The Legend of Darud Batuh Budak
Long ago, before written history reached the valleys of the eastern lands, there rose a mountain wrapped in mist and mystery. The people called it Darud Batuh Budak—the Mountain of the White Stone. From afar, its cliffs shimmered beneath the sun as though the earth itself had been rinsed in pale light.
For generations, the mountain was both feared and revered. Along its slopes grew rare herbs that healers whispered of in hushed tones: roots that broke fevers, leaves that sealed wounds, and flowers that gentled troubled minds.
No one, however, dared take anything without asking permission. The mountain was believed to be guarded by a spirit of tremendous beauty and power. Some said she was born from the first morning dew; others, that she had tumbled earthward from a beam of moonlight. She was known as Kumang Budak, the White Maiden, the unseen guardian of the mountain.
Those who sought the mountain’s gifts had to follow a sacred ritual. At the mouth of a hidden cave, they would light three sticks of incense and lay down flowers, water, and rice. Then they would whisper their prayer into the stillness:
“O Maiden of the Mountain, keeper of life and sickness, allow me to borrow your gift, that others may live.”
If the wind stirred gently, or if cool dew settled upon the skin, the answer was yes. Those who climbed without the ritual were said to dissolve into the mist, never to return.
One year, a terrible sickness moved through the valley.
A young man named Keleng set out for the mountain, desperate to save his dying mother, carrying little more than a walking stick, some rice, and a stubborn hope. For a full day he climbed through dense jungle, where the canopy pressed close and the air hung heavy and green.
On the second morning, he arrived at the cave. Kneeling at its entrance, he lit the incense and spoke the prayer with a trembling voice. Silence answered, then a soft glow bloomed from the dark. From the cave emerged a radiant figure. Her hair moved like dark water, her skin held the pale serenity of moonlight, and her eyes carried both great kindness and the ache of ancient sorrow. It was Kumang Budak.
Keleng bowed deeply. “O Guardian, I seek medicine for my mother.”
She regarded him in silence. “Many who come here are driven by fear,” she said softly. “But your heart seeks only to give life, not to take it.”
She led him into the cave, where glowing moss carpeted the walls with a cool, living light. From a bed of stone, she plucked a plant with silver leaves.
“Boil its roots with honey,” she said. “Speak your mother’s name as she drinks. And remember—never take from this mountain out of greed.”
Keleng thanked her and returned home. His mother recovered, and the village spoke of the miracle.
But Keleng could not forget the Guardian.
He returned to the mountain one evening, simply because he could not stay away. He found her by the cave, and from that moment, a bond grew between them, crossing the border between mortal and spirit as though it were only mist.
They met often, hidden from the world below. Keleng spoke of harvest seasons and village laughter, of the fleeting joys that filled a human life. Kumang Budak listened with great care, speaking in return of endless time, and the loneliness of watching centuries fold into one another without change. Between these stories, they fell in love.
But time ceases to spare mortals. As years passed, Keleng grew older. His visits grew slower, his steps heavier, and his hair turned the grey of morning mist. Kumang Budak, unchanged as the stone itself, watched the man she loved grow old.
One morning, he came for the last time.
“My love,” he whispered, his voice weak, “my body is failing, but my heart will remain with you.”
He died at the entrance of the cave, his hand resting upon the very place where they had first met.
Grief consumed the White Maiden. She never left the cave again, weeping endlessly as her sorrow fell upon the stone. In time, her relentless tears dissolved the rock itself. They carved channels through the mountain and hardened into pale, shimmering streams that poured down its face.
Thus, the mountain came to be named Darud Batuh Budak—the Mountain of the White Stone.
Even now, when sunlight falls upon its slopes, they shine with a soft, white glow. Not the brightness of snow, but the luminescence of sorrow turned to stone.
It is said that the mountain still carries the memory of her love. The legend endures: of a guardian who loved a mortal, and the tears that became the mountain’s skin. — DayakDaily
Hailing from Kampung Mentu Tapu, Serian, 42-year-old Harry anak Bawan is an educator who shapes young minds for a living. To unwind after a busy day, he loves diving into deep conversations and storytelling by listening to podcasts.
