Curse of the Pogo Stick

Friendly Fire and Brimstone

“So, what was all that about?” Siri asked.

They sat on a log in front of the shaman’s house.

“It’s not my place to talk about it,” she told him.

“Really? Well, Long is unconscious so that only leaves you to explain all this,” Siri said. He could feel her reluctance to speak. “And don’t forget I’m an honored guest.”

She looked at him at first with a rebellious expression that was soon melted by his magical eyes. She sniffed and gazed out at the eastern stars in the black map of the universe.

“We were just another village,” she began. “Families, happy enough, working hard but surviving. We weren’t interested in anything outside this mountain or the mountain before it or the one before that. Whatever place we chose was our world. But your world kept bumping into ours. You made us grow opium, then taxed us for it. You counted us and put our names in a book and forced your ways on us. It wasn’t fair. We didn’t interfere with anyone. But then the Americans came and asked us to give them our strongest men. Why? We needed them to work the fields but the Americans offered them money and that money bought silver. It was a fortune to us. And they gave the men guns and pretty uniforms, so they went. And some trained to be warriors, and when they came back they brought us beautiful things-coffee and sacks of rice and medicines we didn’t have any idea how to use. And they brought candies for the kids and colored posters of big movie stars. It was like heaven had sprung a leak and all the good things rained down on us.”

Siri held Bao’s hand as she shook.

“Then it started,” she said. “Chia’s elder brother came home with that toy. He said he got it from his American buddy. The kids loved it. They fought over it. Brothers and sisters who’d never argued in their lives fell out over it. Even I queued up to have my turn on it. It was like a drug. My father refused to let me and I went into a sulk he never forgave me for. The stick became the center of gravity in our world. By then, the curse was already on us. News came that two of our men had died fighting for the great American cause. Chia’s brother was one of them. A recruiter came and had no trouble at all signing up six other men to join General Vang Pao, the head of the Imperial North American Force.

“They were used up in no time and the recruiter came back. He lowered the enlistment age to fifteen so our brothers went with him to get their gum and their girlie magazines and their Zippo lighters. That was when my father realized what was happening. The stick had brought a curse to our world. Since it arrived we’d lost our men and our boys and our souls. He confiscated it and the younger children hated him for it. Never before had children dared speak like that to a shaman. He knew then that evil had been reincarnated in the frame of the jumping stick. At first he buried it and used his strongest spell to remove its power over us. But still the recruiters came and this time they took our younger brothers, only twelve and thirteen. And they were all used up too.

“The stick was stronger than my father. It couldn’t be destroyed. It had to be adored. For the survival of the village we had to pay homage to it. It had stolen all our menfolk and our boys. If we didn’t worship it, my father was sure it would take us all. He had us line up and beg the stick to spare our lives. And it seemed to work. There were no more reports of deaths and no more recruiters came. But it needed just one more sacrifice to satisfy it. So it took my father.”

She sighed as if she’d been allowed to put down a heavy pack after a long trek.

“Is that why you brought me to your village?”

“For the stick? We all believe it’s connected somehow, but, no, Yeh Ming. Not for the stick.”

“Then why?”

“Surely you know. Elder Long has forbidden us to talk about it.”

“I have no idea.”

“He said you’d know it-sense it.”

“Bao, I’m a doctor of scientific medicine. I’m not a shaman. Yeh Ming isn’t my name. I’m Dr. Siri Paiboun. I’m just a sort of living, breathing container for Yeh Ming’s spirit. I can’t even talk to him.”

A look of horror came over her face.

“But everyone has so much faith in you.”

“I’m sorry.”

For a long while the only sound was the chirruping of night insects and water dripping into the house jar. Siri broke the deadlock.

“Look. I do have some… connection to the spirits. I see them. I can’t control them at all but I see them. Sometimes they give me clues.”

“Clues?”

“You know? Hints. I have to work out what they mean. Perhaps if you told me why I’m here I could see whether…”

“Yes, Yeh Ming.” She didn’t seem at all heartened by this suggestion. “Let’s try that. Do you think…?”

“Think what?”

“Do you think we can keep this from Long and the others? There have been so many catastrophes. This is the first time I’ve seen them happy for such a long time.”

“How do you suggest I do that?”

“Just pretend. Pretend you have all the powers of Yeh Ming.”

“They’ll find out soon enough.”

“Perhaps. But let them have hope for now. There isn’t much of that around here. Give their hearts a lift until we’ve buried Auntie Zhong. Then I’ll tell you why we’re here and see if your science and medicine can help us at all. Can we do that?”

“If you think it will help.”

“I do. Now I think we should get back. Your sleeping partner will think I’ve stolen you from her.”

Siri froze halfway between a sit and a stand.

“My what?”

“Ber. She’ll keep you warm tonight.”

Siri sat back down.

“Actually, I don’t suffer from the cold. Don’t feel it at all, in fact.”

“We all sleep together, guests included. You’ll offend Long if you refuse.”

“Then just this once let him be offended. I tell you what. I’ll sleep here in the shaman’s hut. You can make up some story… I don’t know, say I have to absorb the spells here or something.”

“It’s musty here.”

“I’ve slept in worse.”

“Very well. I’ll get you a lamp and some bedding.” A laugh she’d been trying to suppress escaped through her nose.

“What is it?” Siri asked.

“I’ve never known a man with so many wrinkles to be so afraid of a little female company. It’s sweet.”

He watched her scurry off across the compound. So young. So frisky and bright. And all at once the face of Madame Daeng embossed itself on the inside of his dirty old mind.

Phosy’s police-issue lilac Vespa seemed grateful for the fact that it only had one small hill to negotiate on its journey out to the National Pedagogical Institute at Dong Dok. With Dtui riding sidesaddle on the back it had a lot to prove. Each pop of its motor was like a small blood vessel bursting. Both riders had scarves across their mouths and noses to keep out the dust that seemed to hover above the roads for hours after the passing of each army truck.

Dong Dok was the next logical stage in the Lizard hunt. The previous evening they’d listened to their visitor, Bounlan, tell of her studies at the English Department of the nearest thing Laos had to a university. In 1964, she and thirty other teachers from around the country had been invited to the new Pedagogical Institute for a six-month course to upgrade the standard of their teaching. The woman whose photograph was on the poster had come from somewhere in the south. If Bounlan remembered correctly, her name was Phonhong, although most of the students called her by her nickname, Dtook. It was obvious she came from an affluent family as she always dressed in the most brilliant white shirts and spectacular phasin skirts that were probably made from antique cloth. The woman’s father, Bounlan recalled, had held a senior position in government at some stage, although the family’s surname escaped her. She had no idea why the woman had chosen a career in teaching. They weren’t the closest of friends. In fact Dtook had kept herself very much to herself.

Phosy wondered about the woman’s age. Bounlan pointed out that Dtook had always looked haggard but that she was probably no older than forty at the time they met. She wasn’t an attractive woman. She always had that up-all-night-studying look. That’s why the other women had been so surprised that she’d found herself such a prize husband. She’d even brought him along to the course graduation. A tall, strapping officer in the Royal Lao Army to boot.

The graduation party, Bounlan told them, was the last time she’d seen Dtook. She had no idea what had become of her. None of her classmates heard from her. Bounlan, on the contrary, was very involved in organizing reunions with the women who’d taken the course. She knew the current teachers-the ajans-very well. Only one who had taught the class of ‘64 was still on the faculty. He had been a lecturer and home teacher and he was currently the vice director of languages in the new progressive, socialist Dong Dok. His name was Ajan Ming and Bounlan was certain he would be the best bet for following up on Dtook’s whereabouts. The group thanked her and noted her address in case they had any further questions.

Before Dtui and Phosy had left for the institute that morning, two peculiar items of news had come their way. The first was in the form of a note they found pinned to the morgue door. It was written in the peculiar Hmong script. Itsjumbled roman characters always reminded Dtui of junior Scrabble tiles before they’re arranged into real words. She couldn’t make head or tail of them. They sent Geung off to find Kou, the Hmong orderly, who translated it for them.

Yeh Ming-fortunately, Dtui knew who this referred to and so, apparently, did Kou-is alive and safe and will come back to you before the end of Hmong New Year. He is helping us. Do not worry. He is great. It was signed The Hmong.

Why they had believed the note, neither Dtui nor Phosy could say. Perhaps it was the smile and knowing nods of the translator that made them feel at ease. Perhaps if the second note, this one from Manivone at the Justice Department, had arrived first, they might have been less inclined to be placated by it. If there had been no Hmong note at all they would have been frantic with worry and probably cancelled their trip to Dong Dok. The second note read:

Dtui,

We’ve just learned that Dr. Siri and Judge Haeng have been abducted by Hmong insurgents in Xiang Khouang. I will let you know if we get any more information. We’re all praying for Dr. Siri’s safe return.

Manivone

If she hadn’t read the Hmong note first, Dtui wouldn’t have noticed the omission of Judge Haeng in the Justice Department prayers. As it was, both she and Phosy were still chuckling about it when they left. They could think of no reason why the Hmong would bother to deliver the note unless it was true. The mission to Dong Dok was still on.

They’d tried to phone ahead several times but as the Lao said, passing a live turtle up one nostril and down the other was easier than trying to make a local telephone call beyond the city. It was only ten kilometers to Dong Dok but it might as well have been in another solar system. Civilai hadn’t wanted Dtui and Phosy to venture there.

He wanted them somewhere safe until the Lizard had been caught but of course they would have none of it. Their armed guards accompanied them to the edge of town, but once they were certain they weren’t being followed, the pair insisted on going on alone. Stubborn as teak roots, the pair of them. So there they were putt-putting past the ramshackle roadside stalls, to the front gates of Laos’s seat of higher learning.

The only building visible from the road was a French-built two-story off-white construction with an impressive roof that had probably made the locals go “ooh” when it was being built, but that didn’t hold a candle to even the most provincial college in France. It was the administration block whose offices let onto an open-air balcony, like a seaside hotel. Goats chomped unenthusiastically at the thick grass around its base. Phosy paused to ask directions from the guard in the little concrete booth at the gate. The drowsy man apologized and said he didn’t know because he was a postman just taking a nap there in the empty box. A passing student overheard their question and pointed them straight ahead.

It was such a silent place that the roar of their small motor embarrassed them. They could imagine lectures in the modest huts coming to a halt until they’d passed. More goats looked up and chickens tested their chicken skills by scurrying in front of the Vespa at the last second. They passed whole shanties of student dormitory shacks made of rattan and tin and finally came to the back gate. The building beside it had a handwritten wooden sign attached that announced ENGLISH DEPARTMENT.

They were climbing off the bike when a rather distinguished-looking man with curly hair dyed black walked past them. He had a stack of books under his arm. He ignored the visitors at first but curiosity seemed to pull him back.

“May I help you?” he asked. His voice was deep and syrupy.

“Yes, we were hoping to find Ajan Ming,” Phosy said.

“Is that so? Then you must have consumed your lucky medicine this morning.”

“Because?”

“Because I am he.”

Phosy and Dtui introduced themselves and briefly explained why they were there. Ajan Ming told them he was on his break and invited them to a slightly leaning building just beyond the back gate where coffee was sold. They sat at a table by a large rectangular hole in the bamboo wall. As they spoke, Dtui’s gaze returned from time to time to an elderly lady in rags who swept and reswept the dirt path opposite. She wore a conical hat that left her face in shadow.

“Don’t you think?”

Ajan Ming’s question had been directed at Dtui. She turned away from the window.

“I’m sorry?”

“I said it would be unfortunate if we were held responsible for every student we teach once they leave our institution. It wouldn’t make any more sense than your being taken to task for your former patients getting into trouble.”

“You’re quite right,” she said. She turned back to the window but the woman was gone.

“You do your best for them, then they’re on their own. And she was just a teacher in a refresher course. It’s not as if we’d received them fresh from the lycйe.”

“But it was your first course.”

“My first here at Dong Dok but I’d been teaching at the Normal School in Vang Vieng beforehand.”

“But you do remember this Phonhong?”

“I have an excellent memory. I remember all my old students, no matter how short the course. And in this case I have good cause to remember her.”

The ajan’s spectacles seemed to be giving him a headache so he took them off and put them in the top pocket of his shirt. Three hot gooey coffees with condensed milk foundations arrived in unholdable glasses.

“Why is that, Ajan?”

“Well, it was soon quite apparent that she was a fanatical Royalist. I imagine her family had some royal connections although she didn’t boast about it. As you know, in the old days, if a family had money they’d send their children to study in France or one of the English-speaking countries. But it appeared Phonhong had done all of her studies here so the highest level she could achieve was teaching in a regional school. I asked her why that was and she told me she had devoted herself to the betterment of her people. She wanted to show the Lao that one didn’t have to go abroad to get an education, which wasn’t completely true. But I admired her resolve.”

“Did you have any trouble with her when she was here?” Dtui asked, churning the coffee and milk together with a weightless tin spoon.

“Not trouble exactly,” Ming told her. “She started a club for undergraduate students. It was an anticommunist club. I can’t recall precisely what they called it. She spread the word that the Red plague would one day engulf our country and destroy all the good work the Royalists had done. Much as I love our great socialist state, there are those who would describe that as something of a prophecy a decade ago.”

“Did the group do any agitating?” Phosy asked.

“Not really. They just put up posters warning of the Red threat and held rallies.”

“Can you recall who else was in that club?” Phosy asked.

“Not offhand. I could put together a list for you as it comes to me, I suppose.”

“We’d be grateful. Did you have any contact with her after she graduated?”

“Nothing personal,” Ming confessed, “but this is a small country. I was kept in touch with her activities by others. As you know, everybody knows someone who knows someone here.”

“What did you hear?”

“They had a son, she and her soldier husband. She’d raised him as a patriot. As he was going through his teens the war against the communists was heating up. He too enlisted in the military and by fate or influence he found his way into his father’s regiment. Rumor has it that they were on a mission together in Huaphan in the northeast and that both father and son were slaughtered in a PL ambush.”

Dtui’s gaze flicked back from the window.

“Now that would be enough to make a woman nuts,” she said.

Ajan Ming seemed a little taken aback by her insensitivity.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “Please go on.”

“That was the end of the story. We heard no more of her.”

“And you don’t recall the family name of the soldier?” Phosy asked.

“Not at all.” The coffee was barely cool enough to sip but he held the glass in a paper napkin and threw back the entire contents in one gulp. “That doesn’t help you, does it?”

“No.”

“I wish there were some way I could make a connection for-Ah, now there’s a possibility.”

“What is?” Dtui asked.

“They were Christian. The whole family. Catholic if my memory serves me right. Phonhong had converted when she married the officer. If the husband and son had a Christian funeral-”

“They’d be buried in the Catholic cemetery. Brilliant,” said Phosy.

“If only we knew their names.” Dtui shook her head.

“But we do,” said Ming, glowing with that righteous radiance intellectuals exhibit when they solve problems. “Their first names, at least. Both the husband and son had been named after the great king Fa Ngum. That shouldn’t be too hard to find on a headstone.”

“Excellent.” Dtui smiled. “I should spend some time out here. Maybe some of this brilliance would rub off on me.” She wrote down the name and one or two notes to herself on a napkin.

“Let’s go take a look,” Phosy suggested.

“What now?”

“No time like the present. It isn’t the biggest cemetery in the world.”

“Not the biggest at all,” Ming agreed. “I confess you two have me worked up into such a lather I’d even consider going with you to conduct the search. Unfortunately, I have to proctor an examination in the next hour.”

“Ajan Ming, you’ve done more than enough already,” Phosy told him. “We can handle it from here. Thank you.”

Dtui looked anxious. “Shouldn’t we get in touch with the others?”

“Come on, Dtui,” Phosy laughed. “To look around a cemetery? What trouble can we get into there?” He shook his head at Ming. “I’m afraid my wife’s getting a little paranoid in her old age.”

“Paranoia isn’t always a bad thing,” Ming responded. “But I am assured the residents of the Catholic cemetery are harmless.”

“Then at least let’s stop for lunch on the way,” Dtui pleaded. “I’m not sure I can go rooting through a cemetery on an empty stomach.”