The Swampmasters

The silver crescent moon provided just enough light to illuminate the small fleet of fishing boats that lay waiting by the waterfront of Pulau Ketam. The surrounding sea was strangely peaceful for a world that was presently at war.

On the night of my first offering, there was a crescent moon too, old Mr. Lim thought as he gazed up into the black sky. He found it difficult to recall many things at his age, but that he remembered clearly.

“Everyone ready? Let’s go,” came President Chua’s voice.

Men climbed into the boats, two in each, leaving ample space for passengers. One by one they dipped their oars into the inky water and slipped off towards the mainland where the port of Klang lay. Most of the volunteers were local fishermen who had traversed the distance from their island to the port thousands of times—but never at night, never in secrecy, and never in wartime. The silent tension lay over them like a smothering blanket.

Mr. Lim tied a black strip of cloth over his head. It would not do to let the Japanese soldiers catch sight of his white hair glinting in the moonlight. Careful not to stumble in the darkness, the old fisherman stepped off the rickety wooden pier into the boat where his son San Boon was waiting. 

As San Boon cast off their mooring ropes and picked up the oars, the nerves that Mr. Lim had been trying to suppress the entire day finally began to shake him. Sixty years my family and I have lived in peace on this island. Will all this end tonight?

“Swampmasters,” he muttered in prayer, “watch over us.”

• • •

The first thing young Hong Ang noticed was the smell. 

It was instantly whisked away by the morning breeze, so he was uncertain if he had sensed it at all. Sitting with his family in his uncle’s narrow fishing boat, he was already surrounded by a mix of odours—the fresh scent of salt from the sea, the smoke from Father’s cigarette, and fishy stink from the boat itself—but this was different. He raised his head and sniffed the air carefully, his gaze scanning the bright waves around.

Mother sensed it too. “What’s that?”

Uncle Zeng Siah was taking his turn on the oars, Father seated beside him. Both of them were deeply tanned from years of hard labour under the harsh sun.

“Ah, that’s the smell of your new home,” Uncle Zeng Siah replied. He was Father’s distant cousin who had welcomed them when they first arrived in Malaya and brought them to the town of Klang. And now he was bringing them to stay with him in his offshore fishing village. “That’s Pulau Ketam—Crab Island.”

Hong Ang caught the scent again. It seemed to him like a strange mix of mud, incense, and . . . something else. 

I don’t want a home that smells like that, he wanted to say.

In China, they had been the poorest of the poor. That was why Father had decided to move to Malaya—the place of opportunity, the land of business, a chance to earn a good living. Seven-year-old Hong Ang refused to leave his friends and his Teochew hometown behind, so he had complained long and loud until Mother shut him up with a stern lecture on the Taoist outlook on life. 

“We can’t always choose our path,” she had told him. “Often the river changes its direction, and we must flow along with it.” Apparently the river in question was called the Klang River, and it flowed towards an island full of crabs. 

Mother said that there are many fun things to do on an island, Hong Ang reassured himself. Maybe I can collect shells on the beach, or swim in the clear waters of the lagoon . . .

They rounded a headland, and Pulau Ketam came into view.

Hong Ang’s hopes crashed to his feet.

That isn’t an island, he wanted to scream. That’s a . . . 

Pulau Ketam was flat as far as the eye could see. No hills, no beaches, no lagoons—just a jungle of mangrove trees, their sturdy trunks and gangly roots forming a wall at the water’s edge, the sky pale and bright above the dark green leaves. The village itself stood in a small inlet, a jumble of houses on stilts connected by walkways. As it was midmorning, the tide had begun to fall, revealing the pockmarked muddy ground that constituted the soil of the island itself.

In Hong Ang’s eyes, this was no island. 

“That’s a swamp!” he blurted out.

“Island at low tide, swamp at high tide,” corrected Uncle Zeng Siah. “Don’t judge it so quickly, it’s more comfortable than it looks.”

Hong Ang turned to his parents. “I don’t want to stay in a swamp!” The frustrations of the past few weeks overflowed, and tears pooled in his eyes. “I want to go back to China,” he sobbed. “I want to go home.”

Mother gathered him into her arms and shushed him, muttering words of comfort.

Father said nothing until Uncle Zeng Siah guided the boat to the village waterfront and threw the mooring ropes to some men waiting on the docks. Then he took the cigarette out of his mouth and laid his rough hand on Hong Ang’s head, briefly tousling his son’s hair.

“Good,” Father said. “Never forget where you came from, son. But now you are here, and you have to get used to this place. Understand?” 

There was an edge in Father’s voice that told Hong Ang it was not the time to argue. The boy pictured in his mind the last image of his hometown, allowing the memory to linger for a moment before he wiped away his tears.

“I understand, Father,” Hong Ang said. 

He stepped off the boat and onto Pulau Ketam.

• • •

They dared not light any lamps. Relying on the scant moonlight and years of navigating experience, the boats of Pulau Ketam crawled across the narrow channels and approached the harbour that the white men had named Port Swettenham.

Mr. Lim found himself staring wistfully at the ominous outline of buildings as his boat crept into port under the strong rowing arms of San Boon. How many times have I seen this view over the years? he wondered. 

For almost six decades, he had brought his catch into town for fishmongers to sell in the marketplaces, watching the sun rise over the masts of a million ships. He had seen Klang grow from a shabby dockside town into a great bustling haven. He remembered how the coast around the river mouth used to be lined with thick impenetrable mangroves until 1901, when the British chopped them all down to expand the harbour and increase tin exports. Later that same year, when the outraged local spirits unleashed their vengeance upon Port Swettenham, Mr. Lim had rowed his fishing boat to the river mouth and watched the rising morning tide sweep over the wavebreakers and drown the streets of Klang with brown swirly water, briefly restoring the glory of the swampmasters in the place where their fallen kingdoms had once stood.

Now the streets were empty and quiet. With the fall of Singapore, Malaya was now fully controlled by the invading Japanese army. The white men had fled long ago, and the locals stayed indoors after sundown.

The Pulau Ketam fleet slid alongside the wharfs which had once been clean and new half a century ago, now black and dirty from exposure to the elements. There were many abandoned boats bobbing gently at their moorings. All trading and Chinese-owned businesses had been brought to an abrupt stop by the war.

 San Boon handed his oars over to his father and leapt onto the quay. As the vice president of the Pulau Ketam Teochew Association, he was one of the leaders of this rescue mission. He gathered a few young men and led them into the streets of Klang.

Mr. Lim’s weathered palms began to perspire.

President Chua and San Boon had briefed everyone on the plan. There were many Chinese families seeking refuge from the war, and Pulau Ketam—a secluded island of no strategic importance, tucked safely a good distance offshore—was the perfect place to lie low. Rumours reported that Japanese were slaughtering Chinese all over Malaya, and this group of refugees did not intend to wait for their turn to come.

The low tide exposed the higher reaches of the mudflats that had built up on the rocks beside the wharf. Mr. Lim spied a pair of large eyes staring out of the mud. 

It was a mudskipper, resting on its splayed fins. 

There were millions of mudskippers on Pulau Ketam, visible in the silty pools left in the ground by the receding tides. Yet whenever he made eye contact with one of these sleepy-eyed land-walking fishes, Mr. Lim had the strange feeling that he was looking at the exact same creature every time.

“Hello,” he whispered. “Here to help?”

The mudskipper blinked, its eyes dark and mysterious.

• • •

The sea around Pulau Ketam shone like a mirror in the growing sunlight, bathing the fishermen in their boat with a golden glow. Father cast his net into the water and, with Hong Ang’s help, hauled it up full of fish and prawns and crabs. They poured the flapping pile of fish onto the bottom of their boat. 

“Good job,” said Father, and Hong Ang beamed with pride. 

Now working with the other villagers and Uncle Zeng Siah, Father had established himself as one of the dependable fishermen who supplied freshly caught seafood to the booming population in Klang town. He had decided that his son, now twelve years old, was old enough to start learning the trade too.

“One day, you will take over this business.” Father gave Hong Ang some ointment to apply on his hands, which were raw from handling nets all morning. “Have you gotten used to staying on this island?”

“A bit,” said Hong Ang after a short pause.

Life in Pulau Ketam was less miserable than he had dreaded. He found joy in swimming or paddling around the island in a tiny boat with other boys whom he had befriended in the village. At low tide, they watched herons and storks stalk the mudflats for crabs that skittered among the pencil roots of the mangroves under the cerulean sky. Hong Ang decided that islands didn’t need to have hills and lagoons to be fun. And the strange sourceless smell from long ago rarely appeared.

Father seemed satisfied with his answer. “Good. Tonight, you will follow me to witness our ritual offering to the swampmasters.”

“The who?”

“The local spirits.” Father indicated their boatful of fish. “Our prosperity is only possible because of the blessing of the swampmasters. If we fish without their permission, our nets will always be empty, and our houses will flood.”

Mother was waiting on their front porch when they reached home later that day. She was full of excitement, eager to show them the new Taoist altar that she had installed in their house. “Just like our old family altar back at home!” she said. “Let’s put out the offerings for our ancestors tonight.”

“Not tonight, I’m following Father into the jungle,” Hong Ang said.

Mother turned a steely gaze onto Father. 

“You’re bringing him along to . . . the goat thing?”

“If he’s going to learn my trade, he needs to learn everything,” Father said in a tone that brooked no dissent. Mother did not reply.

That evening, Father and Hong Ang joined up with a party of village elders and walked into the mangrove jungle. Among them were old Mr. Quek—the last of the three Hainan fishermen who had founded the Pulau Ketam village two decades prior—and Uncle Zeng Siah, who arrived late and had to hurry to catch up. 

“Sorry, I was confronted by some of the new neighbours. They asked why we were wasting foodstuff by feeding the crabs.” Uncle Zeng Siah gestured at the large burlap sacks that Father and several other men were carrying over their shoulders.

Mr. Quek made a dismissive grunt. “That’s fine. Back when we first started out, people didn’t just ask. One time the entire village marched from the temple to my house to try and stop me and my comrades from honouring the swampmasters. It took a few weeks of flooding and empty nets before they finally gave in.”

Trees grew thicker in the depths of the island, their branches looming menacingly overhead. The salt-crusted leaves on low limbs brushed past Hong Ang’s ears like curious fingers exploring an interloper, the gangly roots below reaching for his legs as if they meant to trip him and send him sprawling into the mud. The eyes of submerged mudskippers blinked at him from puddles in the path, and he stepped gingerly over them.

It was almost sundown when they reached the high-water mark, a mud clearing ringed by mangrove roots. The men wasted no time in bringing out vegetables and fruits from their sacks and neatly arranging them in three flat wicker baskets. Uncle Zeng Siah placed a candle and two cigarettes in each basket. Hong Ang watched, fascinated.

Mr. Quek said, “Lim, bring the goat.”

Father opened his burlap sack.

The metallic smell of blood filled the air. Hong Ang sucked in his breath, watching the men bring out a goat’s liver, intestines, heart, and other organs and place them in the baskets. Father took out four severed goat’s feet and laid two in one basket, two in another. In the third basket, he placed the goat’s head.

Mr. Quek began to recite an incantation in Malay:

O Moyang Ketam, Pawang Kisa, King at Sea,

O Durai, Si Biti is the name of your mother, Si Tanjong that of your father!

In your charge are the points of the capes, in your charge all borders of the shore,

In your charge, too, are the rivers and the swamps!

My heart is planted in the depths of the sea,

Six fathoms to the left, six fathoms to the right,

If in truth we be brothers,

O swampmasters, lend me your assistance!

“A modified version of an old charm,” Uncle Zeng Siah whispered to Hong Ang. “The Orang Asli recite a longer version, but as long as you name the most important spirits correctly and ask for their help, it doesn’t really matter what you say in between.”

In bits and pieces he told Hong Ang all about the spirits. The smaller spirits were appeased by the fruits and vegetables. The butchered goat was a gift reserved for their king: Moyang Ketam the Crab Ancestor, chief of the swampmasters, an old Orang Asli god from the Mah Meri tribe who dwelt in other nearby islands. Hong Ang tried to imagine the size of a crab that could eat an entire goat.

Mr. Quek lit a censer and walked three circles around the baskets to complete the ritual. The smoke drifted over to Hong Ang, and the strange scent he had smelled long ago was now complete: mud of the mangrove swamp, smoke of temple incense, and the blood of a sacrifice.

Dusk melted into night. The elders laid the three baskets at their designated locations—the high-water mark, the low-water mark, and in the sea—then everyone returned to their homes, assured that the swampmasters would receive their gifts and grant them a good catch for the coming year. 

On his way home Hong Ang glanced up, and through the leaves overhead he saw a crescent moon shining high in the heavens.

• • •

Every passing minute seemed like hours to Mr. Lim as the crescent moon crept across the sky. Periodically he wiped his sweaty hands on his shirt and resumed his grip on the oars. He could see that the men in the other boats were anxious as well. San Boon and his team should have returned by now.

“Should we send someone to look for them?” someone asked.

President Chua said, “We stay here.”

There had been many concerns raised about their rescue mission. How would Pulau Ketam house so many refugees? One of the Malay woodworkers from Klang had also brought news about the Japanese planning to set up an administrative centre and military residence further upriver. That meant that more soldiers would be arriving soon, and they might bring warships with them to Port Swettenham. How would Pulau Ketam defend itself?

“The Klang Malays will help us,” some villagers said. “We are their friends. We’ve been living here for decades now.”

But others disagreed. “When the Japanese come, it’ll be every race for themselves. Doesn’t matter if we just arrived from China or if we’ve been here since Mr. Quek’s era—we are Chinese all the same. No one will risk their necks for us.”

President Chua, steadfast as always, had declared that they would tackle those problems after the mission. Rescuing their brothers and sisters was the highest priority.

Maybe the swampmasters could help out, Mr. Lim mused. Flood the land like they usually do and hinder the Japanese convoys.

The swampmasters played no favourites. Just like Port Swettenham, whose continued existence meant that the town was constantly plagued by floods, Pulau Ketam also faced heavy flooding whenever offerings were botched or taboos were broken. Once, Uncle Zeng Siah forgot to put cigarettes in the offering baskets. Another time, one of the newly arrived Hokkien fishermen wore slippers when he attended the ritual, unaware that footwear on sacred mud was a gigantic offence to the swampmasters. The rapidly growing population of the island meant that bigger offerings were needed to compensate for increased fish demand, and on two separate occasions, wrong calculations resulted in offerings that were too small for the spirits’ liking. All these mistakes brought freak floods upon Pulau Ketam, submerging all the walkways and jetties, engulfing the crab traps and drowning all the boats, the angry tides receding only after the spirits were appeased.

But picky as they were, the swampmasters kept their promises. Good offerings meant full nets, full bellies, and full money purses. Mr. Lim knew that, and he made sure his children learned the importance of keeping up the yearly rituals. “It doesn’t really make a difference if you forget to pray at the temple or light joss sticks, does it?” he had told San Boon when the boy was old enough to understand. “But if you forget to give the Crab Ancestor his dues, you and the whole island will experience his displeasure.”

The soft pattering of feet echoed down the street, rousing Mr. Lim from his thoughts. All the men in the boats perked up, picking up their oars. 

A line of dark figures came creeping down to the wharf, led by one of the Pulau Ketam youths from San Boon’s team. President Chua waved them over and started assigning the refugees to boats. As each boat was filled, extra oars were given to the passengers to help with the rowing, and the full boats began to depart.

While anxiously waiting for San Boon, Mr. Lim disembarked and helped the refugees clamber down the quay into the boats. One large lady required his support during her precarious descent. 

“Thank you, thank you,” gasped the woman when she was seated in President Chua’s boat. There was a strong accent in her words—she must have come from China fairly recently. 

Mr. Lim merely nodded in return, but hearing the woman’s accent brought a rush of emotions into his heart. His ears had not heard an authentic mainland Chinese accent in a very, very long time.

• • •

In the same year the British finished building Port Swettenham, Hong Ang returned to the village one evening to find everyone gathered in the courtyard outside the Taoist temple, the unofficial public meeting place of Pulau Ketam. He joined the throng, curious. At twenty-eight years old, he now stood taller than most of his neighbours.

Mother saw him and came over. “Where have you been?”

“Fixing Little Chua’s crab traps again,” answered Hong Ang. Chua had recently discovered that the swampmasters liked sticky glutinous rice, so he had put leaf-wrapped ketupats into the latest offering—which led to the spirits rewarding everyone with giant crabs in their slender traps, inadvertently breaking said traps. “What’s going on?”

An unfamiliar man was kneeling inside the temple, praying. Mother whispered that he was a distant relative of old Mr. Quek, who had passed away a while ago. Father was nearby speaking to the village elders, looking grim.

“He brings news from afar.” Uncle Zeng Siah’s beard now contained more grey than black. “An alliance of eight western nations has just conquered Beijing. China is no more.”

This man, also named Quek, came out of the temple and beheld the congregation before him. His face was red with passion.

“Join our ranks, my brothers!” he cried in his heavy accent. Most Chinese folks in Pulau Ketam, having mixed extensively with other locals, had adopted a more diluted accent. “Your homeland needs you. Our motherland calls for your strength, your funds, and your passion. If we do not fight these western invaders, we will no longer have a place to call our home!”

Hong Ang tried to recall what his hometown in Teochew looked like. He could only conjure a few blurry images in his mind.

The villagers exchanged unsure glances.

Then Uncle Zeng Siah stepped forward and escorted Quek down the temple steps. “We will collect some funds for you to bring back to China.” He cast a pointed look at the crowd, who nodded empathetically. “But I’m afraid we cannot offer much else. We are not so wealthy in sons that we can spare them for this cause.”

Mother kept her thoughts to herself until later that evening.

“I fear for Hong Ang’s generation,” she said to her husband and son over dinner. “Perhaps it was a bad idea to raise our son in Malaya. He doesn’t even remember China. Son, when you think of home, do you think of Teochew or Pulau Ketam?”

Hong Ang frowned, then shrugged. “Both, I suppose?”

“And this swampmasters business is getting out of hand,” Mother continued. “I can accept complying with Malayan rituals to appease local spirits, but now Hong Ang and Chua and the other young men spend more time and money preparing offerings for the swampmasters than for our temple.”

“We’re trying to expand our fishing business!” protested Hong Ang. “You told me long ago that wherever the river flows, we must flow along!”

“I heard from Zeng Siah that swampmasters are actually spirits of the dead,” Mother said, her voice cold and severe. “Moyang Ketam—apparently moyang means ancestor. Did you know that you’re praying to the ancestors of Malays and Orang Aslis? As if you don’t have ancestors of your own?” 

She pointed in the direction of their Taoist altar where joss sticks and mandarin oranges stood before effigies of deities. “China is the land of your ancestors, not Pulau Ketam! You give the swampmasters so many offerings, but will they help you when troubles come? Can you trust anyone but your ancestors, your family, your gods?”

Father remained silent until she finished. Then he took Mother’s wrinkled hands in his and kissed them in a rare display of affection. 

“I’ll make sure Hong Ang always prays at the temple with me before we perform our offerings to the swampmasters,” he told her. “Is that enough?”

Mother did not look completely satisfied, but she grudgingly agreed. 

After she had gone to her room, Father gave Hong Ang a cursory shake of his head.

“Don’t feel guilty.” His tone was gruff but sentimental. “I chose this life for our family when we left China. I knew that adapting would be part of the process; even if we wanted to, we could never have lived the same life we had back there.” 

A faraway look entered Father’s eyes, and for a moment Hong Ang saw him not as a weather-beaten fisherman but as the strong youth who had arrived on Malaya’s shores with his young family all those years ago, full of hopes and dreams, seeking to build a home for future generations.

“The western nations hold power over both China and Malaya now. One day, your children may go to the west to earn a living, and perhaps they will learn the ways of the white men and forget the swampmasters of their childhood. Who can blame them for doing so?” A thin smile appeared on Father’s lips. “Look at the little mudskippers and their young, playing in the brackish mud—when the rising tide swamps their homes with seawater every day, they simply learn to swim amidst the salt, and keep on playing. Do you understand, son?

“I think so, Father,” said Hong Ang softly.

For the next fifteen years, Hong Ang prayed at the temple, and then, during the offering ritual, he left an extra prayer for the swampmasters. Receive my offerings, O swampmasters, he would mutter. Consider me a descendant of yours, and remember me in times of need.

He stopped saying that prayer when Father passed away. 

It was a traditional Chinese funeral. They buried him in a graveyard in Klang because there was no suitable place to bury the dead in Pulau Ketam’s mudflats. In the following months, Hong Ang would occasionally leave his teenage son San Boon in charge of fishing while he went to sit by his father’s grave.

“Father,” he whispered to his father’s name etched in red Chinese characters on the gravestone, “since you died here in Malaya, isn’t this the land of my ancestors too?”

The gravestone did not respond.

• • •

Only two boats remained at the docks—President Chua’s and Mr. Lim’s—when San Boon finally emerged from the inner streets, leading two small children and their parents. At the sight of his son, safe and sound, Mr. Lim let out a deep sigh of relief.

“All here, let’s go,” said San Boon.

President Chua nodded and pushed his boat off the quay, his passengers pulling on the oars until they disappeared into the gloom. 

Mr. Lim helped the young family climb into his boat and passed the oars to San Boon. With their daring mission nearing its end, the tight knot of anxiety in his chest was slowly beginning to loosen. He wondered how these two children would react when seeing Pulau Ketam for the first time. Will they yell out “that’s a swamp”?

He glanced at the mudflats where the mudskipper had lain, but the creature was gone.

But no sooner had San Boon dipped the oars into the water than a shout rang out in Japanese. For a second everyone froze. Flashlights stabbed the darkness, sweeping the harbour. More shouts, followed by pounding footsteps.

“Go! Go!” cried San Boon, heaving on the oars. 

The blast of a pistol split the night.

Mr. Lim worked the other pair of oars, straining to keep up with San Boon’s maddening pace. Sweat poured down his face from both exertion and anxiety. He glanced back. The roving flashlights of the Japanese lit up the docks. Another shot rang out, and he ducked.

“Keep your heads down!” shouted San Boon.

Mr. Lim focused on the muscles of his arms and back. Row. Row. Pain. Row.

The crackly voice of a hailer sounded behind them amidst the splashing of oars in pursuit. The soldiers must have taken one of the abandoned Chinese boats. Mr. Lim understood no Japanese, but he imagined they were shouting, STOP OR WE WILL SHOOT! He threw all his strength into every stroke, hearing the sound of the hailer draw nearer despite his efforts.

Rapid bursts of machine gun fire.

San Boon screamed and dropped an oar. His arm was bleeding. “Take the oar!” he yelled at his passengers and his concerned father. “I’m alright!”

But without San Boon’s strength, Mr. Lim could see the Japanese gaining on them. He gritted his teeth in frustration. There was no way to outrun them, no way to fight them. The two children clung to their parents, terrified.

More machine gun fire. 

Pain ripped through his back. Dimly he heard screams, the oars slipping out of his suddenly weak fingers, his body slumping over. There was blood, too much blood.

Mr. Lim shut his eyes. All these years of loyal offerings.

“O Moyang Ketam,” he murmured.

A memory of Uncle Zeng Siah, chuckling. As long as you name the most important spirits correctly and ask for their help, it doesn’t really matter what you say in between.

“If in truth we be brothers . . .”

The beam from a Japanese flashlight shone right on San Boon’s face.

Look, the mudskippers, said Father. 

“. . . O swampmasters, lend me your assistance!”

Everything around him blended together: the cries of surprise from both Chinese and Japanese, the furious churning of water, and the clicking of a million tiny crustacean pincers surging forth from the depths. The beam of the pursuing flashlight spun wildly and disappeared into the inky waters with a rush of bubbles, restoring the world to gentle moonlight.

And as Lim Hong Ang drew his last breath, he smiled as a faint but familiar scent entered his nostrils—a peculiar mix of mangrove mud, burning temple incense, and the blood of a sacrifice.

• • •