Colin Cotterill - Curse of the Pogo Stick

“You are a hero, Yeh Ming. A hero.”

Siri’s eyelids opened slowly like the remote-controlled garage doors he’d seen in the movies. The muscles in his upper torso ached. He felt like he’d been tied in a burlap sack and thrown down a flight of stairs. He wore no shirt and his chest was covered in lash wounds and bruises. Elder Long was leaning over him, smiling.

“None the worse for wear at all,” he said. He grinned and turned to the five women who sat behind him in an arc. “Just marched on in there. Took down the fence and, brave as you like, marched on in. That’s courage.”

All but General Bao were smiling.

“That’s courage,” Long repeated. “I’ll warrant something knows it’s got a fight on its hands now. Look out, you who cannot be named, Yeh Ming’s in the village. That’s the end of you.” He laughed and punched his fist into the air.

Siri rolled to his side and threw up. It was evidently not the first time. Yes, he thought, somebody did have a fight on his hands, but it was Siri himself. This was far beyond the limited realm of his experience. It wasn’t a battle of wits and wills. It was a physical fight. He had no idea how to wage war against a demon, a supernatural creature who was capable of raping virgins and swatting old doctors like midges.

“We’ll have the exorcism tomorrow afternoon,” Long said.

“What?” Siri groaned. “Couldn’t we put it off for a day or two?”

“Testing me again, Yeh Ming?” smiled Long.

Bao explained for Siri’s benefit, “We’re coming into the week of Hmong New Year. The auxiliary spirits take a holiday. They won’t be around to accompany you to the Otherworld. Tomorrow’s our last chance.”

“I’m not sure I’ll be well enough,” Siri said.

“Don’t worry.” Now Bao smiled. “The feeling will go away in a couple of hours. The scars last for a week.”

Siri raised his eyebrows and she nodded. She was quite a girl.

Night had already enveloped the village and the evening meal sat undigested in Dr. Siri’s gut. There was only so much pork a man could eat. Still aching from his run-in with Moo’er, he sat in the shaman’s hut with General Bao undergoing a crash course in how to conduct an exorcism. He’d attended them before but seeing was by no means the same as doing. He’d once seen a man twirl plates on the end of cane rods but he’d broken four when he tried it himself. Pretending to be a shaman wasn’t going to be any easier. And pretend was all it could be. Siri and Bao had decided it was the least he could do for his host. Just provide a little hope, go through the motions, say, “Sorry, Long, I did my best” and go home.

But that wasn’t Dr. Siri Paiboun. Deceit and trickery didn’t sit well on his conscience. He had to do more than that. Earlier, while he’d sat on a boulder waiting for his supper, the sun slowly easing its way over the mountains, he’d engaged himself in a little lateral thinking like his literary hero Inspector Maigret. There was no doubt the area around the house was out of alignment. His talisman told him that much. His aching muscles told him it was something he needed to be afraid of. But his head told him the situation was not as impossible as it seemed. By the time he’d joined the others for dinner, he had a Plan B.

But first he had to get through Plan A. Fortunately, Bao had assisted her father on so many occasions she knew the ceremonies by heart and was a patient teacher for Siri. He’d written the various stages of the exorcism on a small cheat sheet and committed some of the more important phrases to memory. He was just about to attempt a full dress rehearsal when they were disturbed by the splutter of tired ponies from outside. The search party had returned.

Siri and Bao hurried outside just as Long and the others emerged from the main house. Dia and Chia were seated on the same horse and behind them, strapped facedown on the second pony, was a rather feral-looking Judge Haeng. He was barely conscious. While the girls unstrapped him Siri looked into his milky eyes and found a weak pulse.

“Did you give him anything to drink?” Siri asked.

“He wouldn’t take it from us, Yeh Ming,” Chia told him.

“Or food,” Dia added. “He just screamed and fainted. Will he live, do you think?”

“I’ll be able to get a better look when we get him down from his mount, but I don’t see too many problems a little nutrition won’t fix. You are excellent trackers. Well done. My heartiest thanks.”

As they helped the judge down, Siri did detect a broken wrist. The fact that there was no cry of pain when Siri grabbed it suggested Haeng had no feeling. The numbness extended to his head. In his stupor he mumbled phrases like, “What will become of me?” and “The Lord Buddha protect me,” a plea Siri filed away for some blackmail in the future. Although Long wanted the newcomer to recover in the main house, Siri decided a room to himself would be less traumatic for Haeng if and when he came around. He made up some excuse about the possibility of contagion and they opened up the hut nearest to Siri’s own and made it comfortable.

A broken wrist, a lost toenail, several deep lacerations probably caused by running into trees, bruises, a slight fever as a result of malnutrition, and a bad case of poison ivy. But, against all the odds, Judge Haeng would live to tell the tale. Bao looked at his well-manicured fingernails and soft hands.

“He isn’t your assistant, is he, Yeh Ming?”

“In fact, he’s my chief,” Siri confessed.

“But… but he’s much younger than you.”

“That’s the marvelous thing about communism, Bao. Equal opportunity. Even a man without experience has the chance to run a department.”

“It’s a silly system.”

“I’ll pass on your views to the prime minister next time I see him.” He tightened a splint and wiped the dribbled water from his patient’s chin. “Now, don’t I have some rehearsals to complete?”

They walked slowly to the shaman’s house but Bao stopped outside.

“It isn’t really equal, is it, Yeh Ming?”

“What’s that?”

“Communism. I mean, will the government really give a share of their power to the Hmong who fought with them against us? Will they give them good jobs and high positions in the army? There are still the little mice and the big elephants, aren’t there?”

“Yes, my general. There are still mice and elephants. But don’t forget the elephants used to be mice, so keep eating your spinach.”

It was the morning of the exorcism and everyone but Siri, his patient, and, presumably, the honeymoon couple up on the hill, had gone to the fields. Hmong New Year was a day away and they needed to get the opium tapped beforehand. As in most Hmong communities, opium was a source of medicine and revenue. Only the old bothered to smoke it. It was easy to carry in nuggets and would be their currency on the long journey they faced.

Siri had risen to check the progress of Judge Haeng twice during the night. On the second visit the patient allowed himself to be lifted to a sitting position and was able to swallow a large volume of sugared water. For breakfast, Siri spooned a gruel of pork and rice between the judge’s cracked lips. Siri imagined him out there in the jungle not trusting any plant or fruit. Not knowing which roots were safe to eat or which insects gave the most nutrition. He was still delirious but once or twice his eyes wandered into the flight path of Siri’s and he smiled. A miracle of sorts.

Siri couldn’t begin to imagine how he’d be able to explain all this once the little judge had regained control of his faculties. With luck he’d remain non compos mentis until it was all over and the Hmong were on their way. Siri walked outside with his cup of coffee freshly brewed from beans he’d crushed himself. He marveled once again at the spectacular scenery all around. How would the Hmong be able to live without it? What had they done that was so terrible to deserve banishment to an alien land? They’d lost the war, so what? Laos had forever engaged in battles with itself. “Forgive thine enemy,” the Christian Bible said. Too bad the Manifesto didn’t include that clause.