‘Curiosity will conquer fear even more than bravery will.’
– James Stephens (1880-1950); an Irish novelist and poet known for his contributions to and involvement in the Irish literary revival of the early 20th century. His most famous novel is ‘The Crock of Gold’ (1912).
When we were children, we used to be terrified of the eerie noises that came from the foot of Echo Mountain, especially on windy days.
If you haven’t read my previous stories about Echo Mountain, it was a bare granite mountain that echoed loud sounds, hence the name. However, the mountain no longer exists as it was quarried and flattened.
The eerie noises I’m talking about were at the back of the mountain. They were scary enough to send us running back indoors and slamming the door shut.
Each episode usually started with a sharp hiss which, when the wind picked up, turned into a bone-chilling whoosh, whoosh, whooooosh! And on really gusty days, especially during windstorms, the whoosh would transform into a haunting “woooo!” that seemed to linger in the air.
Our parents and other adults who knew about the sounds always reassured us that it was simply the wind bouncing off the rugged granite rocks and the tall trees scattered along the foothills.
Now let’s fast forward to 1964 and 1965 when my little brother and I were old enough and strong enough to tap the abandoned old rubber trees left behind by our aunt’s family after they moved to Serian Town.
By then, the eerie sounds had slipped our minds, and we went about our work diligently, even though we were deep in the jungle, far from our village.
Let me explain something first: Rubber tappers work separately, each following different rows of trees.
Thus, one day, while following my row, I heard my little brother’s panicked voice repeatedly calling my name. The anxiety in his tone caught my attention, and I shouted back to let him know where I was. He came running towards me as if he were being chased by the devil himself. His face was pale, and he was gasping for breath.
“What’s wrong?” I asked, the fear in his eyes starting to unsettle me. I instinctively drew my machete from its sheath.
He rasped, pointing towards the foothills, “What was that?”
“What are you talking about?”
“I heard a terrible sound!” he whispered, eyes darting frantically.
“What did it sound like?”
“It was a whoosh! I could feel the wind. Look, the hairs on my arms are standing on end.”
I pressed a finger against my lips, signalling for silence. We took cover behind a massive rubber tree, using it as a shield against any potential danger.
“Did you see something?” I whispered.
“No! Just the sound!” he replied, his eyes scanning the surroundings.
Silently, I pressed a finger against my lips, signalling for silence. We remained as motionless as possible, straining our ears to catch any hint of an unusual sound. Other than the rustling leaves stirred by the morning breeze and the usual buzz of insects and birds calling out to one another, there was nothing out of the ordinary.
Finally, I spoke, “Should we head back home?”
“I don’t know,” Little B replied, his voice uncertain. “What will our parents say if we return empty-handed?”
“Our safety is more important,” I asserted.
He suggested, “Let’s climb up to our platform. It should be safer up there.”
He was referring to a platform we had built on a tree about twenty feet above the ground. We were always building tree platforms or tree houses in the jungle for no particular reason, other than the fact that we could.
So, we hid in the tree, whispering to each other and listening for any unusual sounds. After a while, when nothing happened, we regained our composure and courage and decided to continue our work. However, we stayed together, taking turns to stay on guard while the other tapped the rubber trees. It was slower, as only one of us was tapping at a time, but Little B insisted on it. As a result, we finished later than usual, around one o’clock in the afternoon that day. Our parents noticed the delay but thought we were just fooling around.
The next day, I volunteered to tap the trees where Little B had heard the eerie sound. However, he was still spooked and refused to work alone on his row of trees. We ended up tapping the same row but without one of us on guard duty.
Just as we were about to reach the spot where Little B had left off the day before, a strong wind hissed through the forest canopy, between the tree trunks, and over the granite rocks at the foot of the mountain. Little B’s hand tugged at my shirt from behind.
“Stop!” he whispered, and we both knelt behind a massive rubber tree.
We listened intently, and within seconds, there it was: a sustained whoosh followed by a low moo, like the sound of a lonely buffalo.
Hearing that sound, I jumped up and shouted with glee.
“Yay! Yes!” I yelled at the top of my lungs.
Little B looked at me, his expression suggesting that he thought I was crazy.
“Yay!” I yelled again, pumping my fists in the air. “I remember what that is!”
I grabbed Little B’s arm, trying to get him to move towards the sound, but he shook free.
“No! I’m not going near a monster!” he protested.
“There’s no such thing!”
“Then what’s making that whistle?”
“The rocks!”
“How do you know?”
I paused for a moment, trying to gather my thoughts and find the right words to explain.
“When I was smaller I used to hear those eerie sounds. I don’t think you remember. You were too young. I’ve seen the rocks. Uncle Teo took me there one day before he moved his family to Serian Town. Well, that’s what it is. It’s the wind. It’s not a monster or anything dangerous.”
“But it sounds so creepy!”
“I know it does, but trust me, it’s nothing to be afraid of. Remember, I used to be scared of it too when I was younger, but it’s just a natural phenomenon. The wind makes all sorts of strange noises, especially when it blows through narrow spaces or around rocks. It’s like a giant whistle.”
Little B looked at me sceptically, still unsure about the whole situation. But curiosity got the better of him, and he reluctantly agreed to follow me, albeit from a safe distance.
As we cautiously approached the source of the sound, the whooshing intensified. It echoed through the trees, creating an eerie atmosphere. But as we reached the edge of the granite rocks, we saw the wind in action. It blew forcefully against the jagged edges and holes, creating a low-pitched sound that resonated through the air.
Little B’s eyes widened in amazement. “It’s just the wind?”
I nodded, smiling. “Yes, it’s just the wind. It’s nothing to be afraid of. It’s quite fascinating, don’t you think?”
He nodded, slowly overcoming his fear. “Yeah, I guess it is.”
We stood there for a while, mesmerised by the sound. From the look of wonder on his face, it was apparent that Little B no longer feared the noises. He realised that they were nothing more than the wind’s playful symphony.
We almost had to drag ourselves away from the place because while we would love to stay till the symphony ended, we had rubber trees to tap. And, as if it was encouraging us to get on with our jobs, the wind slowly subsided and the whistling stopped.
Naturally, we promised to visit the rocks again but unfortunately, it rained over the next few days. This made Little B sad. He missed the whistling rocks. I too missed them because I had not heard the whistle for a long time.
When the rains finally cleared and the sun emerged from behind the clouds, we eagerly made our way back to the foot of Echo Mountain, determined to revisit the rocks.
However, as we approached the familiar spot, a sense of unease washed over me. Something was different. The mountain now seemed to have a mysterious aura surrounding it.
As we had reached the rubber grove earlier than usual, the air was still chilly and a thick fog covered the landscape, obscuring our view of the rocks.
But curiosity got the better of us, and we cautiously ventured into the fog. The closer we got, the louder the haunting whistles grew, echoing through the misty air.
As we reached the rocks, a gust of wind swept through, clearing the fog for a brief moment. What we saw left us awestruck. What we failed to notice before, there were other more magnificent rock formations beyond the one that made the moo sound. As we stood there, we could hear other softer whistles that emanated from a narrow passageway just a few paces beyond the moo whistler.
Stepping into the passageway we found ourselves inside a short tunnel bathed in an ethereal glow that entered from the front as well as the back end. Little stalactites hung from the low ceiling, glistening with moisture, and the floor was covered with moss and lichen.
As we ventured further inside, we stumbled upon a large earthen jar and a few little ones. Mystified, we picked up one of the little jars and carried it out through the back end to see it better in the sunlight.
“It looks like the ones we have at home,” said Little B.
He was right. We had four of them at home. Our father liked to use them to store preserved vegetables because each one was light enough to carry in his rattan backpack.
“These are not old jars,” I said, turning the jar over and over on its side. “Someone must have taken shelter here before and used these jars.”
“I wonder who they were. But, hey, look! We could check that out,” said Little B as he pointed to a gap between two large boulders higher up the mountain.
I was tempted to go further up because we had been looking for a suitable path to the top of the mountain, but common sense quickly prevailed.
“Not today, Little B,” I said. “We’ve got rubber trees to tap. And we better hurry up. We don’t want to be late.”
We did return to that spot eventually and found the way to the top of Echo Mountain, but the story about that adventure had been written. Entitled, “On top of the world”, it was published by the New Sarawak Tribune on July 5, 2023.
The views expressed here are those of the writer and do not necessarily represent the views of the New Sarawak Tribune.
