Long ago, when the land was still inhabited by the bunsu (spirits), people of the Iban community often found guidance and aid from these unseen beings in their journeys and search for fortune. Yet, this tale tells of something unusual…almost as if transformation itself existed long before the modern idea of change.
There lived a man named Abul.
He was strong, capable, and fearless, often venturing deep into the harsh jungle to hunt and provide for his family. But Abul carried a quiet burden. He was born with a cleft lip, and he was mute. Though such a condition did not define his strength, it shaped how others saw him and more painfully, how he saw himself.
Because of this, Abul lived mostly in solitude. With few suitors and little attention from others in the longhouse, he kept to himself, moving like a lone wolf through both forest and village. At times, he would pause by the river, gazing into its surface, not out of vanity, but longing. In the reflection, he saw the difference between himself and others, and often wondered what life might have been like had he looked whole… handsome… seen.
One day, while out hunting wild boars, Abul stopped by the river as he always did. As he bent to wash and looked into the water, something unusual caught his eye. The reflection shifted, not just his own face, but something moving above.
From the dense canopy, a creature swung gracefully from branch to branch before stopping near him.
“What are you doing here, mortal?” it asked.
Startled, but steady, Abul replied in the only way he could and he pointed toward the wild boar from afar.
“Then why do you stare so often into the river?” the creature pressed.
Abul hesitated. Slowly, he gestured to his face, his difference, the way he did not resemble others, the quiet ache of being unseen and unheard.
The creature revealed itself as a bunsu Empeliau, a langur spirit.
“Mortal,” said the Langur, “I can grant you a form that draws the eyes of others, a beauty that will not be overlooked. But in return, you must never hunt or harm my kind.”
As the Langur prepared a ritual, it picked up a stone and began to enchant it. Nearby, a python hung from a tree branch, coiled like a living rope. As the Langur swung upon it, the python shifted, becoming like a suspended swing between worlds.
Then, the python spoke.
“Mortal, I can grant you refinement…precision, detail, perfection. Take this knife. Use it to shape what is given, and you shall become flawless.”
As the Langur and the Python conversed, a burung tiong, a myna bird, arrived, perching nearby. Known for its ability to mimic voices, it listened carefully before speaking.
“I will bear you the gift of speech,” said the Myna. “A voice to carry your name, your presence, your existence. But if any oath is broken, I will tell the others.”
Understanding the weight of this, Abul agreed. He vowed never to hunt or harm the langur, the python, or the myna…not just for himself, but for his descendants.
The Langur then spoke again.
“Now, look at your reflection in the river.”
Abul did and to his astonishment, a thick beard had grown upon his face.
“Shave it,” instructed the Python.
With careful hands, Abul used the knife and slowly shaved the beard away. Each stroke felt deliberate, as if carving away the old self the world had defined him by.
As the final strands fell, he looked again into the water.
The man staring back at him was no longer the same.
His cleft was gone. His features were smooth, balanced and strikingly handsome. Not the kind of beauty that simply pleases the eye, but one that commands attention, that turns heads, that makes others pause. It was as if the spirits had not only restored him, but elevated him beyond what he had ever imagined for himself.
For a moment, Abul could not recognize his own face.
Then the Myna spoke once more.
“Utter a word, mortal.”
Abul froze.
All his life, his world had been built in silence. Thoughts without sound. Feelings without voice. Presence without recognition.
Slowly, he placed a hand on his chest.
He opened his mouth.
At first, only breath escaped him…fragile, uncertain.
Then, from deep within, something broke free.
“…Abul.”
His own name.
Rough. Shaking. But alive.
The sound echoed back to him, and in that moment, it was not just a voice, it was existence. Tears fell from his eyes, unrestrained. Not from sorrow, but from the overwhelming release of being heard, of finally meeting himself fully.
A miracle had taken place, not just of the body, but of the soul.
“From this day forward,” the Myna said, “you and all your descendants must never hunt or kill the langur, the python, or the myna. This promise shall bind your children, your grandchildren, and all generations to come.”
With that, the encounter ended.
Abul returned to his village.
When he entered the longhouse, the people were alarmed, thinking a stranger had come among them. Even the chief stepped forward and demanded to know who he was.
To their amazement, it was Abul.
Word spread quickly. Where once he had been overlooked, now he was admired. His beauty drew attention, but it was his presence, his voice, his steadiness that held it. Suitors came to him with ease, and in time, he married and built a family of his own.
But Abul did not forget what it meant to be unseen.
In time, he rose to become a headman, not merely because of how he looked, but because he understood what others often ignored. He listened. He spoke with weight. And when he did, people paid attention, not just to his words, but to the truth within them.
From that day onward, his descendants faithfully upheld the sacred promise. Even to this day, the langur, the python, and the myna are never hunted.
Ironically, it all began with a man gazing at his own reflection, an act that would shape generations to come.
Abul lived in the village of Sungai Bawan at Kuala Balingian, part of the main river system of Batang Balingian. From there, his lineage spread along the river branches, carrying the same sacred oath and binding kin to kin, even reaching my current village, upriver at a settlement called Sungai Bawang in Ulu Balingian.
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