Black Man

By Gus ft Sakai

After night falls, the village, located deep in an isolated valley, is completely blanketed by darkness. With the descent of fog, the scene is even gloomier. But the weather is calm and there is no wind.

Closer inspection reveals everything still. Trees are as dead as wooden poles and houses just like mounds. There are only the sounds of crickets and night owls. From a distance, dogs howl mysterious growls.

They sound like groans of pain, billowing up and down with sudden halts. To local people, the sounds are like they are flying, jumping from one rooftop to another.

When they heard the eerie sound, many parents looked to their children and issued them reminders.

"Hurry to bed, all of you. The night is already late."

"No, no, don't cry, child. Do you hear the voice?"

"The Black Man is coming. Take your younger brother there, hurry up!"

"Quick, or the Black Man will ... "

Usually there is no need for more than one warning. The children immediately jump into bed after the first word from their parents. Those already at rest quickly close their eyes and cover their faces with pillows. Only elders remain active, like night watchmen.

The story of the Black Man had circulated among villagers for decades, and parents used it to bring misbehaving kids into line.

But with the recent drought, which people believe has caused sickness and death, the whole hamlet is again buzzing with the menace of the Black Man.

Decades ago, the village had more people. They tilled arable lands and paddy fields, which yielded bountiful crops.

The prosperity attracted more and more people from outside to settle. But the prosperity did not last due to the weather.

First came the dry season. They thought it was a regular dry spell, but it got worse. So did the people's mood.

Disappointment turned to fear, and then panic. Trouble was not only spurred by the drought, but also by the fact that many residents -- children included -- had fallen ill with vomiting and diarrhea. Some had died.

It had never happened before to the settlers. Some villagers said the children were victims of the long drought, but others dismissed this.

An elder said the misfortune was due to ungratefulness over nature's blessings, that no offerings had been made.

But most people believed someone was practicing black magic to cause the drought, and their children were the sacrifices.

The village was gripped by fear. Many kept their children indoors.

One night, villagers gathered brandishing torches.

"Kill the devil's disciple!" they shouted.

"Cut his body in pieces!"

"Drag him through the street!"

No sooner had the house owner opened the door to ask what had happened than the people forced their way in. The whole family was dragged outside despite the children's cries of fear and pain.

One of the mob called for calm as the people ran amok. The mob dumped the bodies, not knowing if they still had life in them, outside the hamlet.

But they saw the family members' clothing turn black. From then on the cursed family was known as the "black people".

According to the story, the expulsion of these "black people" was followed by the gradual end to the dry spell. Later, the rains came and plants grew. Children recovered.

But as time went on, the dry spell returned. Just like decades before, the disaster was followed by deaths of children. Villagers agreed it was due to the same cause as before.

But they realized they had not checked whether the family members were dead years ago.

They learned the family had lived, and had built a hut in a nearby forest. The villagers were ready to attack it when the dry spell abated and things returned to normal.

One of the family, an old man with a shock of gray hair, was still living. He carried a stick wherever he went although he was still vigorous. He had a scar on his forehead.

But the drought continued to devastate the hamlet. From day to day the villagers felt their lives were getting harder. There was barely any rice stocks left and all wells had dried up. Some had tried to dig deeper but found nothing but murky water.

Outlands were also dry and the soil in the paddy fields was parched and cracked. As if the calamity was not complete, the fog had also returned. It irritated the eyes of the people and hurt their throats. Many children and adults were now cursed to lie in bed.

One day a resident was busy informing fellow villagers that the well of the Black Man was full of clean and drinkable water. Villagers were taken aback by the news.

"That is why he is alive and kicking," some said.

"He must be the source of all evil here," said others. "He has sucked not only the blood of our children, but also our very life blood, our land and water."

"He is the true evil worshiper. Maybe he is more dangerous than that. He is the king of all devils. He has eaten our plants before he wiped them out."

"He worships not only one devil but maybe hundreds. We have to act now!"

"You're right. We have to kill him or at least chase him away."

"Don't let him escape alive because he can cause troubles elsewhere. Just butcher him."

"Kill the devil worshiper! Chop his body up with a machete!"

"Ax him!"

"Hack the Black Man to death!"

Just like their fathers had done decades ago, the villagers set off to attack the Black Man's hut. They wielded machetes, axes, knives and wooden clubs.

They dragged the man out of his house and beat him. But none of the assailants used their axes or machetes, only the wooden clubs. Only when his body was beaten beyond recognition did they leave him.

Without checking whether he was dead or alive, a burly man dragged the body to the brink of the hollow and threw it inside.

Mission accomplished, the people went home in euphoria.

They were convinced the drought would end. Although the fog still hung low, the people no longer stayed at home all day but went around to inspect their crops.

They also set up a food stall where they could kill time and chat. The inevitable topic was the death of the Black Man. Many regretted they had not killed him sooner.

But the optimism gradually waned as the drought did not end. The situation remained precarious.

People started to become scared after several children died. Some adults fainted suddenly for no apparent reason.

The villagers were again gripped by fear. Some tried to tell their fellow villagers to remain calm, but to no avail. Many said that one cannot be killed by lack of food but by lack of water. They were referring to the Black Man's well, which they believed could be the new source of their drinking water.

They found the water had healing powers. Those who had mysteriously fainted recovered after given a sip of water from the well.

The growing importance of the well created new problems. A villager worried by the possibility of the well drying up carted off many pails of water to his home. Other villagers did not try to stop him, but instead followed his example.

Later, as more and more people did the same, they had to elbow their way to the well. Finally, the chaos resulted in a fight in which several machete-wielding people were killed.

People, frightened by the situation, started to move away. As more followed, the village was deserted within a month.

Today it looks like a haunted site.

If a voice is heard there it is like the moan of a victim of onslaught by a mysterious person or people. Some have been found with their stomachs stabbed or throats cut.

Today, the village looks like a place out of reach. The blanket of fog means people walking its streets have to tread carefully.

But to a mysterious old man the situation is preferable. He strolls the streets with no hindrance, but finds everything desolate.

As he walks closer to the end of the village, he suddenly stumbles on something. He picks it up and discovers it is a human bone. The closer he gets to his hut, located by the forest, the more bones he finds. The farther away he gets, he finds not only bones but pieces of flesh.

In front of his hut, he sees a dog gnawing on what is either a human arm or leg. The man sits alone. He buries his face in his hands and tearfully tries to withhold his cries.

Translated by TIS

The writer, who was born in Payakumbuh, West Sumatra, on Aug. 13, 1965, started writing short stories at the age of 13. He has written two novels and six novellas. Twelve of his short stories have been awarded prizes by various magazines.