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Bamboo Horses, a fantasy novel by British-born New Zealand writer Hugh Cook, author of the ten-volume Chronicles of an Age of Darkness In this stand-alone alternative reality SF fantasy novel, which is independent of all Hugh Cooki's other books, business manager Ken Udamana has the problem of finding out who is murdering members of his family before he, in turn, is murdered. An arsonist is on the loose. Ken starts to worry that his own troubled teens, son and daughter, may have murder in mind. And what are the intentions of the foreigners, the Merlercians, regarding the exploitation of the Udamana family's paranormal powers? Modern fantasy fiction in a world with cellphones and its own Internet, but a world where they eat not with chopsticks, as we do, but with scissors. A truly original work, high-quality literary fiction including elements of quiet horror. |
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This page is posted online on a free-to-read online basis. However, the material is copyright, all rights reserved. For permission to use any of the material on this website contact Hugh Cook |
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Read first 30 chapters free |
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When I get home, there's a man dressed in police uniform blue pushing something into the letterbox. Who is it? Chobber? No. It's a stranger, a civilian wearing a dark blue coat. Not a police officer at all. Just someone leafleting our mail box.
* * * In the evening, Melshu joins the rest of us for an early dinner. Iola has cooked fried pork with rice and sweet and sour vegetables, but, as usual, Melshu contents himself with a bowl of sugar lumps. My primitive understanding of medical science leads me to think he should have died of diabetes generations ago, but he seems set to persist forever, ancient and yet indomitably robust. His mind is shot, but, physically, he's hale. As the five of us are having dinner, I go over the fingers threat with Iola. This means that Helena gets to hear about it. However, since Tanto would probably have told her anyway, there's no point in trying to keep it a secret. "Maybe it's big time crime people," says Helena excitedly. "Coming to shoot you dead!" Even though I know this is said for fun, and even though I appreciate the fact that she's only fourteen, the unabashed enthusiasm of her upbeat grin is a little hard to take. "I don't think I'm important enough to merit the attention of any big time crime people," I say. Which is the truth. Organized crime exists right here in the city of Yendo, and I don't doubt it. But a law-abiding citizen like me won't end up tangling with the world of organized crime except by making an entirely avoidable mistake, such as borrowing money from a loan shark. After dinner, it's time for me to drive Tanto and Helena to Chapati Youth for their regular Monday table tennis session. It's inconveniently distant -- twenty minutes by car -- but Minister Borgrun always delivers them home at the end of the evening. And if Tanto and Helena are safely at the youth club then they're not getting into trouble somewhere else. This evening, Iola opts to come with me. She says nothing as I drive us along Jalsinkoola Lane then up Ichatrak as far as Chapati Youth, which is in the vicinity of the Gastovolux Industrial Estate, just across the road from a bar called the Plodding Frog. I deliver Tanto and Helena into the care of Minister Borgrun and return to the car. "That's where Egishi drinks," says Iola, indicating the Plodding Frog. "Really?" I say. "It's a long way to come." "But he used to work at the industrial estate, remember?" says Iola. "He still knows some of the guys." I wonder how she knows this when I don't. I ask how she knows. "I met a couple of them when I went round to Egishi's place on Saturday," says Iola. "You know, when I went round to sort out that problem he was having with the cleaning lady." I remember that. Iola successfully defused a poisonous dispute between Egishi and his cleaning woman, who Egishi had accused (unjustly, I think) of stealing from him. Egishi has a well-developed capacity for generating conflict. "At least Egishi doesn't have a motive for trying to derail the land deal," I say, starting up the car. And, on the way home, in the absence of the children, we have a frank discussion about the threat. We're agreed that Officer Agawa's logic is hard to resist. Before talking with Agawa I had been convinced that the threat was external, but a threat from inside the family is more logical. So who made the threat? Iola agrees with me that Molo and Po are the most likely candidates. Alternatively, it's hypothetically possible that Whiskey Breath is a live-alone stand-alone act-alone nutter who bears a grudge against us for reasons which we can't begin to imagine. I can't be said to have a high media profile, but I do feature on our web site, and I also pop up on occasion in local newspapers and on local TV. So someone who had never had any personal contact with me at all could get fixated on me. Back at home, I watch Potpourri Yendo, a show on Salyan Jarkot TV, a free-to-air channel which routinely succeeds in capturing as much as four percent of the available audience in and around the city of Yendo. Twenty minutes through the show, I'm on for a generous three minutes. On TV, I confirm that, yes, us Udamanas are negotiating with a "foreign buyer" regarding our lands. Yes, this could conceivably result in high rise development in the Central Yendo Historical Preserve, if the new buyers have the political clout needed to get restrictions on development abolished. What do I plan to do with my share of the money? "Pay off my debts," I say. This comment is treated as a joke, but happens to be the truth. Unfortunately. Having seen my segment on Potpourri Yendo, I'm pleased with the result. I've gotten the media exposure that I was looking for. Over the past five years, we've had a number of semi-serious nibbles concerning the land. Publicizing the fact that someone's seriously thinking about buying our real estate may persuade someone to come back with a serious offer. I'm conscious of the fact that what the Merlercians have been talking of, something in the region of five hundred million zen, is really on the low side when you consider that the land would be worth much, much more if the development constraints could be abolished. And, although I don't think of myself as being anti-foreigner, I'd be happier selling to someone here in Nizon rather than to Merlercians. * * * "And so to bed," I say. But it's easier said than done. Although the day has gone smoothly enough, getting the Udamanas to agree to sell the land has focused my anxieties on my money problems, which seem close to insoluble. I can't sleep, so go down the corridor to my private office and fire up my computer, intending to do my e-mail. My e-mail. I get a huge shock when I see that one piece of e-mail is from Zudadera Finance. This can only be bad news. We've borrowed so much money from these guys that they could very easily put us out of business. And they surely would do exactly that if they knew how bad our financial situation really was. My fingers miscue on the keyboard, stumbling, and it takes me three attempts to open the Zudadera e-mail. Which turns out to be news about a new ATM, that's all. The bank is happy to announce that they have a new ATM machine, open twenty-four hours a day, in Galactic Crayfish. I've never heard of Galactic Crayfish, but apparently it's on Wota Street in the Ingsha Lantan area. It's a new entertainment center complete with a selection of restaurants and five cinemas. Once I've recovered from the fright that Zudadera Finance has given me, I proceed to make my way through the rest of the e-mail. The next piece of e-mail that I open is one with the subject line "Genfi sends love and greetings". I presume that this is from Aunt Chariot, which is surprising, as I've never had any e-mail from her before and she's always been hostile to computers. In fact, the e-mail message turns out to be an advertisement for rejuvenating skin cream. I have one e-mail purporting to be from the Nelor Kornool Chadra Bank (which I've never done business with in my life) asking me to confirm my postal address, telephone number, account number and password. And one from Atakana saying he's going to be unavoidably late for the meeting. What meeting? Oh. He means the meaning we've already had earlier today, our family get together this morning at Mitodarni's office. And there's one more e-mail, which has the cryptic subject line "Hikodabeni legal urgent for Visper Udamana". This doesn't make sense, because I the name "Hikodabeni" means nothing to me. As for "Visper", since that is my outer name the e-mail is, presumably, from a stranger. "Hikodabeni," I say. Now I know! That's Aunt Chariot's outer name. Right? Well, maybe. Her inner name is Genfi, I'm certain of that, but I'm not completely sure of her outer name. I used to have a file on my computer, somewhere, listing the workaday names and the outer names of all my contacts, but I lost it in my last hard disk crash. I open the Hikodabeni e-mail, which proves to be from a Kavanath Pondicherry, legal adviser for Dolagataka Dignity Domiciles, saying that Aunt Chariot urgently wants a face to face meeting at her place of residence with me, herself and Kavanath. How about a conference in the family room at Dolagataka Dignity Domiciles at eleven o'clock tomorrow, Tuesday, May 2nd? The subject that Aunt Chariot wants to discuss is Melshu's legal status. Why? Because "if there are doubts about Melshu's status as a member of the Udamana clan then there would seem to be questions about the propriety of discussing the possibility of Melshu sharing in any payout from the Udamana Zekotalora Trust". What does this vague and fuzzy statement mean? In translation, it means that Aunt Chariot wants the biggest slice of the cake she can get, and has no wish to share with Melshu. Family love and solidarity in action! I note that lawyer Pondicherry does not use Melshu's outer name. Perhaps because he doesn't know it. Or maybe "Melshu" is an outer name. I've never thought about this problem before. Melshu is Melshu, the one and only. "I've tried phoning you about this matter," writes Pondicherry, "but can get no response from 976-5592-166." He does not mention his own phone number. It's getting late at night but the e-mail did say that this meeting is "urgent". I phone Directory Service, get a number for Kavanath Pondicherry and dial it. But the number is out of service. It's been disconnected. So I phone Dolagataka Dignity Domiciles. But they can't give out phone numbers. Or so they say. I threaten to phone my Aunt Chariot, who is probably asleep by now, to get her to demand the number on my behalf. They buckle, and give me the number they have for Kavanath Pondicherry, which turns out to be the same outdated number which has already failed me. Giving up on the idea of making contact by phone, at least for the moment, I e-mail back to the lawyer saying that, sure, I'll be at the family room at eleven. In the e-mail, I note that my home phone number (the landline number for the Moss Mansion, the phone which rings downstairs in the living room) is actually 976-5592-611. I add the number for the phone in my personal office, 976-5778-584, and my cellphone number, 911-2235-9081. I also request a current phone number for Kavanath Pondicherry himself so I can phone him to confirm the appointment. And that's it. I'm done with my e-mail. But I still feel restless. I have the sense that something has been left undone, that I have an unpatched vulnerability somewhere through which the world may attack me. "Back up," I say, remembering the file of names I lost (along with so much else) as a consequence of my last hard disk crash. How long is it since I've backed up? Weeks! And I have no excuse. I find my portable hard disk, which lives in the top left drawer of my desk, plug it into a USB port and back up all my key data, which, conveniently, all lives in a single folder called "KEYDATA". While the data is being copied onto the portable hard disk, I go downstairs to make a cup of coffee, and by the time I've drunk the coffee the backup is finished. "You can't be immortal," I say, with satisfaction, "but you can be backed up." Coffee is supposed to wake you up, but the knowledge that (for once) I've disposed of one hundred percent of my e-mail and (additionally) am backed up to the last byte (well, the last important byte, at any rate) has a soporific effect. I am, I think, a dutiful person, and the knowledge that I've done my duty always helps assuage anxiety and calm me down. So, feeling genuinely weary, I return to the bedroom, go to bed, and very shortly go to sleep. And dream my way into a world of nightmare. * * * I dream that Tanto is being devoured by a monster. In my dream, there's nothing I can do to help my son. As his father, I'm forced to stand there beside his bed and to watch as the monster devours him. He's never going to celebrate his fifteenth birthday. He's going to die, here, now, right before my eyes. Because the monster is unstoppable. The monster is no natural creature. Rather, it's an artificial organism, something created by the Merlercian military industrial complex. It's black, an inky life form with hideously rubbery skin, and it's swallowed Tanto whole. And it's digesting him. In my dream, I can feel his skin. Wet with sweat. Wet with slime. Softening alarmingly as it erodes toward terminal dissolution. "Tanto!" I say, struggling to rouse him. "Wake up!" In my dream, Tanto speaks a word. Bihoro. That sounds as if it might be someone's name. The name is, somehow, connected to the monster. Then it is not Tanto who is in the monster but me. I have been swallowed alive. I have been gulped down into the belly of the beast. In this prison of clutching flesh, it is insufferably hot and stinks of prison rape and melting oranges. I am being contained by the rubber skin. Oppressed by it. Squeezed by it. Compressed into a mess of gasping sweat. The memories of my life are getting crushed into brown-red juice, and the juice burns me like acid as it runs through my body and over my body and bleeds from my eyes in hot bulging tears. I try to cry out. My teeth, weakened by the acid, gasp from my jaws. They crack in dissolving fractures. It is agonizing. I wake in my bed, shuddering, and hear something monstrous making an inhuman guggerating sound in the night. What the hell it that? For a disoriented moment, I'm convinced that it's really a monster. Then I realize that it's Melshu's snoring, worse than usual, coming from the master bedroom downstairs. Something is wrong with the bed. I'm wet. Is this a bladder control problem? No. Sweat. The sheet is wet with sweat. Drenched with it. Really wet. My back is soaked. Night sweats are a sign of serious illness, aren't they? But this is a one-off event. Perhaps it's the nightmare that has made me sweat. Certainly it was a horrible dream. And completely unprecedented. I may have the occasional bad dream, but I've never before had such a hallucinating nightmare. "Whiskey Breath," I say, naming the possible cause. Iola murmers something but does not wake. She is untroubled by Melshu's snoring. Just as well. Since the master bedroom where Melshu sleeps is directly below ours, the sound attacks us directly. If we had the money, I'd have builders come in to insulate us with something soundproof. But, given the parlous state of our finances, that's undoable. I slide out of bed, slip on my dressing gown and pad along the corridor. Unaccountably, the door to Tanto's room is standing open. I step inside, step into a zone of quiet. If you listen, you can still hear Melshu snoring, but only faintly. What's directly below Tanto's room is the living room, at this hour a zone of empty silence. Tanto is deeply asleep, and his sleep would seem to be restful. He looks younger than his fourteen years. Young and vulnerable. I feel protective, fatherly. It's easier to feel this way when your teenager is asleep. The same entity, wide awake and bursting with over-confident energy, is rather harder to deal with. "Okay, okay," I mutter. Okay. So there's no monster. Right. In the world of adult sanity there are no monsters. Monsters? What were you thinking about, Ken? The only monster is your own anxiety. You're upset, that's all. There have been too many unsettling inputs. Unsettling inputs? The package that came by courier, the dog food message. Whiskey Breath with his threat against your son. The Melshu problem cooking away on the back burner, unavoidably to be escalated tomorrow. Your own hundred million zen debt problem. The possibility (probability!) of arrest, trial, public disgrace, jail. Old age approaching, slowly but remorselessly, and where's your retirement plan? It's only natural that you're having nightmares. Go back to sleep? No, I don't think I'd be able to get to sleep again. Not immediately, at any rate. Better to go to the office and do some work to settle myself down. I walk down the corridor to my office and turn on the light. I do have some jobs that need doing, one being to update the Bamboo Horses web site. The news that I've already given to the media should be on the web site: we're negotiating to sell our land. The implication being that if you want to buy some of our real estate then the time to make a serious offer is right now. But I find I don't have the appetite for work. Not right now. It's ... what time is it? Three in the morning. At this hour of night, the Kingdom of the Acoustic Tiles looks totally uninviting. I don't feel sleepy, but I feel inert. So I do the sensible thing which is to go downstairs, to make a cup of coffee (well, maybe putting more coffee into my system isn't exactly sensible) and to blob out in front of the TV, using the wireless headphones so no sound infiltrates upwards to Tanto's bedroom. On TV, there's a scene showing a big building somewhere in some city. The street outside the building is disordered by fire trucks and police patrol cars, and the building itself is burning. A disaster somewhere. I make myself comfortable and settle back to watch. |
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