Smoking Poppy by Graham Joyce (the read aloud family .txt) 📕

settled exactly behind the arch of the gate. We inched towards it as if towards a prize. It seemed to occupy the entire sky. I wanted Charlie to see it. ‘Look at it, Charlie! Look at the moon!’

She opened her eyes, encouraged by the spectacular formation. Moonlight drenched everything. It flooded over us, milky light. I could even smell it. The villagers spurred us on with renewed urgency, clanging pots and pans dangerously close to our ears.

Charlie started to feel even heavier as we approached the spirit gate. My lacerated hand burned. Sweat was streaming into my eyes, but I dared not put her down. The smoke from the flares thickened near the gate, and in the haze and in the din I again began to have the strange sensation of crowds of figures congregating behind the villagers, pressing in on us. Moreover I saw complex structures assembled behind them, platforms and piers and landings, and ladders of bamboo and stairways, all with people coming and going and climbing or descending. Some of these figures were paying us no attention; others were interested in the proceedings; one of the grey shapes formed his mouth into a trumpet and leaned through the villagers to blast it in my ear; others again reached their arms through the villagers and tried to press down on Charlie, making her weight unbearable. Still others appeared to want to help, and were making noises of encouragement, blowing cool air on my burning hand, assembling in greater number as we approached the spirit gate.

These tortured visions lasted for only fleeting seconds, and would have stopped me in my tracks were it not for Khiem and the villagers who came back to urge me on. The din from the thrashing of the metal pots kept the spirit multitude at bay, allowing us to make progress. The visions cleared from my mind as at last we staggered through the gate, to the cheers and ecstasy of the villagers, who threw down their pots and applauded wildly, whistling and shrieking. Then they began singing.

‘Are you all right?’ I asked Charlie. She was still shivering.

‘I’m just cold, Dad.’

I wanted my heart to break. I let her slide to the floor. Someone placed a blanket round her shoulders, another pair of hands gave her a bowl of some evil-looking concoction, which she sipped but which made her cough. I looked up, and the disc of the moon was stupendously low in the sky, moist, dripping with a silvery vernix like that covering a new-born baby. My relief was that which follows the safe delivery of an infant. As I cradled Charlie to me I saw flames leaping in the air from somewhere behind us. It was our hut. The villagers had torched it.

There was no going back.

The villagers lit new fires, and began to dance, forming a horseshoe around us, clasping each other at the shoulders, singing loudly, swaying rhythmically.

It was a party, and it was for us.

Khiem entered the horseshoe. He was beaming happily, still presiding over events, evidently very satisfied with the way things had gone. He took Rupert Bear from his neck and pressed it into Charlie’s hands. Perhaps the Lord of the Moon had decided to make Charlie whole again.

Mick produced what was left of the whisky Jack had given us and I took a good hard swallow. It warmed as it went down. If there were demons in the air, they were dispelled after a glug of Scotch whisky. I even poured some on my bloody hand

‘Give me some of that,’ Phil said, grabbing the bottle from my grasp and taking a deep swig.

Some children stepped forward and placed garlands round Charlie’s neck and then round mine, Mick’s and Phil’s. The singing went on. Some of the men queued up for a tug on the whisky. I was happy for the festivities to continue through the night: Charlie was out of her cage. I squeezed her. ‘Are you all right, Charlie? Really?’

‘I’m all right. It’s gone. Whatever it was, it’s gone.’

I looked at the villagers, their faces softly lit by the fires and the burning brands as they danced. I loved the excitement of the children, who were not excluded from any of this strange ritual. I loved the fragrant, syrupy smell of the air streaming from the poppy crops and from the jungle. I looked up at the moon, and felt a moment of delirious happiness. I may have let a pagan prayer of thanks pass my lips. Even in this exotic and alien place, the world was returning to order.

I took another gulp of whisky, and looked about me. ‘Where’s Mick?’ I said to Phil. ‘Have you seen Mick?’

‘No,’ Phil said.

I scrambled to my feet. Mick was nowhere to be seen in the mêlée. Neither could I see Phoo. The pair of them had vanished.

37

The villagers danced in circles around their fires, stamping the red earth. They sang loud and their voices soared in the chilly air of the evening. Some of the men produced bottles of moonshine and proceeded to get very drunk. They made free with the moonshine and though I pretended to take deep swigs from the bottle I needed to keep my head. It was almost an hour before Mick and Phoo turned up again.

Mick was perspiring heavily. His face was streaked with red dirt. ‘Time to go,’ he said.

I had a nagging doubt about Phoo. I was still afraid he would betray us, and I was waiting for Jack to appear, smiling psychotically. But we had to go. Mick suggested we slip away one by one to assemble on the jungle path at the edge of the village. Then Charlie wanted to say goodbye to Nabao.

‘Not a chance,’ I hissed. ‘She can’t know that we’re going.’

‘I have to do it,’ Charlie said. ‘I can’t just vanish on her.’

Charlie pleaded. Nabao had nursed her through the last few months. In any event we couldn’t all leave together. ‘We’ll