Curse of the Pogo Stick

by Colin Cotterill

  He slapped himself on the forehead. Such thoughts didn’t help anyone. His wounds smarted when he pulled up his pajama bottom. He’d have to find some antiseptic, but later. He had a demon to confront.

  He approached the house quietly although there was little need. Chamee’s screams coming from inside were loud enough to raise the dead. There was no time for caution. He hoped he could catch the demon by surprise. He hurdled the reerected lattice fence but avoided the front path. He crashed through the land bridges, sending their parts flying all around. He fought his way through the branches and nettles at one side of the house and arrived at an open window. The first thing he noticed was the blood. It seemed to be everywhere. Chamee was sitting naked on the dirt floor, her back against the center pillar, her legs akimbo. She was ghostly white and covered in blood and sweat … and he was standing over her.

  Everyone in the village seemed to hear the screams at the same time. They came rushing from the main house, and, without speaking, converged on the pathway. Each of them carried a weapon of some kind: machetes, muskets, crossbows, knives. And they ran like the spirits of the wind up the mountain. Even old Long found the energy to remain not a few paces behind them. They reached the lattice fence and stared at the now-silent house. The front door was closed and Siri was nowhere to be seen. Long joined the others just as another scream rent the air. Birds fled their nests and took to the sky. Long put a foot forward but Nhia grabbed his arm.

  “We have to help her,” he said.

  “You know we can’t,” Nhia told him. “Even Yeh Ming couldn’t compete with the force of the demon.”

  “I can’t just leave her in there, suffering,” Long told her and wrestled his arm free. He began to move forward but now Bao and one or two others held him back.

  “No, Elder Long,” Bao said. “I’ll go.”

  The others argued with her, begged her not to try. They reminded her what had happened the first time she’d attempted to enter the house. There came another scream. Bao took a breath and marched to the fence. As Siri had done before, she worked loose the post and let the latticework fall to the ground. She stepped over it and raised her machete above her head. She planned to charge the door.

  “Stop,” came a voice from inside. She looked up to see the door slightly ajar now and Siri, exhausted, peering through the gap. “It’s dangerous here. Go back beyond the fence. You can’t help. Just wait.”

  Bao could see his hand on the door. It was covered in blood.

  “Yeh Ming, you’re hurt,” she cried.

  “It’s nothing serious. Please … please.”

  She stepped back over the fence and joined the others. The door closed and there was silence. Until the next scream.

  That was the scream that woke Judge Haeng. He recalled having woken before, being fed water and gruel. There had been nightmares and fantastic dreams. He thought perhaps he’d left his bed once and seen … or perhaps not. He looked around at his surroundings. A pagan hut. Was he a prisoner? There were no chains. A guard outside?

  “I’m hungry,” he called in a hoarse voice. “Do you plan to feed me?”

  But there was no response. In fact, the door was open. Small ugly black pigs sniffed around him. He tried to sit up. His head was foggy. His stomach felt nauseous. But he could sit. That was when he noticed his splint and the bandages and the foul-smelling balm on his skin. A hospital, that’s what it was. He’d been rescued. It was Siri he’d seen at his bedside.

  “Hello,” he called. “I’m hungry.” Still nobody came.

  He got to his feet, found his balance, kicked a mangy long-haired mutt out of his way, and staggered to the door. A village. He was in a pagan village in the middle of damned nowhere. Deserted all but for some stunted horses and a few other mindless animals. He had to learn to walk on his legs. He wobbled to the nearest hut. Some animist shrine there with … a what? A toy in the middle? How would these people ever become civilized when here they were worshipping toys?

  His nose led him in the direction of food. There was certainly something cooking in the largest hut. It took him some time to get there but his stomach rallied his legs forward. Nobody in the main hut either but a huge pot sat slow-boiling over embers. He grabbed a cloth and lifted the lid. It wasn’t French cuisine but it appeared to have some nutritional value. He washed his hands in a tub of water, took a bowl, and scooped it into the soup. He helped himself to a spoon, sat on a bamboo ledge, and ate heartily.

  If he’d been in less of a hurry, he might have found the pot of gruel cooking on the stove hearth. That was for humans. The larger pot was kept boiling throughout the day. It was for the pigs. Anything unfit for human consumption found its way into that pot: the leftover, the inedible, the unpleasant and indescribable. They all ended up in the pig swill. The Hmong believed that if you kept that mishmash boiling long enough, the livestock wouldn’t know it from food.

  Three hours had passed and barely a word had been exchanged by the onlookers. Flies had found their way to the blood and the house buzzed with their presence like badly wired telegraph lines. A heavy black crow sat observing from a nearby stump. The screaming had stopped some time before but the silence was, in many ways, worse. Left to their own imaginations, terrible thoughts passed through the heads of Long and the women. They visualized Yeh Ming’s battle with the demon. Saw him being too late to stop the sacrifice. And even now they knew not whether their great shaman had survived. He had instructed them to wait, so wait they did. But for how long? What if Yeh Ming lay wounded inside and in need of help?

  The door suddenly swung open as if of its own volition, as if gasping for air. The mouths of the viewers mirrored its gape. Seconds passed, then minutes, and there was no movement and no sound. Even the crow sat spellbound. And finally, Dr. Siri, their own Yeh Ming, emerged from the house with an exhausted smile on his lips. And in each arm he carried a bonny round baby. He walked unhindered through the tunnel of vines, crossed the lattice fence, and stood facing Long.

  “Congratulations,” he said. “You’re a grandfather.”

  The women, still carrying their mental images of terror, approached the babies cautiously. Did they sport horns? Have fangs? Did they have all the requisite limbs and organs?

  “Are they … ?” Long began.

  “They’re perfectly normal, perfectly healthy human beings,” Siri smiled. Although they were certainly pretty babies, he didn’t add the word “beautiful” in case the infant-stealing dab spirits were listening.

  Long beamed with pride and took one of the babies in his arms. Chia took the other and the women flocked around them, cooing at their prettiness. Bao stepped forward and threw her arms around Siri as if some unspoken prayer had been answered. It was an ecstatic and awkward moment that lasted all of four heartbeats.

  “And Chamee?” Long asked. “Where is my daughter?”

  It was the question Siri had dreaded. He pulled away from Bao and stood before Long with his hands clasped in front of him. He shook his head.

  “I’m afraid it was too much for her,” he said.

  The elation subsided suddenly. Yet, if they were to be honest with themselves, they’d all long given up hope of Chamee’s surviving this. Once the devil had her body, their only hope had been that they might retrieve her soul.

  “How did she … ?” Long began.

  “It’s something that shouldn’t be spoken of,” Siri replied. Bao looked at him with surprise.

  “You have to understand that,” he continued. “All you need to know is that the demon didn’t get her soul or those of her children. Before she … went, she’d seen the boys and she knew she was free. She could never have been happier. She told me she would take her love for you all to the Land of the Dead.”

  Long nodded slowly as he considered the alternatives and seemed to come to a conclusion. He had lost his daughter but she had died content and free of possession. And in her stead he had two beautiful grandchildren. Yes, he could live with that. There was only on
e more matter. He looked at the house and Siri preempted the inevitable question. With one of the babies still squirming against his chest, he led the old man away from the flock and put his arm on his shoulder.

  “Long, there cannot be a traditional burial.”

  “But …”

  Siri knew Long would struggle with such a possibility but Yeh Ming had already warned the elder not to speak of events and he knew better than to go against such a directive.

  “All the arrangements have been made,” Siri told him. “When the time is right, Chamee will travel to the Land of the Dead and be reincarnated. You know who I am and how much influence I have. To prevent this happening again, that house and all it contains must be destroyed as it is.”

  Again there was a look of horror on Long’s face. Questions gathered behind it, questions he could not ask. The baby gurgled and its face puckered into a near smile and Long resolved to accept Yeh Ming’s decision.

  “So be it, Yeh Ming.”

  When he ordered the women to torch the house they were shocked. One or two even ventured to question him.

  “You’re sure this is the only way?” Nhia asked calmly.

  “Yes,” he replied.

  One look at the faces of the two old men told them that there was no discussion to be had. A decision had been made and they had to trust that it was the correct one.

  Nobody could abide to sit and watch the house burn. They’d returned to the village, all of them, and were busying themselves with preparations for their departure. Nothing could keep them there now. General Bao had gone to her father’s hut, retrieved a quart of paraffin and a Zippo, and walked back up to the house. As per Siri’s instructions, she had avoided entering the cursed place and set her fire against the front wall. It was an old building and it accepted the flames with an unnatural hunger. Even before the villagers reached the huts the explosions had begun. They all tried to ignore the violent conflagration that rose in a storm from the evil house. No fire had ever displayed such colors or emitted a blacker smoke. No fire had ever crashed and blasted heavenward with such intensity. They tried their hardest not to stare at the mountaintop but it was a spectacular inferno and they knew it would attract attention from many kilometers away. Their departure could not be too soon.

  When they’d first returned to the village, Long and the women had found Yeh Ming’s feeble-minded ‘assistant’ wracked with pain and curled on the ground in front of the main house. His stomach growled like a dying dog. Pigs circled around him, land vultures awaiting his final breath. At first the women assumed it was part of the exorcism, the assistant reliving the pain of the master, but Siri arrived, saw the half-eaten pig swill, and diagnosed the condition as chronic food poisoning. What he couldn’t explain was what had turned the judge’s hands nearly black. It gave the appearance that Haeng was rotting from the fingers up. This mystery was solved by Ber, who pointed to the tub of indigo they used to dye their cloth. It would appear the judge had washed his hands in it before attempting to poison himself.

  They rushed him back to his hut and Siri performed a tried and tested form of bush stomach pumping involving a length of hose and a football bladder. He hoped it would have the desired effect but, by then, he was so exhausted he didn’t really care. If Haeng was so intent on killing himself, who was Siri to intervene? The judge’s black gloves brought a smile to Siri’s face before he returned to the shaman’s hut. The cacophony of sound from the old house on the hilltop had ceased but the sky all around was dirty with its ghost. He was pleased it was all over but he needed sleep. This day seemed to have been endless, so full of lies and deceit he barely deserved to wake up. He crawled onto the bamboo platform and his battered bones clacked as they settled. The last image that burned itself on his pupils was of the sun still squeezing through the bamboo slats. After all he’d been through that day, how could it not be night?

  It was truly night when he awoke to feel the knife blade at his neck. The pig-fat candle burned on the altar but there was no other light. The shadow of his attacker loomed black against the candlelight.

  “Had enough sleep?” He heard and smelled the sweet earthiness of rice wine.

  “Are you really planning to cut my throat?” he asked. “After all I’ve been through?”

  “I might.”

  “And what’s my crime?” He was barely awake and still heavy with exhaustion.

  “Lying.”

  “You’re drunk.”

  “And why shouldn’t I be?” Bao asked. Even though her knife rode his Adam’s apple, her young breasts were pressed against his arm as she lay beside him. He could feel her breaths, heavy and fast as a boxer’s at the bell. “Everything I know and love will be gone in the morning.”

  “For goodness’ sake, take that blade away. You might do some damage.”

  “I intend to. It’s my plan to cut out your lying tongue, great Yeh Ming.” She sighed and rolled onto her back. The knife went with her. Siri sidled away and propped himself up on one elbow.

  “You’re going in the morning?”

  “Everything’s done here so we’ll join the big march tomorrow. Tonight’s our farewell party. I’ve been sent to wake you and drag you to it.”

  “Then let’s go.”

  “Not yet. First I have to …”

  “Cut out my tongue. I know. But I can’t imagine why you’d want to.”

  “Don’t!” The knife returned and this time there might have been a slight nick. She was very drunk and the words left her mouth angrily and badly pronounced. “Don’t make fun of me.”

  “I’m not. You don’t know what you’re saying. You’ve had too much—”

  She sat up and stabbed the knife into the sleeping platform. Its blade reflected the flicker of the candle.

  “I know I’m drunk. It’s temporary. So don’t talk to me like one of the addicts behind the Phonsavan market. Tomorrow I’ll be sober but I won’t recover from your humiliation if you keep lying to me. I need to know what happened up there, and don’t give me the demon … unspoken … cremation shit. Show me some respect.”

  Siri saw the fire in her beautiful eyes and fell deeply in love with her. He swung his legs off the platform and felt the pain of his splinter wounds. He sat for a moment staring at the ground. She remained silent beside him.

  “If I tell you,” he said, “you have to swear to me on the souls of your ancestors that you won’t tell Elder Long or the others. And I mean now and forever.”

  “Is it so terrible?”

  “Promise!”

  “All right.”

  “Say the words.”

  “I swear not to tell.” She pulled her legs under her and sat cross-legged on the platform.

  Siri chose to stand to tell his tale, prancing back and forth.

  “I’m a cynic,” he began, “albeit a cynic who is constantly confounded by the truth. I have to be convinced before I believe. When a man tells me in theory it’s possible to examine the genetic makeup of blood to identify a killer, I ask to see it in practice so I can believe it. That’s why I shall never become a better surgeon while I’m stuck in this country. When a man tells me the world will improve if everyone works together and shares its wealth, I may appreciate the theory but I expect evidence, some proof that man is capable of such selflessness. That’s why I’m such a poor communist.

  “So when I’m told a demon has assaulted a village girl I need to see evidence that such a thing is possible. Getting zapped in the front yard was quite convincing and the fact that she carried a baby the size of a small buffalo was impressive. But I have to eliminate the other possibilities and be left with only one, that she was impregnated by a demon. I consider how else these feats could be arrived at.

  “My biggest problem as a practicing cynic, however, is that I’m aligned, against my will and better judgment, to another world. I’m connected to a world of spirits and souls and gods and no matter how hard I try to disprove this world, I know it exists. I don’t know how it’s
possible, but, damn it, it’s there. So I resort to the rules of the supernatural. I begin by seeing whether the incredible can be explained through their rules. And when that world tells me something is off-kilter and implausible, I know I have to think as a human. I have to use logic. My visit to the Otherworld told me I had to look for earthly solutions to this mystery.

  “The only reason I didn’t fathom what really happened to me was that we’re in the middle of nowhere in a village without power. But it should have been obvious when I saw the burn marks and bruises. I just couldn’t imagine how anyone could get a generator all the way up here or have the wherewithal to set up a system. But I recalled hearing a roar from the house and I wondered whether that might have been a generator sound. And the possibility that this was some elaborate trick entered my mind. If that was so, Chamee had to be a party to it. What I got when I walked to the haunted house wasn’t a bolt from the blue, it was an electric shock. The reading of the horns should have told me, the positive and negative charges. Do you know much about electricity?”

  “Only what I’ve seen in the city. Not enough.”

  Siri’s meanderings were now taking him in wide circles around Bao. The breeze from his body fanned the candle every time he passed.

  “Well, I asked myself how a young village girl would have the knowledge and access to equipment to be able to set this up. I hypothesized that she had to have an accomplice. Who, I wondered, would know about electronics and mechanics?”

  “A soldier,” Bao filled in.

  “Right. And why would a soldier be secretly holed up in a house, afraid to be seen? And why would Chamee go along with it?”

  Siri gave Bao a few seconds to consider this.

  “A deserter,” she said at last, “and a lover. One of our own who had come home on leave one time.”