My great-grandfather used to say that the Batang Lupar was not just a river, but a living witness to every secret the jungle tried to bury. He passed those stories down to my father, who would sit me down and speak of the things that moved beneath the tea-coloured surface of the water with a tone of deep, unshakeable respect.
In our family, the river was never just a body of water or a source of food; it was a realm governed by ancient laws and a specific kind of justice that we, as humans, could only hope to understand from a distance. The most chilling and persistent of these stories was always the one about Bujang Senang.
My father told me that before the scales and the prehistoric teeth, there was a man named Libau. He was a legendary Iban warrior, a man of such immense strength and spiritual protection that he was believed to be untouchable in battle. But as my father always reminded me, even the strongest men have a weakness, and for Libau, it was a betrayal by those he trusted most.
