Free Thirty-Three Teeth by Colin Cotterill Page B

they’re both Lao royalists.”
    “What do you know?”
    “There was an attempt, the day before yesterday, to take my family and me out of the country. One of the helicopters was shot down. I imagine that’s where your fliers are from. I’m sure your LPLA people would like to confirm that they had connections to the old Royal Lao Government. The helicopter crashed in the grounds of That Luang temple. You should go and take a look there.”
    “Is that why you’re leaving?”
    “They want me somewhere less accessible from Thailand.”
    “You seem to be taking it all remarkably calmly.”
    “I’m resigned to it. It’s been coming for some time.”
    “Since the abdication?”
    “Long before that, I’m afraid. Our royal line has lost its kwun.”
    Even born-again-agnostic Siri was shocked to hear such a statement. Lao tradition had it that all living beings were in possession of a kwun: something between a soul and a spirit. Humans were said to have thirty-two kwun. In times of bad fortune, some of the kwun may flee, and shamans are called in to invite them to return. Only in serious illness or death does the kwun desert its host completely.
    Siri looked at the man’s wrists, heavy with loops of unspun white thread. When begging the kwun to return, it was usual to circle the wrists of the unlucky one with strings and knot them. Somebody close to the king had been doing some serious negotiating with the spirit world.
    “You really believe that?”
    “There’s no doubt.”
    “When did it happen?” He refilled the coconut shells.
    “When I came along.”
    “Now, you’re just being hard on yourself.”
    “It’s a fact. Indisputable. In my father’s time, he and my uncle, Phetsarath, were in harmony with the spirits. This orchard was theirs. Are you sensitive to necromancy, Dr. Siri?”
    “I’m afraid I am.”
    “Then you can probably feel the spirits of the trees here and the hold they have over this region. I’m told it’s very strong. I cannot feel it myself. The whole of Luang Prabang is evidently bristling with the ghosts of previous kings and queens and their offspring. There’s been a magical connection between the Royal Capital and the occult since the days of my great ancestor, King Fa Ngum. It was he who brought the first spirits to this place. He had thirty-three teeth, you know?”
    “He what?”
    “Thirty-three teeth. It’s almost unheard of. The Lord Buddha also had thirty-three, and although he never mentioned it, the dental records showed that my uncle had thirty-three teeth as well. It’s a sign, an indication that you’ve been born as a bridge to the spirit world.”
    “And you believe all this?” Siri asked as he began to use his tongue to count the teeth in his own mouth.
    “There’s been too much evidence to doubt it.” Siri noticed for the first time that a cricket had come to rest on the old king’s shoulder. “Do you recall that your Viet Minh friends tried to invade Luang Prabang in the early fifties?”
    “Yes.” Siri lost count of his teeth.
    “What reason did they give for their failure?”
    “Hmm, let me think. Something about the place being heavily fortified and manned with well-armed French militia.”
    “Ha. So I thought. The French didn’t get here in time. All we had was a handful of old retainers with rusty hunting rifles. A crochet society could have invaded us. The advisers told my father we were doomed and that he should flee.
    “But he stayed. That night, he gathered the shamans, and they called on the spirits to protect the capital. The following day, the Viet Minh were advancing upon us. They were so cocksure, they were already divvying up the spoils as they marched. But suddenly they began to fall.”
    “In what way?”
    “Just drop. A number were taken by some mysterious palsy. They lost all their strength. Their eyes rolled in their sockets and they couldn’t speak. More and more fell to this mysterious disease, until the commanders