A Borneo Trilogy in Verse
These pages came
after I had listened longer than I spoke,
the quiet gathering its own weight
in the space between breaths.The climb is real—
real as the dream that lingers
when you wake
still tasting thinner air on your tongue.
II. PATH THROUGH THE CANOPY
A Lyric Sequence
BOOK ONE: The Three Rivers
Lost Names
Mula and Nyali
The map’s last line ends
where the waters braid
into the colour of strong tea.
No trail—
only three currents
arguing over stones.
Mula reads the middle fork
by the way foam gathers.
Nyali reads the same fork
by the wind that lifts the leaves
on the far bank.
They step in together.
Cold climbs their calves
and settles in the bones.
Leech and Thorn
Mula and Nyali
Leeches find the soft skin
behind the knees
and drink until their bodies
darken and swell.
Thorns write thin hot lines
across forearms.
They stop only long enough
to pull the soft bodies free
and press the beads of blood
with saliva and leaf.
The taste of iron
stays on the tongue.
The First Nibung Sign
Mula and Nyali
A fallen palm,
trunk black with rot,
fibres soft as wet rope.
They cut a shallow test.
The sap that wells
is thin and yellow-bitter.
Both spit at once.
Wrong tree.
The forest answers
in the only language it trusts:
almost.
Storm
Mula and Nyali
Rain arrives
in a single heavy wall.
They crouch beneath one giant leaf
the size of a sleeping mat.
Water hammers the upper surface
until the sound becomes
a continuous roar.
Underneath the air turns
close and green.
Shoulders touch.
Neither pulls away.
Lightning turns the world white
for a breath
and shows the water
running down the other’s neck.
When the thunder follows,
his hand steadies
on the ground beside hers.
They stay like that
until the rain softens.
Even then
neither moves first.
Argument at Dusk
Mula and Nyali
“Your people burned the weirs
when the fish ran thick.”
“Your people took the salt jars
while the men were hunting.”
“And your people still sing
as if the woman taken three generations back
never had a name.”
Words sharp enough
to draw blood
if spoken closer.
Then the quiet returns,
heavier than before.
A frog begins
its wet metallic call.
They listen to it
instead of each other.
Shared Dream
Mula and Nyali
In sleep both see
the same cliff—
white limestone
the colour of old bone—
and the single tall Nibung
standing alone,
its crown holding
a single new shoot
the colour of pale flame.
They wake
within moments of each other.
The dream’s coolness
still sits on the tongue.
Neither speaks it.
Both know the other saw.
BOOK TWO: Trials of the Green
The Boar
Mula and Nyali
The bearded pig breaks
from the undergrowth
with a wound already blackening
along its shoulder.
They move without plan—
her spear finding the thick muscle,
his blade opening the throat
as it turns.
Hot blood sprays
across both forearms.
They butcher in silence,
roast the heart and liver
on green sticks.
Fat drips and hisses.
The meat tastes of iron and smoke.
Fever
Mula and Nyali
His skin goes hot
between one hour and the next.
Sweat gathers
in the hollow of his throat
and runs with the sweet-wrong smell
of fever.
Mula builds the fire higher,
crushes the bitter stems
between two stones,
forces the green juice
between his lips.
She stays awake the night,
palm flat against his forehead
each time the shaking starts.
Once, in the darkest hour,
his hand finds her wrist
and holds it without waking.
She does not pull away.
She counts his breaths
until the sky begins to pale.
By the next afternoon
the same heat takes her.
The canopy tilts.
Sounds stretch and blur.
Nyali carries water
and the same crushed leaves.
When she surfaces
his hand is still resting
at her temple.
She sits up slowly.
He offers the gourd.
Their fingers do not touch.
Hunters from Home
Mula and Nyali
Shadows move wrong
among the trunks—
young men from both longhouses
sent to make certain the pair
do not return carrying peace.
One from Buloh carries a raised scar
across his left cheek
from the last raid.
One from Temedak mutters
the names of the salt-jar thieves
under his breath.
Mula and Nyali lead them
into a thicket of wait-a-while thorns
that catch cloth and skin alike.
They escape with new scratches
and the cold knowledge that home
wants the shoot more
than it wants them alive together.
The Cave of Echoes
Mula and Nyali
Limestone cool and damp
against the back.
Water ticks from the roof
into small black pools.
Nyali begins
a Temedak mourning song
under his breath.
Mula answers
with a Buloh planting chant.
The two melodies meet
and return as one strange,
braided sound.
In the close air
their shoulders touch again
and stay touching
while the last notes fade.
Neither moves away.
Trust Measured
Mula
In the half-light of the cave
she reaches for the small everyday knife.
Her fingers close instead
on the old Mandau—
the blade that carries
the quiet passed down
through her blood.
She feels the familiar weight
and still places it
in Nyali’s open hand.
The handle still holds
the shape of her grip.
He closes his fingers around it slowly.
No speech.
Only the soft sound of water
ticking into the black pools.
A hollow opens in her side.
In the morning
the Mandau remains with him.
She does not ask for it back.
He offers to bind the place
where a thorn had torn.
She lets him.
Closer
Mula and Nyali
The three rivers lie behind.
Limestone walls rise
the colour of bleached bone.
They walk side by side now,
the space between them
narrower than the trail requires.
Once her knuckles brush
the back of his hand.
The contact is brief.
Neither names it.
BOOK THREE: Approach to the Cliff
The Climb Begins
Mula and Nyali
Hands find holds
polished by old rain.
Rattan rope runs between them,
chafing the same raw places
on both palms.
One slip ends both.
Sweat runs into the eyes
and tastes of salt and leaf.
The old belief rises with them:
whoever reaches the crown
carries power.
First Attempt
Nyali
Nyali goes first.
Halfway up the final face
his strength fails.
Fingers slip on wet stone.
He slides back.
Rope burns through Mula’s palms
as she takes his weight.
They rest on the narrow ledge,
breathing hard.
The forest below
looks farther than before.
Second Attempt
Mula
They try again at first light.
This time Mula leads.
She gains higher than before—
past the blank stretch
that stopped her yesterday—
until a hold she trusted
crumbles under her weight.
She falls only a body’s length
before the rope catches,
but her left wrist
strikes stone hard enough
to send a bright shock
up the arm.
Nyali pulls her down.
Both sit in silence,
forearms trembling.
Her wrist is already swelling.
She tests the fingers.
They move, but the joint
protests every flex.
Third Attempt
Mula and Nyali
They rest until the sun
moves past the highest point.
Mula looks at the Mandau
still in his possession.
“It carries my family’s quiet,”
she says.
“Use it.
My wrist will not hold
another full climb alone.”
Nyali nods once.
He ties the Mandau across his back
and begins the third climb.
This time the pain in his hands
stays distant.
The rope feels lighter.
Mula climbs beneath him
with one wrist bound tight,
steadying,
calling holds,
her voice the only sound
beside the wind.
When his fingers finally close
on the last edge,
she pushes from below
until he pulls himself over.
He reaches down
and draws her up beside him.
Her wrist throbs
with every heartbeat.
Neither pretends
it will heal clean.
The New Shoot
Mula and Nyali
At the very top,
sheltered by the oldest fronds,
a single new Nibung shoot
stands no taller than a forearm,
pale green,
still curled at the tip.
They cut it carefully
with the Mandau’s edge.
The blade moves
as if it knows the work.
They wrap the shoot
in fresh leaves and soft bark.
Descent with Treasure
Mula and Nyali
The way down asks more
of the hands and the knees.
They move carefully,
passing the rope between them
with the ease of people
who have already trusted each other
with higher things. Once he stops
to tighten the binding on her wrist
without being asked.
She lets him.
End of the Path through the Canopy.
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