Historical Lovecraft: Tales of Horror Through Time (25 page)

Aaron Polson
currently lives in Lawrence, Kansas with his wife, two sons and a tattooed rabbit. His stories have featured magic goldfish, monstrous beetles and a book of lullabies for baby vampires. His work has seen print in
Shock Totem
,
Blood Lite II
and
Monstrous,
with several new stories forthcoming in
Shimmer
,
Space and Time
and other publications.
The Saints are Dead
, a collection of weird fiction, magical realism and the kitchen sink, is due from Aqueous Press in 2011. You can visit Aaron on the web at www.aaronpolson.net.

The author speaks:
“Ngiri’s Catch” was influenced by a recent radio diary from journalist Ofeibea Quist-Arcton, as she traveled the Congo River, and my memory of both Joseph Conrad’s
Heart of Darkness
and Chinua Achebe’s
Things Fall Apart
. The tension between Africans and white, European colonists has haunted the continent for centuries; all I did was imagine dark forces in the ancient river and the story flowed from there. I chose a child for the protagonist, as I often do, to share a sense of wonder (and, at times, dread) with the reader, as the strangeness of that child’s world is revealed to him. The Force Publique mentioned in the story was a historic entity and they committed horrible atrocities against their fellow Africans under Belgian command.

WHAT HIDES AND WHAT RETURNS

Bryan Thao Worra

When the water rises, the fish eat the ants; when the water falls, the ants eat the fish. —
Traditional Lao Proverb

C
all me ‘Saeng’. The raucous chaos of the age drew all manner of ambitious men to Laos. These
falang
arrived from all over: Mostly French, a few British and Indians, some Ottomans, Chinese traders, avaricious souls from almost every corner I ever heard described. Fortune hunters calling themselves ‘explorers’ and ‘civilizers’. They were men at the end of their century, their revolutions of industry and empire. And they needed guides in our realm of a million elephants.

But know we are also a land of a million secrets. Some of our truths? They are best undisturbed.

Because I have an almost unnatural gift with languages and possess the slight build to traverse spaces otherwise beyond my employers in our jungles, it is never too long between opportunities. I have always been happy to oblige them in what small ways I can. Guide or confidant, whatever role required, I can procure many amazing things for you if you have the means to afford them.

Today, I am abashed to disclose what we, in our
naiveté
, would do for a paltry pittance of
piastres
. Thirty pieces of silver bought you the world.

“Saeng, come with us,” they ask.

“Saeng, we need you,” they say.

“Saeng, you must join us,” they insist.

I’m not inclined to boast of my accomplishments, but am most satisfied with my work return. My popularity draws criticism. Some don’t believe it proper to work with a
falang
. Others are jealous and want to be rivals, such as my sulky cousin Khampha.

He, older than I, is more drawn to the prospect of wealth than the delight of discovery. Brutish and sullen, he has physical strength that gives him a confidence undermined by his impatience and miserly heart. Family propriety obliges me to recommend him to my employers. We share risks and reward. Without fail, he will protest I have not given him a fair share. In our last argument, he caused me great distress by telling our employers I was cheating them and withholding finds I led them to.

Someone could have been shot over that, if I weren’t a quick thinker. So foolish.

I’m not interested in the accumulation of wealth. Money beyond what is needed brings problems, not happiness, especially in Laos. A sentiment Khampha thoroughly disagrees with. He cannot see how quickly he spends what he acquires without attaining happiness, a boar without self-control. But family is family.

My parents tend a modest farm just a few hours northeast of the capitol of Luang Prabang, but I prefer to live in the city near the river because that is easiest for my employers to find me.

I am simple in my negotiations: “More danger, more money.” This is direct. I learned from many others the French never respect you unless you negotiate fiercely. But there is still an art to it, one Khampha never mastered.

Negotiation is essential. For every exquisite orchid or quaint patch of dwarf bamboo, creeping vines and mangrove swamps hide crocodiles or voracious tigers. Lurking all across our countryside, aggressive cobras the length of many men strike from the tall grass. There is a particular tragedy to hapless souls paralyzed in the brush as their last breath escapes them. With their reckless tread, my employers easily encounter giant pythons or deadly bamboo pit-vipers, thin as a sliver. Reptiles, scorpions, spiders, parasites, and leeches are all abundant and pitiless. Our wilderness is constantly devouring; a carcass is stripped within a day by predators and scavengers. Little is left to decay.

Lao custom maintains we return and live many lives, but I assure you there are better ways to come and go than others.

I hold no illusions about my relationship to the
falang
. They prize my company for my intelligence, my youthful daring and my utter expendability. I am becoming more cautious with each successive venture. My employers demonstrate well that wealth is of little consequence if you are dead.

And this is as dangerous a time as we have ever known. Laos has recently fallen under full occupation by France. To the south, they clash with troops from Siam, who employ fighting techniques gleaned from European mercenaries. It was not so long ago the ambitious Black Flag bandits were a menace across the countryside after the Haw Wars. The French spent months hunting the last defiant remnants of their vicious forces. There were few cities that had not been set to torch and plundered for our wealth. Our mountains are filled with many who do not appreciate the order of cities and
falang
, and there, they practice rites unknown beyond our borders that have not changed since their first fire thousands of years ago.

In the West, they like to believe things change. They like to talk about monkeys who turn into humans. They laugh when I tell similar stories about strange fish Yunnanese traders say turn into dragons. We all have our myths of reality we treasure.

I was surprised when Khampha came to me in my home almost a year ago. We had gone to great lengths to avoid each other in Luang Prabang. Khampha was hasty and it seemed as if he had forgotten all the animosity between us of recent months.

He presented his purpose brusquely: He wanted my aid acquiring a rare palm-leaf manuscript we had seen together as children, a copy of the epic
Thao Cheuang
. I reminded him that the copy he was referring to had been seized and taken to Siam almost a decade before, when the French began consolidating their power. It was beyond our reach.

Khampha corrected me that our revered Ajan Somnung at Wat Wisunalat had made several copies and that these included unique additions to the original. Alas, Ajan Somnung was beheaded by Black Flag bandits when they razed Wat Wisunalat. The library was lost in the flames. Khampha could not accept that and insisted with a snort that a copy of the manuscript must be somewhere.

He paced the room, agitated. He insisted it was utterly important. The book contained clues to a temple of great holy power from well before the recorded ages of Lane Xang, the whispered Wat Bhunboutdham no living human had ever seen. I had to stifle an incredulous laugh at the absurdity of his inquiries.

I reminded him that no one really understood the texts. Even Ajan Somnung confessed that his commentaries were humble efforts to add some clarity to the rambling ancient verse. Khampha interrupted me testily.

“Your mistake is you always think I’m some
ban nok
bumpkin who knows nothing. You forget I was there with you in our classes. I was paying attention, too. It’s not respectful of you to dismiss me so poorly.”

I was embarrassed by his accusation and, to regain my composure, I changed the subject to the practical.

“So, who is this for? Father Boreau? Monsieur Dupin, perhaps? I’m excited for you, cousin. I hope this will lead to many more opportunities for you.”

Khampha smiled smugly as he pried nosily among my curios in my home. “It’s none of the usual people I work for. This man knows our culture, even more than Dupin. And he is not afraid to spend money to acquire what he wants.”

I thought of all of the new people who had come to Luang Prabang in recent months. It was very difficult not to become known if you were a wealthy
falang
. Besides Lao, my cousin only spoke rudimentary French. I knew he and his friends preferred to carouse drunkenly near Wat Xieng Thong. That it should be one who knew Lao culture allowed me to deduce at least seven possible candidates.

“Oh!” I blurted. “Is it Monsieur Guillaume of Maison Ducornet? He seems generous if you have his favour.”

Khampha scowled. I smiled at my cousin.

“Don’t abuse your intelligence. Guillaume has many wealthy clients in Paris of indescribable hunger. I don’t think he likes much of our country. He seeks something more unusual and ancient.”

“If he comes with a closed mind, he will find many closed doors, cousin,” I remarked. “But why go to so much trouble for him? Many
falang
pay well for far less risk.”

“It’s not just for him.”

“How did he even hear of Wat Bhunboutdham? Few in our own country know about it,” I asked.

“You remember my parents’ talk of the
falang
who died here, Henri Mouhot? He was buried nearby, but his belongings were sent to Europe. Guillaume found a journal of Mouhot’s years ago that spoke of Wat Bhunboutdham.”

Everyone knew the story of how the famed explorer died screaming-mad in malarial fever in the jungle nearby.

“To discover examples of ancient Lao the world has never seen before?
Falang
should learn to live in the present moment and appreciate what is here, already.”

“They pay well for a stranger’s pasts,” Khampha laughed with a sly smile.

“I suppose it is the civilized thing to do.”

“He is very particular about who participates, but if you want, I’ll mention you,” Khampha offered. “I’ll ensure your fair share.”

I promised to look for what Khampha wanted and would ask friends all over to find a surviving copy of Ajan Somnung’s manuscript. I warned him it might take some time and he would need to be patient.

Satisfied, Khampha took his leave, muttering vaguely that Ajan Somnung knew and could have proven the truth of the old legends any time he wanted.

I shook my head at his parting. Lao tradition believes that unhealthy desire leads to suffering. You might spend your afterlife as some pitiable wandering minor spirit with a mouth smaller than a grain of rice but a belly the size of a rotting cask, insatiably hungry. Or worse.

Khampha’s visit troubled me, but I had made a sincere promise to him in good faith. I was also intrigued, ultimately rewarded for my diligence within a few months, thanks to a good friend in Savannakhet. Their father had helped Ajan Somnung make copies of the
Thao Cheuang
. With the fighting down in the south, it was not easy to arrange for its safe arrival in Luang Prabang, but I found myself overjoyed to see the familiar text once more.

Ajan Somnung had sternly encouraged us not to look too closely for some secrets, but to turn our eyes to the lessons of the Buddha. The search for Nirvana should supersede any attachments to this illusory world and all its perilous entanglements. He had taught us that death was impermanent, a great dreaming slumber, and one day, we could break free of our eternal returns because, after a time, even death would die.

I had to take care unfurling the aged palm leaves. Many were in terrible condition, crumbling at my gentlest touch, and I could see already many sections were missing or beyond legibility. Ajan Somnung’s version still seemed indecipherable, but I tried to take some notes of my own in the chance it would prove useful for another occasion.

I soon notified Khampha of the manuscript’s arrival and he came immediately, eyes burning with singular intensity, as I’d never seen before in my cousin. As a good host, I offered him some food, but he did not take any. He did not waste time poring over the manuscript, except the section outlining the capture of Muang Pakan and the division of their territories. His fingers quivered like a shrew when he turned to me and exclaimed: “Listen!” And he proceeded to read to me a passage that spoke of an old, old temple where a strange god was worshiped by a race of giant creatures before humans came to be. Preposterous, but Ajang Somnung wrote the note with deep conviction.

“Tomorrow I talk to Guillaume. Lend me the manuscript; I need it. We’ll go and find whatever secrets are there. It must be an amazing treasure of jewels and gold.” His delight was irrepressible.

So saying, Khampha scurried out into the evening. I reviewed the notes I’d copied from Ajan Somnung, and realized they were far stranger and provocative than I would have believed our gentle teacher capable of. What I now knew of Wat Bhunboutdham disturbed me and troubled my dreams that night. As much as my cousin and I might disagree, I felt compelled to speak with him before he left. But in the morning, it was already too late.

I learned from a friend serving the Guillaumes that they had all left with great excitement – my cousin Khampha ecstatic, while the hardy Monsieur Guillaume gave strict instruction to the others not to disclose the location, lest rivals beat them to their glittering prize. There were 13 in all.

By karma, that week, I met Madame Guillaume and easily earned her confidence. It helped that Khampha was my cousin. We shared a deep mutual concern for everyone who had departed by his lead.

In our first moments, she looked about constantly, as if some foreign thing were coming from beyond to break into her world. Some world where she made everything seem petty and trivial against a vast, galactic backdrop only she could perceive.

The Guillaumes lived in a two-story villa that exuded an alien-but-refined intellect in its arrangement. The broad windows had mahogany shutters that they rarely opened, to keep out the day’s heat. As she showed me around their home, my curiosity was piqued by Monsieur Guillaume’s study and the great lengths he had undertaken to bring his library to Laos. The design was elegant, yet its geometry puzzled me, the harmonies decidedly distinct from other homes I had visited. Their villa was densely furnished with designs almost out of a different time, a different aesthetic, both commanding and esoteric.

Madame Guillaume was a dark-eyed woman, her heavy jet tresses coiled atop her head. Her face was sharp and angular, but the rest of her reminded me of the lush, flowing Khmer sandstone statuary of antiquity that the
falang
ardently admired. She was a sufficiently pious woman, who did not dress lavishly but within the prim basics of the Parisian style. She wore a curious, antique copper brooch composed of geometric tendrils wriggling and intertwining around a most fearsome eye – a bauble from another life, she claimed. She offered me tea. I did not refuse.