Read Online Curse of the Pogo Stick by Colin Cotterill - Free Book Online Page B

packed earth. He removed the coat and laid it behind him on his bedding. His sleeping berth was no more than a large hutch in a house with four or five similar compartments. Against the walls stood farming implements, large cane baskets, one or two crossbows, and a large foot-operated rice crusher. A small family altar to the house spirits took pride of place on a shelf opposite the front door. He walked around his hutch and into the main area of the house where the central pillar rose up to the rafters. And tied to that pillar was an old woman. She was dressed in a beautiful ornate, hand-embroidered Hmong costume: a black, long-sleeved jacket and a heavy pleated skirt that came to her knobby knees. A single silver torque at her neck almost doubled her weight.
    There was no question she was dead. Despite attempts to mask the smell with burning incense and candles there was no mistaking it. Either she had already begun to shrink or the costume was too big for her. Her head receded into the collar like that of a frightened tortoise. Siri had been to Hmong houses where the deceased was laid out on a platform before the funeral but had never seen a corpse suspended from the house post. She was high enough for the pigs not to reach her feet but Siri wondered why the dog hadn’t made a play for her. Hungry dogs are most insensitive to the sanctity of human death.
    He left the stench behind him and walked out through the open doorway to a splendid vista across a range of rolling hills. The air was so fresh and biting it brought on a coughing fit. The sun battled with the winter chill to maintain a pleasant mean. He was in a village. There was no gate or fence. There were some fifteen wooden or bamboo huts similar to but smaller than the one he’d come from. There was a chicken coop, a large cage full of mynah birds, and what he imagined to be a stable, albeit an empty one. The village land had been cleared of trees but behind the huts a mountain continued upward to a point where it was topped with vegetation like a bad haircut. Water flowed to each house from a higher source along a network of bamboo guttering. More pigs and dogs mingled with goats and the odd cow like mismatched party guests – but there were no people.
    He called out a hello that echoed across the hills but received only an oink in reply. This kidnapping had a very casual feel to it. As there was no guard to overpower or horse to flee on, he decided to look around. All the other houses were shut up, the doors secured with chains and large padlocks. Behind one of the huts was a small copse of tall trees, the tallest of which had been left standing untrimmed. It was lavishly decorated with coloured ribbons and sparkly tin and surrounded with little offerings. This, Siri knew, was the sanctuary for the spirits of the land and the trees that the Hmong had taken. Allowing them the tallest of the trees was a sort of compromise, much better than having them haunt your house.
    Having no desire to go back to spend time with his suspended housemate, Siri followed the bamboo pipes in search of the water source. He decided an icy bath was exactly what he needed to shake away the effects of the anaesthetic. As he climbed the hill and neared the foliage, cold winds seemed to surf across the mountaintops and cut through him like the reaper’s scythe. Entering the trees was like crossing some official temperature median. It became eerily cold and silent. Something seemed to be sending him a warning. The amulet around his neck buzzed against his flesh.
    No more than twenty yards along the forested track there appeared one more small house off to the side. It was buried deep in vegetation with only the front visible through a tunnel of overhanging trees and dangling vines. Siri had never seen an isolated hut in a Hmong village. The inhabitants liked to group closely together for safety and social cohesion. There was no advantage in living separately. He left the well-worn