“We didn’t want to tell you, when you came back from the jungle, yesterday at dinner time,” said Oring.
“Remember, you brought your soundtrack? The long wailing sound you mentioned?”
She paused and gave me a strange look. “We told you it was a bird.”
She shook her head, and whispered. “But what you heard last night in the twilight was no bird. At first, it sounded from far away, before closing up to you, right?”
I nodded with a sense of apprehension. Cold waves shivered up and down my spine. I felt she was embarking on one of her eerie tales, embe dded in the opaque yet fascinating mystery of Borneo’s dark jungle heritage.
“Yes indeed,” I answered. “It was quite dark when I heard the sound for the first time. It echoed from far away, perhaps from half of a mile’s distance, from the dark mountain above the waterfall. Trees, leaves, the ground had molten already into one solid, opaque mass of darkness. I felt very intrigued by the strange sound, and switched on my tape recorder. Its little red recording light shone in the dark, in the company of green fireflies sparkling through the shadow. ”
I paused, and sipped my coffee.
“Only glimpses of waning evening light fell through the forest. The jungle was full of hissing sounds, then. So loud were the noises I feared it would blur my recording. Then the strange wailing sound approached. It gave me a creepy feeling. Suddenly, it was there, right above me. I looked up, but couldn’t see any bird, or animal. It seemed a gust of wind brushed through the leaves. A few moments later, it was gone. Something inside me told me to get out off the jungle, and that’s what I did.”
“What you heard yesterday was the ‘Jungle Giant.’ It called his hound. It was ‘The Evil One With The Hound.’ Didn’t I warn you from going to the jungle at twilight?” she whispered.
“It was out there, last night. It passed through the canopy,” she said. It woke up at 6 p.m. Then it went hunting with its dog, and foraged the jungle’s canopy for blood, searching for people or wild pig. The unlucky ones he trapped will get sick and die. Later, around 9 pm, the danger was over.”
“Will that happen to me too,” I asked with a frightened voice.
“Perhaps not,” she said. “It probably couldn’t see you. It moved through the canopy, far above the ground. Some people, like my Grandpa, befriended the Giant. But then you must give him some of your blood every month, remember the story I told you a while ago?”
I nodded and finished drinking my cup of copy that had almost become cold.
© 2005 by Franz L Kessler
