The Symphony of a Fallen Artisan
Long ago, when the world was young and the veil between the mystical and the mundane was thin, Upai Semaring walked the earth. He was a figure of staggering proportions, a titan whose head reached the clouds and whose stride could cross entire valleys. To the Dayak Lundayeh, he was an enigma. He did not seek to rule the lesser beings beneath him, nor did he hunt the wildlife for sport. He was a creature of profound silence, a solitary spirit who found companionship only in the ancient stones and the whispers of the forest.
Upai was, above all else, an artist. Where others saw a barren mountain, he saw a canvas. Where others saw a jagged, unyielding cliff, he saw something waiting to be shaped. Gifted with a supernatural touch, he could soften the hardest granite with his fingers. To him, the colossal stones of the Krayan highlands were as malleable as river clay.
Upai’s days were spent hunched over the earth, carving intricate patterns into the bedrock of the world with the finesse of a master jeweller.
Among his many works, the most magnificent was Batu Ritong. It was a massive slab of stone located near the headwaters of the great rivers, a place where the air was always thick with mist. Upai laboured over it with a tenderness that defied his terrifying size. Using only his forefinger, he etched swirling geometries, symbols of the wind, and depictions of the stars into the stone. It was a masterpiece of monumental engineering and magical grace: an heirloom intended for the earth itself.
To facilitate his work, Upai would often alter the landscape. If a river threatened to erode his workspace, he would block the flow with a single footstep, redirecting the water as easily as a child moving pebbles in a stream. He lived in a state of sublime peace, pouring his soul into the poetry of his carvings. To Upai, he was not a conqueror, but a gardener of stone.
However, as Upai’s masterpieces grew grander, the hearts of the humans living in the valleys below grew more fearful. The Dayak Lundayeh watched the giant from the shadows of the emerald forest. They did not see the beauty of the carvings; they saw only the terrifying power required to make them.
“If his finger can mold the very bones of the earth like dust,” the village elders whispered during their sombre gatherings, “what apocalyptic fate awaits our hearths should he turn that strength against us in a fit of malice?”
Fear is a transformative emotion, turning the villagers’ wonder into paranoia. They forgot that Upai had never harmed a single soul, and that his massive presence had often sheltered them from harsh mountain storms. They saw only an existential threat that needed extinguishing. Upai, sensing their growing dread, retreated further into isolation, his heart heavy with a sadness he could not communicate.
The villagers eventually orchestrated a ruthless plan. Driven by the irrational dread of the unknown, they waited for a moment of vulnerability. One evening, as the giant lay sleeping near his unfinished work, mind likely wandering through the intricate patterns of his next creation, the villagers launched a coordinated attack.
It was a brutal crescendo of violence. Surprised and overwhelmed, the giant fell. His massive frame crashed into the earth with a seismic finality that shook the very foundations of the Krayan plateau. As the echoes faded, a suffocating silence descended upon the highlands.
The ‘menace’ was gone, but the air felt thin and hollow.
In the cold, frost-bitten light of the following dawn, the villagers approached the fallen titan. Standing before the lifeless body of Upai Semaring, they truly looked at the work he had been doing.
They beheld the Batu Ritong in its full glory. They saw the sophisticated strokes, the immaculate details, and the sheer love for the land that had been poured into the granite. There were no symbols of war, no depictions of conquest. It was a silent message from an altruistic soul who only wished to leave beauty upon the ephemeral canvas of the earth.
A stinging realisation hit their hearts: they had not killed a monster; they had murdered a friend they never truly tried to understand. Out of fear, they had extinguished a light meant to illuminate their history for centuries to come. — DayakDaily
Hailing from Pakan, Monica Pawa anak Ringkai is a dedicated 19-year-old (was 18 years old during the time of submission) STPM student with a gift for crafting compelling stories. When taking a well-deserved break from her studies, she loves getting lost in the captivating world of cinema.
