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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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On Sunday morning, Tanto is discharged from hospital, and in the afternoon the four of us -- me, Iola, Tanto and Helena -- make a family expedition to the big flea market held in Naji Porissa Park. Rain threatens but holds off, and we have a refreshingly normal time. Sunday evening, Atakana is discharged from hospital, bruised but apparently free of fractures.
* * * Up until now the threats have been vague. A claim that someone will be jumping off a cliff, for example, is not quite the same as an explicit warning that "You will be thrown off a cliff". Similarly, "Go and visit your mother" does not necessarily mean "We plan to stone you to death just as your mother was stoned". It could be interpreted more mildly as, perhaps, "You, like your mother, will find yourself unpopular". But today, Monday May 15th, the threat level escalates. And it gives me a genuine shock. Understandably, I worry about death. In middle age, your body starts sending you little reminders of mortality. Plus we see on TV the ongoing world of crime and terrorism, which reminds us of our own fragility. And then, this year, on top of everything else, we have the possible spread of red parrot fever to worry about. A lousy way to die, if it happens: killed off by a bird disease, of all things. However, these threats are typically indirect, mere shadows of the ominous, without actual claws and teeth. I'm not in the habit of confronting death directly, which is why, once I realize the nature of the letter I have in my hands, I find myself shaking. Really shaking? Yes. I'm surprised at myself. Am I that scared? "No," I say, assessing myself as neutral rather than scared. But maybe that imagined neutrality is a symptom of overwhelming shock. I'm shaking therefore it follows that I'm scared. Too scared, maybe, to accurately assess my own condition. The message, short and to the point, is outside my experience. "Ken, stop trying to sell our land. It's ours now, not yours. Sales effort equals death. Got that? If you keep trying to sell our land you will be killed." A death threat, pure and simple. It's addressed to me, Ken Udamana, General Manager of Udamana Holdings. The message is on a single sheet of white paper and appears to have been printed out on a laser printer. According to the postmark on the envelope, it was posted here in the city of Yendo, yesterday, Sunday. Just before lunchtime, if it makes any difference. "Stand in line behind the parrots," I say, attempting bravado. But it doesn't really make me feel any better. The letter kicks me into action. There's one task I've allowed to slide: getting in contact with Petticat to challenge Strom's alibi. It's my guess that Strom was the anonymous caller who phoned me to say "You can't do a deal with the Zeast woman". If that's true, then Strom is the logical person to denounce to the police or personally interrogate, because he will (I'm sure) prove to be the weak link in whatever conspiracy has been organized against me. So I phone Petticat and explain what I want. The other day, Strom claimed to be home sick, and says Petticat looked after him. I want to know if this is true. "Why?" asks Petticat. "Because I think he might have made a phone call," I say. "An anonymous phone call. Harassing me." "Well, he could have done that whether I was with him or not," says Petticat. "Anyway, what day are we thinking of?" A good question! So much has happened in the last few days that I have to sit down and think about it. The answer? It was Thursday May 11th, the day on which I met Kitty at the Volcano Room. I explain this to Petticat. "So what were you doing on Thursday?" I say. "How can I remember?" says Petticat. "I sometimes drop by at Strom's. He's not in the best of health. He does need help sometimes. And who are you to be checking up on me as if you were the police or something?" Petticat is hard and hostile and her resistance takes me aback. It had never occurred to me that my sister would defy me like this. But she has. Well, then. My next logical move is to go to the police. |
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