Raising the land turns out to be delicate work. Amira hands us each a stick and points us towards our places on the beach. I tiptoe around the edges, testing the reach of my stick. The ritual area has been lined with seashells and palm fronds, stuck upright into the sand like joss sticks. At the four corners are the ashes of our passports, mixed and packaged neatly in Zip-loc bags. Within the square, the sand has been smoothed flat with our sandals. Amira stands at my right, taking the eastern edge; Jasmine stands across from me, taking the west. Normally, she'd be handling the stream, but had Amira stressed the need for all hands on deck. Meanwhile, I'm assigned to the northern edge, which has been assured to be the easiest; at this time of year, the god is assumed to march south with the winds.

The southern edge has been left open. Only seashells dot its length, leaving a hand-sized gap that faces the coast. From it, a trail has been drawn with our sticks to the sea, which is beginning to rise up its length with the tide.

"We have five minutes," Amira says, glancing down at her watch, half-buried in the sand. "Let's run through this again?"

"No need. I'll forget if I repeat too much. Jas?"

"I'm fine," she says. Jasmine seems to be keeping her cool. She holds her stick like a kendo sword, barely even flinching in the breeze. Her phone's hanging from her neck, lens facing forward. We aren't going live for this one, but she's never been one not to record for posterity.

"Okay, I trust us." Amira says. "Just follow the colour codes on the map. It'll be smoother than our last aquatic encounter if everyone plays by the rules."

At our feet are the schematics, photocopied and laminated by yours truly. It's an old pattern from one of the state archives, a frenetic crisscrossing of lines etched on dried palm bark. The coloured markings are Jasmine's, redrawn with machine-learned efficiency: blue for her, orange for Amira, and red for me, covering the most amount of pattern with the least amount of time.

Perhaps that's why she's so focused, with her geek cred on the line. Though I suppose all of us have a little something on the line tonight, having come so far.

The water's reached the three-quarter mark. Amira readies her stick. "Do it once, do it good," she says. "Remember, we're basically courting royalty."

"Do we get a second try?" I ask, half-jokingly.

"Do you have another passport?" scoffs Jasmine.

"It's not the ingredients, it's the manners of it." Amira says. "Let's just say we won't be setting foot on this island for a while."

I shudder and try my best to keep serious. I've never been this tense, even on stream. "Don't fuck up," I say, more to myself than to any of my friends in particular.

The clouds part. The moon shines through, momentarily. The water ebbs and flows up the line, taking a little bit of the sand with it each time, but always rising, rising higher. At the peak, where it crosses our gate of shells, Amira snaps: "Now!"

I follow my pattern, as practiced in our club room: bottom-right corner, tracing up, then backing over the lines Jasmine has made, lightly so as not to disturb the treads. I mark out rocks, huts, and trees, trying not to bump into the others as I go. Before us, the map begins to take shape, as the tide rushes to fill the square, flowing around its edge. Against all odds, the pattern remains undisturbed.

Then it happens. The moonlight on the water seems to linger a little longer than it should. When the water recedes, it stays. It traces the lines of our pattern, pooling at rocks and huts and trees, suffusing the ground with a telltale glow. It's white-hot, bright, brighter than anything I've ever seen. It's suddenly warmer, too, and the air fills thick with the stench of the sea. I cover my eyes, gagging.

When I open them again, a beast has stepped out onto the sand. Its pelt is striped red and shining white, and other earthier colours too: of tree trunks and shimmering gold, of dry sand and clay, of steel and shuddering cement. Water streaks its coat and mane, dripping off its back, which arches like a great bridge, or a tower. Neither lion nor tiger, neither at sea nor on land; it is the size of a small car, yet obscures the horizon with its girth. The god of the island itself, ablaze in its own glory. It turns to meet our gaze with eyes delicate and narrow; as massive as great granite cliffs.

"Step one," I see Jasmine mouth. On her face is a look of fear and pride. So she's not above feeling it, after all.

Amira is the first to address the god. "O keeper of this land," she begins. "and of all that lay on it, mangroves, primary and secondary rainforests, grassy fields, beaches, and catchment areas and all. Walker of the highways, trunk roads, avenues, lanes, drives, walks, boulevards, circles, and closes, and not to mention the jalans, lorongs, lengkoks, and loops. Great chief, whose dominion knows no end but ill-defined and mildly-contested maritime boundaries... "

Her voice trails on. I'll never know if she was reciting or improvising, but it seems to have an effect. The god seats itself on its haunches, curling its great tail around its paws, at once before us and around us, stretching from Changi to Tuas Bay. It cuts her off, just as she begins to list the different types of HDB blocks on the island:

Cut to the chase. How can I help you girls today?

It's not so much a voice than a suggestion, though it runs through my head like a forest stream, leaving a mental trail that feels discomfortingly like an airport passenger service announcement. Jasmine glances at me. The god's mouth hasn't moved, but she's heard it loud and clear.

Amira stops, taken aback. Then our diplomat recomposes herself, and delivers our boilerplate introduction. "We're a grassroots organisation focusing on outreach for our many local gods," she says. "Since 2018, we've been featuring lesser-known local deities on our social media platforms and linking them up with our ardent followers, many of which have continued to be sustained worshippers. With over twenty thousand followers -- "

I get it, I get it, says the god. *You want a shoutout, right? Bicentennial coming up and all. You're doing good work, I've seen your page. Good stuff, girls.
*

"Actually, we were hoping for something a little more than that," Jasmine says, smoothly taking over. "Ash, would you care to state our terms?"

I swallow. "Your earthiness -- "

Big Jong will do. Like Ujong, you know? Land's End, but funkier.

"-- Big Jong, we need your help for something bigger than that. It's about your domain, this island, this country. We've been thinking about this for a long time, and decided to pull all our strings for this one, going as high up the chain as we can go."

You're good at flattery, you three.

"It's about the other gods," I say. "We didn't want to believe it at first. We were finding new gods, in all sorts of places. We had faith that modernity couldn't wipe them out, that it was actually fueling them, with new assemblages of symbols and beliefs. But then there was that thing with the Sheng Shiong god, and the mermaids below the bridge, and suddenly we started finding more and more gods, half-formed gods, gods that didn't belong and never should have arrived to begin with."

"They are in pain, o watcher of the gardens. We cannot allow this suffering to continue." Amira's back in her stride, with fire in her voice. "With the offerings we have gathered, we humbly request you to end this."

The negotiation's begun. The god pricks its ears up with interest.

What do you have for me?

"Documents of our birthright to your domain, mingled with the samples of your deepest soil," states Amira. "Collected from your four corners, representing the four winds."

You're missing the centre. There's five cardinal points in all. Rookie mistake, it's chill.

"Can you accept our request?" asks Amira. Not will, but can. Even the highest powers come with their limitations; we've learned it's never offensive to establish boundaries with the divine.

It's a bit tough, that one. The beast is chewing on its mane. Not even the big ones have tried doing that, you know?

"Put it this way, if you've seen our feed, you know all this grief can't continue."

Why not? Things live, things die.

"But we're better than this as a nation. We can hold on to things, make ourselves better, make ourselves more whole."

This island was never whole, says the god. It's all broken land, you know? Since the Strait flooded and broke us off from the mainland, all the way until you all started splitting the soil with your sticks and stones. Its shoulders flex, sending ripples across its flanks, bricks and mortar mingling with the crowns of angsana trees, steel girders heaving over vast caves of stone. B*roken and mixed up and packed together, that's what I am. What hope do you have for my smaller gods or my people, to become whole?
*

"Is there really nothing you can do?" I venture. "Those, uh, documents aren't cheap to replace."

I never thought I'd be one to lowball, but go a little lower, can?

Amira sets her stick into the ground. "Then give us hope," she says. "We've got the whole of a country struggling to believe. Twenty thousand followers is just the tip of it. People are grieving, everywhere, for a past they never knew. Can you give them that, at least?"

Sounds alright, the god says, bowing its head low to the ground. It's still a little too steep for your offerings, but you guys are being really professional about this. Just the right amount of theatrics, you know? Good stuff, good stuff. The wind rustles across the beach again, bringing with it the smell of petroleum and the tang of the sea.

"How will we know you've granted this?" Amira asks.

You'll feel it. Things still live and things still die, but maybe they'll pretend to go on for a little while. And maybe that's the best you and I can do.

Amira seems settled with this answer. I'm not sure what to make of it -- I'm more of a material kind of girl -- but it fills me with a kind of sad knowing.

Now leave me be. I have an appointment with SLA at nine-thirty tomorrow.

"SLA?" Jasmine's eyes light up behind her glasses.

Of course, darling. How else do you think they assign plot ratios?

With that, it sweeps its mane around its body, and pads away into the waiting surf.