Tia believed the world was not that kind. That difference frightened her. So she decided to do something desperate. Something she knew she shouldn't do. Something she would never tell Yati. She crossed the river and visited an old woman who lived far from the village. The woman was known by many names. Some called her a healer. Some called her a witch. Most people simply avoided her. Her house stood beneath tall trees where the sunlight barely reached the ground. The old woman was sitting outside when Mak Tia arrived. She was chewing betel nut. Her teeth were red. She looked at Mak Tia once. "You've come for your daughter." Mak Tia stopped. "How do you know?" The old woman smiled. "Mothers always come for their children." Mak Tia sat down. "I want her to be married." "She refuses?" "She refuses everyone." "Why?" "She wants to stay with me." The old woman stared at her for a long time. "Then you are the problem." Mak Tia looked shocked. "What?" "You are the reason she refuses." Mak Tia lowered her eyes. "I am sick." "I know." "My daughter has nobody." "I know." "I need her to have someone." The old woman leaned closer. "Then you don't need to make her love someone." Mak Tia looked up. "What do I need?" The old woman smiled. "You need to make sure no man can walk away from her." Mak Tia's heart began to beat faster. "You mean..." "I know what you mean." Silence filled the space between them. Then the old woman said quietly, "There is a price." Mak Tia didn't ask what it was. "I'll pay it." The old woman smiled. And Mak Tia kept her promise. For three nights, after Yati fell asleep, Mak Tia left the house. She walked seven kilometres to seven different wells in seven different villages. There was one rule. She had to collect the water at exactly midnight. She could not speak to anyone. And she could never look back. The old woman had warned her. "If someone calls your name, keep walking." Mak Tia obeyed. The first night, she heard footsteps behind her. She kept walking. The second night, someone whispered her name. "Mak Tia..." She almost turned. But she remembered the warning. Don't look back. The third night, she heard something following her through the trees. Something that didn't sound human. She walked faster. She never looked back. At every well, she collected water with a coconut shell. The water was freezing. Too cold for a warm Borneo night. When she returned home before Subuh, she poured the water into a large plastic pail. Then she added black pandanus roots. Dried mengkuang leaves. A small amount of soil from her husband's grave. And three strands of Yati's hair. Finally, she whispered words that were not part of any prayer Yati had ever heard. Words from something much older. Something that did not belong in their world. For three nights, Mak Tia repeated the ritual. And on the third night, the pail changed. The water turned black. Not dark brown. Black. It smelled of wet earth and rotten flowers. Mak Tia stared at it. The surface moved. A small ripple travelled from one side to the other. She stepped back. "No..." The water became still. Mak Tia closed her eyes. She wanted to stop. She should have stopped. But then she thought of Yati. Her beautiful daughter. Alone. Unprotected. Growing old in this village after her mother's death. Mak Tia reached for the pail. "This is for her." She believed that was enough. She believed a mother's love could make anything right. She was wrong. That evening, at 6:45 p.m., Yati came home. The bus had dropped her near the cassava plantation. She still had to walk through the red mud to reach the house. Her blue factory uniform was covered in wood dust. Her throat was dry. Her shoulders hurt. She opened the door. "Mak?" "I'm here, sayang." Yati dropped her bag. "I'm exhausted." Mak Tia smiled from the kitchen. "Sit down. I've made dinner." Yati sat on the mengkuang mat. "What did you cook?" "Rice. Fish. Vegetables." "Perfect." Yati smiled for the first time that day. Mak Tia served her. Her hand trembled as she placed the plate down. Tak. The spoon hit the plate. Yati looked at her. "Are you okay?" "I'm fine." "Your hand is shaking." Mak Tia quickly pulled her hand away. "Old people shake." Yati frowned. "You should see a doctor." "We don't have money for doctors." "I'll take you." "With what money?" Yati went quiet. Mak Tia smiled. "Eat." Yati lowered her head. After a few moments, Mak Tia asked, "Did any men bother you today?" Yati stopped eating. "No." A pause. "No one." Mak Tia looked at her. She knew it was a lie. Yati had heard the comments. She had seen the looks. And she knew about Encik Rahim. But she didn't want her mother to worry. So she kept quiet. "Good," Mak Tia said. Her voice sounded relieved. Yati finished her dinner quickly. Then she stood and carried the plates to the basin. Before she could wash them, Mak Tia grabbed her wrist. Yati froze. Her mother's hand was ice-cold. "Mak?" "Leave the dishes." "Why?" Mak Tia stared at her. "Let Mak bathe you tonight." Yati blinked. "What?" "I want to bathe you." Her mother hadn't bathed her since she was five. "Why would you want to do that now?" Mak Tia smiled. It was a strange smile. Her lips were smiling. Her eyes weren't. "Because you work too hard." She gently pulled Yati toward the kitchen. "And because I want to take care of you one more time." Yati's chest tightened. "One more time?" Mak Tia's eyes filled with tears. "Before Mak dies." Yati immediately felt guilty for questioning her. This was her mother. The woman who had raised her alone. The woman she had promised never to leave. So she nodded. "Okay." Mak Tia held her hand. Together, they walked toward the dark corner of the kitchen. Toward the pail. Yati stopped. Something had moved. She stared at the black water. There was no wind. Nobody had touched it. Still, the surface began to ripple. Once. Twice. Then again. Yati looked at Mak Tia. "What's in there?" "Nothing." Mak Tia answered too quickly. Yati looked back at the pail. The water moved again. Ripple. She took one step closer. The smell of wet earth became stronger. Then came a soft sound. Gulp. Yati's heart stopped. She looked at her mother. "Mak..." Mak Tia didn't answer. Another sound came from inside the pail. Gulp. The black water trembled. Yati stepped backward. "What's happening?" Mak Tia tightened her grip on her daughter's hand. "Don't be afraid." That was the worst thing she could have said. Because now Yati was afraid. Very afraid. She stared at the pail. The water moved again. This time, the ripple reached the edge. Something was moving underneath it. Something large enough to disturb the whole surface. Yati's breathing became shallow. "Mak, I don't want to do this." Mak Tia pulled her closer. "You have to." "Why?" Mak Tia didn't answer. Yati looked into her mother's eyes. For the first time, she saw something she had never seen there before. Fear. Her mother was afraid too. Then— Gulp. The sound came again. Slow. Deep. Almost like a breath. Yati stared at the black water. The pail rippled once more. And this time, the water didn't stop. Something inside had woken up. And it was waiting for Yati.