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時 永樂 辛未 九月 十二日 也

[Archivist’s note: In this period, Aziraphale used the Chinese dating system. In the Western Calendar: 12th September 1420.]

Tarung Village, Bagobo, Sulu Empire

[Archivist’s note: the Sulu Empire was located in Mindanao, the third largest Island in the Philippine Archipelago. The Bagobo tribe still exist today, however, their language and culture are listed as ‘critically endangered’.]

The local people have a story about a terrible demon. A buso. They call him Mamili. He is the Great Serpent.

Right now, coconut ink fresh on my quill, the light from the apitong oil candle casting flickering shadows over my hands, that very demon is asleep in my bed.

[Artwork by @doodleswithangie]

Today, I was humbled.

I stood before a tree that was almost a thousand years old. Wider than the mighty three-tiered pagoda of 杭州市 [Hangzhou] and taller than the dark spires of the Notre Dame, her presence dwarfed me into insignificance. It is rare for me to feel the ghost of mortality.

This great, cathedralic plant soared on hundreds of pillars, the thick stems braided together into celtic knots like broken spiderwebs, threads of time twining together over the centuries. High above, handfuls of delicate oval leaves fanned outwards, pitifully meagre compared to the great mass of bark below.

One was reminded of a liquid. Rivulets of tree had fallen from the sky, dripping downwards and solidifying as stalactites do.

Dozens of beings made their home within. Creepers, young and old alike, raced each other in their clamber upwards along twisting stems that provided perfect purchase. Here and there, peppery flowers flourished in a startling fuchsia. With eyes more focused than any mortal, I could see the lines of biting ants that had made their home close to the ground, and in another quarter, ink-black antlered beetles chirruped from within their nests.

“The Grandmother balete tree,” said the spiritual elder who stood beside me. They are known as Buhawi after the God of the Four Winds.

Whilst I was preoccupied with awe, they put down their burden. The wooden stopper did little to mask the vinegar tang of coconut liquor seeping out from the baked clay amphora. I mimicked them. In my wicker basket, I had carried the offerings.

We stood, side by side, and let the natural world cradle us. I closed my eyes. There were a million tiny sounds, but it could never be overwhelming for it all formed part of the same song. Every murmur, cry, or rustle belonged there within the shadow of that majestic, old being.

In that beautiful moment, so did I.

“Thank you,” I said. “I see why the Datu was so insistent that I accompany you here.”

They responded with a knowing smile which cracked the worn lines of their weathered face. They never smiled with their teeth, perhaps to hide the red betel-nut stains.

“Come,” they said, “help me with the offerings, and I will tell you about Grandmother balete. I will tell you her story.”

And so, as we prepared the areca nuts, the lime, and the betel leaf, Buhawi told me the tale of the Great buso who is called Mamilli.

There is a reason why balete trees are always left untouched – whether sacred or haunted, they are beings of magic. What other kind of plant would forge its own life by strangling another?

Balete are strangler figs. Life begins by choosing their victim.

Tender, searching shoots will probe upwards, searching for purchase on the rough bark of an old and stable host. If the choice of victim proves successful, these shoots will climb and multiply and wrap themselves around it in a deadly embrace, shoots turning to vines turning to thick branches until the hold is so tight and so secure that not a sliver of light remains, and the old tree is suffocated.

In its place, the balete tree stands. A hollow shell of crisscrossing branches forms its trunk.

Most creatures do not live long enough to see the balete in action. Most creatures cannot stay still long enough to watch the last gasp of the original tree as it turns to dust. But most creatures are not like Mamilli.

Mamilli was the largest and oldest snake of the forest. Sharp, obsidian scales tiled his body which was almost as long as the forest river so that to walk from head to toe along his great body would take a man many days. Mamilli was one of the eternal spirits of the forest; layered in shadow; as old as the dawn of time; gazing out at the world with blazing, all-knowing eyes the colour of volcanic topaz.

Like all the ancients, he was not supposed to interfere in the lives of other creatures. He would sit, looking out from within the shadows, and observe the birth and death of butterflies, geckos, saplings, ash trees, lazy ferns, climbing lianas, eagles, and balete trees.

But Mamilli was different. Where he should have been content to watch, no different from a shadow, he began to itch. Over time, a tick of restlessness emerged. He began to feel.

Envious of the soaring egrets in the sky.

Grieved by the urgently short lifespan of dragonflies.

Fascinated by the deathly chokehold of the balete.

Quietly, in his burdensome solitude, he mourned the deaths of every living being and became consumed by despair that he should be different. On the tapestry of the world, his black thread was faded, old, and all alone, separate from the interconnected harmony of all the others.

And then came humankind.

If before Mamilli had watched with fascination, now he watched these new creatures with obsession. These creatures were infinitely more complex than any other. More than that, they had the means to communicate with each other, build things, change their environment, and create whole new worlds within their stories. Mamilli could not understand them. But he wanted to.

The day a boy came running through the forest in search of refuge and climbed inside the Great balete tree was the day Mamilli decided to make his move. On the cusp of manhood, the boy still trembled with innocence and fresh shock.

Why was he running? Why did his chest heave and his blood pound? Why was his instinct to seek shelter in such a dark place?

A great shape peeled away from the shadows with the softest of slithers. In the darkness of the balete’s belly, two blazing yellow slits appeared.

It was enough to snap the boy to attention. His next breath froze in his lungs. His jaw fell open of its own accord.

Eyelids descended sideways with a wet blink over the two, floating eyes. A hiss resounded deep in the back of the boy’s throat and chest. The low vibration rattled his ribcage and the dangling gold swinging from his earlobes. As a panic stole over him, he twisted and pulled away from the dreadful sound but found that he couldn’t move his limbs – wrists, torso, thighs, ankles, and neck all held in place by loops of darkness. A gasp managed to escape him. His cheeks shone with wet tracks.

Mamilli had only meant to get close. Curiosity, that was all.

But ancients are not meant to interfere.

His unfamiliarity with taking a solid form came at a great cost. The endless mass of the snake’s great body had turned permeable shadow into a vice-like mass, looping and knotting over themselves and capturing the poor human boy in between.

Mamilli did not understand at first what had happened, only that the boy’s breaths refused to come. Chest seizing its rhythm. Heart failing to beat. In death, the body was so fragile, just dust waiting to be disassembled and threaded back into the great tapestry.

Blue. That was the colour of the boy’s lips; his sightless eyes; the skin around his fingernails.

All the things Mamilli had wanted to ask the mortal if only he could find the words, and it was over before he had even begun. Unbothered by the slow passage of time, the ancient snake had stayed buried in the dark belly of the hollow balete tree, long limbs wrapped around the broken boy.

He watched the body decay.

The maggots, the flies and the rodents all buried their way into the looping folds of the snake’s body. Tiny flies hatched within the flesh. What was left rotted away, taken by bacteria and fungus, until only the bones remained, and even these slowly withered. Only Mamilli was left with the memory of what he had done.

There is no darker or more ancient magic than murder.

His actions changed him. No longer was he a passive observer. No longer was he a dark, silent ancient of the shadows. His act had bound him to the darkness of the balete tree which became a prison of solitude and torment.

That is why the people know to fear the great Grandmother balete tree of the forest, for it is haunted even to this day. Don’t get too close. Or you might encounter the Great buso called Mamilli, and you will die suffocated in the darkness of the great snake’s endless body.

The Great buso Mamilli drools in his sleep. Limbs akimbo, he sprawls over my futon and sleeps with a rigorous abandon. Every third exhale results in a high-pitched whistle through one nostril.

I took a break from writing and carved out space on the bed to sit beside him. It may be a small room, but at least it is private and it has a door that closes: rare luxuries in the village only afforded to the Datu’s guest.

In human form, he is much less fearsome, and different from when I last saw him some two hundred years ago. His hair is still a deep umber, long and falling in tangled tresses that frame his pointed jaw and sharp cheekbones.

He wears only a simple loincloth, as the Visayans do. It is all the better to showcase the fantastic tattoos that mark his whole body. On his chest, twin suns spiral outwards, casting their zig-zag rays over his torso, following the lines of his rib cage to disappear under his back. His shoulders are marked by thick black lines. His arms could be mistaken for patterned cloth; adorned intensely as they are with patterned markings in varying shades of charcoal.

When he wakes, I must remember to ask him how he has achieved this. I didn’t think such things were possible on our corporeal forms and certainly not in such a quantity. It does not look to me like a glamour – I can see the indents and imperfections where a mortal hand has hesitated during the artwork’s creation.

Just now, before I resumed writing, I could not resist the urge to rest a hand, feather-light on his head, smoothing down the wayward curls. He nuzzled into my touch, stretching into it like a feline creature.

After Buhawi told me the story, we completed making our offering at the small shrine. They did not need to explain to me the purpose of the ritual or the gindaya words chanted in their deep, melodious voice. An offering to a buso is made to ward them away.

Stay back, foul demon! As I might once have said.

But the moment Buhawi unstoppered the alcohol, something changed. I could sense it the moment the strong scent of sweetness and vinegar was exposed.

A yellow butterfly fluttered past. Each beat of its wings was slower than the last like the dreadful, lengthening pause between waves in the onset of a tsunami. A winged seed paused its spiralling descent. The twitter of crickets became disjointed.

The spirit elder still had their hand on the cork stopper of the clay amphora. I crouched down beside them. I waved my hands. Shouted in their ear. Nothing.

Time had come to a standstill.

And then, out of the darkness within the fortress of the balete tree, something moved. At first, it appeared that the tree itself was unravelling, its huge pillar-like branches unweaving, but that wasn’t it at all. The shadows themselves were unfurling.

Amongst the falling leaves, frozen mid-descent; amongst the insects, paused mid-wing-beat; amongst the great trunks of the forest, interrupted between gusts of wind; I watched as the dark heart of the balete tree took form, shadow gaining opaque impermeability, long coils of matter unwinding until a head emerged from the darkness. Two, blazing eyes appeared.

The Great Buso Mamilli hissed and it could have been the sound of the sky cracking apart.

“Is that you, old friend?” I said, picking up the amphora full of alcohol, “there is certainly no need for the full theatrics. Why don’t you talk to me in your usual form?”

I took a swig of the coconut liquor. My nose wrinkled. Too sweet for my tastes, but perfect for his.

“You will like this. Balabba, they call it. It is only made once a year for the big Ginum festival.”

Still, the huge, black snake only blinked at me, as if he couldn’t quite understand. I was struck with a surge of fear that I had made a mistake and that I was in fact speaking with some unknown, ancient spirit with evil intentions.

“Crowley?” I asked again.

Naming him seemed to do the trick. Old magic, that. How could I have forgotten?

No sooner had his name left my lips that the snake began to change. Its endless body shrank down, slowly at first, and then all at once. On its bald, earless head sprouted clumps of deep red ribbons; meanwhile, slender arms and legs detached themselves from the reptilian torso, forming fingers and toes with a quiet pop!

The prone, naked form of a human man lay curled up in the snake’s place. Long locks of brilliant dark hair fanned out around him. As always, I was struck by his beauty.

I rushed over and fell to my knees. This time, I did not worry that the spongey forest floor might stain my pale silk trousers.

“Crowley! I knew it was you,” I said as I grasped his shoulder. He did not respond. I spoke his name with increasing worry. It was unlike him to have any trouble after transforming.

The yellow butterfly fluttered before my face, resting momentarily on Crowley’s hair before dancing away again. The wind caught a sharp leaf in its grasp and blew it into my chest.

Time had re-started.

A gasp of terror informed me that Buhawi had un-frozen as well. Meeting their gaze, I saw that the spirit elder’s eyes had grown into medallions, focus flickering between me and Crowley even as they got to their feet and raised their hands.

“It’s alright. He’s a friend,” I said.

My words did not have much of an effect. I looked down at Crowley, expression slack and still deep in slumber. As Buhawi continued to stare, I unfastened my warm hemp-fibre cloak and draped it over Crowley’s naked form. Nudity is meaningless to me, but I did so for my old friend’s sake before a stranger’s gaze.

“See? Nothing to fear. I think he’s quite soundly asleep.”

Buhawi took a step back.

“There is no need to be afraid.”

They took another step back.

“Buhawi-“

“You are no spirit. You are no mortal either. You are like him.”

Moving towards the spirit elder, I said: “Let me explain-“

“Stay back!” they gasped. They were shaking. “Such power! I knew your eyes were old. So old. You have seen so much!”

“You’re perfectly safe, elder.”

“Don’t call me that! It would not be right.”

I deflated. They had already made up their mind to abandon us.

“You should not be here. I do not know what you are.” With that, they turned and ran into the dense undergrowth, disappearing within moments amongst the verdant foliage. I gazed after them for a short while. It was a shame to end our friendship in that way. Buhawi had taught me much during our hikes through the forest. There was so much more I had wanted to ask them.

“It’s been a while since someone was scared of me,” I murmured to Crowley’s prone form, “that’s usually more your thing.”

Getting back on my knees beside him, I tried and failed several times to wake him.

“Oh, my dear old friend, whatever has happened to you?”

The Great Buso Mamilli finally roused as I was carrying him to the river. He gasped awake. The jerk of consciousness was so sharp and sudden that I almost dropped him.

His hands twisted into my tunic as he heaved in shuddering breaths.

“Crowley! It’s alright, it’s alright. It’s me, Aziraphale. You’re safe. You’re alright.”

This did not lessen his flailing. I stopped. I lowered him to the ground against the sweeping, solid wall of an apitong tree. The rough bark scraped against the back of my knuckles. The motion disrupted a large bed of ferns, releasing the smell of trapped dew.

One of his hands found purchase on my wrist. I was forced to kneel down with him, keeping an arm around his shoulders.

He remained gasping for air for much longer than I anticipated and I am sure my concern was clear on my face in the deep depression of my eyebrows. I muttered soothing nonsense to him, which eventually seemed to help.

How long had he been in snake form? Had he been trapped that way? Was there some truth to the story about the Grandmother balete that Buhawi had told me?

It had been over two hundred years since I had last saw him. Anything could have happened in that time. Certainly, a lot had happened to me.

Old magic. Hard to predict.

“A…Angel?” his voice was weak.

“Yes, I’m here. I’ve got you.”

And his gasps turned to sobs. The difference was subtle, but the mid-gasp hitch in tone made the distinction.

“It was…It was so dark.”

He turned his face away to hide the tears streaming down it as if I might mind a small thing like that. The web of shock, relief, and trauma was radiating off him, expanding outside of his corporeal form and cooling the air slightly. I shivered.

I wrapped my cloak closer around him and drew him closer into the safety of my embrace. His face I pressed into my neck, where he could hide from my gaze whilst I could keep him close. Only now, as I write this, do I wonder at my thoughtless actions. It is not typical of me to behave this way towards the demon.

Something about seeing him in such a vulnerable state made me want to comfort him in any way I could, and from the way he clutched desperately closer, I believe I did bring him what he needed.

I will not dwell on what this might mean. I hope nothing will change between us. This strange friendship we enjoy is something to be treasured, not tampered with.

He is, after all, the only constant on this Earth during my long life.

“Crowley,” I asked quietly, when he could breathe somewhat normally again, “What happened?”

He sat shivering and blinking for a while, brow furrowed in concentration. He peeled himself from my embrace. We sat side by side against the wall made of bark.

“I...it's so hard to remember. I...I’m not sure. When did you last see me? What year is it?”

“In the Christian calendar?”

“Yes.”

“The year of our Lord Fourteen Hundred and Twenty.”

“No.”

“...Yes?”

“You are quite sure?”

“Have you ever known me to be anything but meticulous about my timekeeping? I can cite you the date in twelve other human calendars if you so wish.”

“No, no, that’s fine. That’s- I just can’t believe it. That long, huh?”

“What do you remember?”

“From before the…the darkness? Er...green? A lot of green.”

I raised an eyebrow, “Yes, that is typically the overriding impression of a jungle...”

“Ngk, don't mock me like that... It’s all so fuzzy. Like looking through bottled glass.”

“Give it time. Do you think you can stand yet?”

“Yes, of course.”

He struggled a great deal to support his own weight, but gone was our sudden intimacy, and he refused my offers of help, perhaps embarrassed that I had carried him so far.

It took us the better half of a day to reach the river where, of course, I found the rowboat gone, it having been taken by Buhawi, no doubt. Nothing a small miracle couldn’t fix. In general, I am trying to keep them to a minimum. The less attention from my superiors, the better.

What living being, mortal or otherwise, enjoys the sensation of being watched?

The journey back to the village where I take lodgings took only one day as we were heading downriver. The journey upriver with Buhawi had taken nearly four, with no small amount of exertion on both of our parts.

Finally, here we are. Crowley slept almost immediately. It is fortunate I do not require rest for I wouldn’t have a place to lay down and I’m not sure Crowley would welcome my presence on such a small futon.

I am merely grateful we arrived in the nighttime and thus avoid the inevitable questions about the company I have returned with. Buhawi, no doubt, has disappeared on their long wanderings in the forest. Not too surprising for a spirit elder. But Crowley might be hard to explain.

The villagers are naturally superstitious and tales of shape-shifting buso are not uncommon. It is likely we will be forced to leave.

Perhaps we will never unpack what happened to Crowley in the jungle. My guess is that some old magic was used to entrap him there, perhaps even for a hundred years judging by his disorientation. I dread to imagine what that must have been like. I do not have an animagus form as he does, but to lose all sense of consciousness entirely and be trapped... I shudder to think.

I shall keep an eye on him for a time. Where we go from here, I do not know, but we could at least stay together for a little while.

It is a thrilling and novel thought: that for some time at least, I might not be alone.

Still, he sleeps.

I keep watch over him.

Archivist’s Note: This extract is a teaser of an upcoming Volume compiling key moments in Aziraphale’s travels in Asia, heretofore untold. This was felt to be necessary as most collections of his writing in the last two millennia focus heavily on Europe.

For the reader’s further interest, secondary research uncovered the following resources for more information about Bagobo beliefs: and about the Philippines in the 15th Century:

1861, A study of Bagobo ceremonial magic and myth by Laura E. W. Benedict

1994, Barangay: Sixteenth Century Philippine Culture And Society By William H. Scott

1590, The Boxer Codex (This work contains 75 colored illustrations of the peoples of China, the Philippines, Java, the Moluccas, the Ladrones, and Siam. About 270 pages of Spanish text describe these places, their inhabitants and customs.)