Jean Genie
Copyright© 2026 by Rachael Jane
Chapter 121: The Plantation
Kelantan, north-east Malaya, November 1931
The heat settles over the plantation like a heavy cloth, thick and unmoving. Even in the early morning, the air feels dense, saturated with the scent of rubber sap and damp earth. The workers move through the rows of trees with practised efficiency, tapping bark, collecting latex in tin cups that glint faintly in the sun. The forest hums with cicadas.
Muriel Ashford steps out of the bungalow veranda, shielding her eyes with a gloved hand. She is tall, composed, dressed in a linen blouse and riding trousers that mark her as someone who refuses to wilt in the tropical climate. Her posture is straight, her chin lifted, but her eyes carry a faint tension ... the look of someone who has not yet decided whether she belongs here. Her husband, Arthur has brought her out here from the pleasant valleys of Surrey. Their two boys, now in their mid-teens, left in boarding school in England.
Arthur, stands beside her, pointing out the boundaries of the plantation. “It’s good land,” he says. “The company expects strong yields this year.”
Muriel nods politely, but her gaze drifts past the trees, toward the low hills rising in the distance. She is listening to him, but not fully. Her mind is elsewhere ... restless, searching.
I drift near her, faint and quiet. I have been asleep for eight months, trapped inside the bracelet as it waited for a new wearer. Zhao Lian’s pulse is only a memory. The fragment has been silent since then, quiescent but awake.
Muriel bought the bracelet three days ago in Singapore, drawn to it without knowing why. She held it in her hand for a long moment in the antique shop, her thumb brushing the gold surface. She felt its warmth ... not heat, but presence ... and something inside her shifted.
Now it rests on her wrist, hidden beneath her sleeve. She doesn’t yet know I am here.
Arthur continues speaking, describing the challenges of managing local labour, the unpredictability of the seasons, the company’s expectations. Muriel listens with polite detachment. She has heard all of this before ... in London, in Singapore, in the letters from the company’s directors. None of it interests her. She needs something to arouse her intellect.
She steps off the veranda and walks toward the trees. Arthur calls after her, “Stay close to the path.”
She lifts a hand in acknowledgement but doesn’t turn back.
The workers glance at her with mild curiosity. She nods to them, offering a small smile. She isn’t unkind, but she is distant ... a woman who has not yet found her place in this landscape.
She pauses beside a rubber tree, touching the bark lightly. The air is still. The forest feels expectant.
I drift closer. The bracelet warms. Muriel inhales sharply.
She looks down at her wrist, frowning slightly. She pushes her sleeve back, revealing the gold band. The sunlight catches the engraved glyphs ... a crescent, a star, a spiral, and a circle. She noticed the strange glyph etched on inside of the band when she bought the bracelet.
She whispers to herself, “Strange.”
I cause the bracelet to give a pulse ... faint and cautious.
She freezes.
Her breath quickens, but she doesn’t panic. She tilts her head slightly, listening.
“Is someone there?”
Another pulse in response ... a soft, tentative greeting.
She closes her eyes, steadying herself.
“It’s only the heat,” she murmurs. “Or imagination.”
But she doesn’t believe her own words.
She walks deeper into the trees, her steps slow, deliberate. The workers fade behind her. The forest grows quieter. The cicadas hush for a moment, as though listening.
Muriel stops beside a fallen log, her hand resting on the bracelet.
“I felt something,” she whispers to herself. “I know I did.”
I drift closer, sensing her curiosity, her steadiness, her quiet hunger for meaning. She is not like Zhao Lian who was gentle, patient, and rooted in tradition. Muriel is sharper, more analytical, more restless. But she is open. She is listening.
I trigger another pulse ... a soft, warm pulse.
Muriel gasps softly. “There it is.”
She sits on the log, her posture straight, her expression composed but alert.
“If this is a hallucination,” she says quietly, “it is a very polite one.”
Another pulse conveying faint amusement.
She smiles ... a small, surprised smile.
“I’m talking to a bracelet. Arthur will think I’ve gone mad.”
She looks around the forest, her gaze thoughtful.
She touches the bracelet again. “But perhaps not.”
I drift beside her, sensing her pulse steady. She isn’t afraid. She is curious. She is ready.
Muriel stands, brushing dirt from her trousers.
“If you’re real,” she says softly, “I suppose we’ll find out together.”
She walks back toward the bungalow, her steps lighter, her posture more relaxed. She doesn’t look back at the forest. She doesn’t question what she felt.
She simply accepts it ... quietly, calmly, as though she has been waiting for something like this without knowing it. Muriel Ashford is the new wearer. And I am awake once again.
February 1932
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