The cold wind of late November carried the scents of dry earth, mist, and fallen leaves against the wooden louvered windows of a large teak house in a small subdistrict of Phrae. The house stood at the edge of the dense forest bordering Nan Province. Cuckoos called from the bamboo grove behind the house, competing with the answering crow of bantam roosters, announcing the beginning of a new morning. Soft golden sunlight streamed through the woven bamboo wall and fell across the sharp, dark features of a young man.
"Kham." The boy was sixteen, nearing seventeen. Tall and lean but hardened by the muscles built through heavy labor, he lay on an old kapok mattress that had hardened into lumpy knots, his brows furrowed. He tossed and turned, trying to escape the annoyance of low chanting in Pali mixed with ancient Lanna. The deep, measured voice had the slow rhythm of an old temple, mingling with the thick scent of incense and candles and the sharp, pungent smell of every kind of medicinal herb drifting up from the hall below.
This two-story stilt house was well known in the area as the Shaman's House because Kham's father, Father Nil, owned it. Father Nil was the family's pillar and the village shaman and herbal healer, a man the villagers revered and feared with all their hearts. Whenever someone fell ill, suffered spirit possession, was struck by black magic, or even lost a water buffalo, they came to rely on Father Nil's spiritual authority and occult lore. To Kham, however, all of it was nothing but backward superstition, the rotting remains of a past that would soon be swallowed by time.
As far back as he could remember, Kham had grown up surrounded by beliefs in ghosts and spirits. He was used to the sound of herbs being pounded in a stone mortar, the spell recitation used to empower holy water, and the sight of villagers carrying people who were gravely ill or behaving strangely to his father for treatment. Some arrived suffering shaking jungle fever, their bodies burning like banked coals as they babbled incoherently. Others came doubled over in agony, their bellies swollen tight, wailing that a Khmer shaman had given them a black-line poison curse. Still others came sobbing with wild eyes, thrashing and insisting that forest ghosts or Pong ghosts had possessed them.
But in the eyes of a modern young man like Kham, the world was changing with breathtaking speed. In 1954, progress began creeping in along cart roads and dirt roads. Military jeeps and timber trucks started roaring into the district town, raising clouds of dust. The district hospital began receiving Western doctors, practitioners of modern medicine. They wore clean white coats and had white pills, stethoscopes, and hypodermic needles that could cure jungle fever and other illnesses quickly and effectively—all without lighting incense, blowing spells, sprinkling holy water, or chewing betel and spitting it onto patients while making a filthy, time-consuming mess.
Kham often stood with his arms crossed against a house post, watching the sick people who came to be treated at home and sneering inwardly. That swollen, painful belly was just severe food poisoning. That patient shaking uncontrollably from jungle fever merely had malaria, which a Western doctor could eliminate with a single quinine injection. If his father spent his time studying Western medicine or made a living like ordinary villagers—farming, trading forest products—the family would not have to live in such poverty, scraping by on rice that villagers brought to exchange for enough medicine to fill their cooking pot each day.
"Kham! Are you going to wake up sometime? Get up and help me prepare the teacher-offering set, then check the packets of white eel-root and boraphet. Someone from the northern village is coming for curse removal first thing this morning."
Father Nil's deep, powerful, decisive voice drifted up from the hall below, shattering the boy's thoughts. It carried such authority that the sparrows perched along the eaves all took flight.
Kham sat up, heaving a long, exasperated sigh as he rubbed his eyes. He tossed aside the old blanket, grabbed the checked pha khao ma draped at the head of the bed, slung it over his shoulder, and went down the stairs, deliberately stomping hard enough to make them creak and bang in silent protest. When he reached the broad hall, he saw Father Nil in a faded old mo hom shirt, sitting straight-backed and cross-legged before the household shrine. The shelf was crowded with old-master heads, aged Buddha images, golden child figurines, and countless amulets and sacred objects. In front of Father Nil lay rows of ancient palm-leaf manuscripts, their edges blackened from being handled by generations, along with cloth-wrapped bundles of herbs that gave off a bitter green smell.
"I'm busy, Father. I made plans with Ming today. We're going to watch some guys play sepak takraw for money at the temple grounds, then walk around and look at the stalls in the district market."
Kham answered curtly as he veered toward the kitchen platform. He opened a basket of cold sticky rice, rolled the rice into balls, stuffed them into his mouth, and dipped them into the red-chili relish left clinging to the bottom of a bowl from the night before.
Father Nil raised his head from the palm-leaf manuscript and slowly set his brass-framed glasses beside him. His sharp eyes, like those of a hawk that had seen much of the world, fixed on his only son with weary exasperation.
"You... You're seventeen years old already. Stop fooling around and wandering off every day. Our occult lore and the medicinal texts handed down by your grandparents and ancestors aren't something to joke about. Why don't you ever think about studying and carrying them on? Someday, if you have to travel far, face the darkness in the deep forest, or run into wicked, violent men, all that modern knowledge from the Western doctors you worship so much won't be able to protect you from everything, Kham."
Kham chewed noisily on the sticky rice, swallowed with difficulty, and shot back in irritation.
"What age do you think this is, Father? Cars are kicking up dust everywhere. The doctor in town gives a patient one shot and they walk out feeling fine. What kind of ghosts or spirits can really cure anyone? If spells were so wonderful, why are we still dirt-poor, with the roof leaking on both sides? If you're so powerful, why don't you chant a spell to conjure money and gold into the house? Every day people bring rice, bunches of bananas, and boiled chickens to trade for medicine. When are we ever going to get ahead like the kamnan's family?"
"Kham!"
Father Nil's shout cracked through the house. His voice held anger, authority, and menace, but deep beneath it lay hidden concern.
"Occult lore exists to help fellow human beings in distress, not to satisfy greed or take advantage of others! You're arrogant and full of yourself because you've never encountered the real thing. The day you step into the deep jungle, face the forest curse, or come up against an unseen power, you'll understand that neither a shotgun nor modern medicine can always save your life!"
"I don't believe it, Father! I believe in these two hands and two feet of mine. I'll build my future with sweat, not holy water!"
Kham delivered the final word in a hard, defiant voice. Hot-blooded and young, he refused to back down. He grabbed a white crew-neck T-shirt faded from too many washings and pulled it on, tightened his loose cropped pants, and strode off the house without paying any attention to his father's long sigh as he watched him go.
Stubbornness, arrogance, and reckless temper were often the finest fuel for bringing trouble down on a young man's head.
That same afternoon, the broad square in front of the market near the district town was alive with people shopping. Cart merchants from other villages and provinces had brought goods to trade. The smells of local food, grilled meat, scented water, and tobacco wrapped in banana leaves filled the air. Voices haggling over prices rose in a constant clamor. Kham strolled through the crowd and met Ming, his close friend and the same age, who had grown up alongside him since childhood. Ming was sun-darkened, compact, and nimble. He was loyal and always tried to keep Kham grounded, but in the end he could never bring himself to refuse his friend and wound up getting into trouble alongside him every time.
They met at the old man's coffee stall, bought a glass of iced black coffee each, and drank with satisfaction before sitting in a small group beneath a large tamarind tree beside the market square.
"You know what, Kham? Yesterday I saw the timber truck belonging to that rich merchant driving past the temple. It was enormous. The engine was roaring like thunder. I really want to sign up as one of those drivers. They get paid a fortune. No more breaking my back in the rice fields."
Ming opened the conversation with shining eyes.
"I want to get out of here too, Ming. I'm sick of arguing with my father about ghosts and spirits every day. I want to make real money. Go to Bangkok, maybe, or find work in the timber camps. I'll prove to Father that a person can get rich with brains and two hands."
Kham answered while kicking thoughtfully at the dust.
But the peace and dreams of the afternoon were abruptly shattered by mocking laughter and the swaggering footsteps of Sing, the eldest son of Kamnan Man, the most influential and well-connected man in the area. Sing strutted into the market in front of four huge, muscular henchmen. The villagers hurriedly moved aside in fear. Some vendors even began packing up to leave, knowing that Sing often came around to collect protection money or simply snatch food without paying.
Sing was in his early twenties. He wore an expensive plaid shirt, slacks, and polished leather shoes. A thick gold chain as large as a bicycle chain hung around his neck, bearing a gold-plated amulet. He always acted like he owned the place, threatening and bullying anyone unable to fight back. As he passed a khanom chin stall, he picked up a boiled egg, peeled it, and ate it without a second thought or a cent of payment. Then he glanced over and saw Kham and Ming beneath the tamarind tree. He stopped, stretched his lips into a vicious grin, and headed straight for them.
"Well, look at this, boys. Who's hiding out over here? Why, it's Kham—the beloved son of the subdistrict's great shaman."
Sing spoke in a taunting, irritating voice and laughed loudly. His henchmen roared along with their boss's joke.
"Aren't you supposed to be helping your father sit there with his eyes closed, muttering nonsense and tricking rice out of the villagers? Or did everyone finally figure out what a fraud he is? Nobody's stupid enough to let your father boil them alive anymore, so now you're sitting here moping over a glass of iced coffee worth a few pennies?"
Kham shot to his feet. The glass in his hand nearly cracked beneath his grip. He clenched his fists until his knuckles turned white and stared at Sing without the slightest fear.
"Your mouth's really begging for a beating, Sing. Whatever my father does, whoever he treats, the villagers come to him willingly. He never went begging for rice at your house! You, on the other hand, spend every day preying on the villagers, using your father's authority to play the big gangster and extort people who can't fight back. You're nothing but a spoiled brat. Without your father, you wouldn't be worth a damn!"
"Kham! You dare insult me?"
Sing's face turned pale, then red with fury. The vein in his temple throbbed as he stepped right up to Kham and pointed in his face.
"Who the hell do you think you are, you little nobody? My father is the kamnan. He has guns, money, and hundreds of men. Everyone in this district has to bow their head to me. You're just the son of a penniless shaman, wallowing in superstition and pathetic spells. Your house is falling apart. I could stomp you into the dirt right here beneath my feet!"
"All you know how to do is rely on Kamnan Man's authority! If you're so tough, fight me one-on-one. I'm not afraid of you, you piece of trash!"
Kham fired back immediately, his blood boiling until he lost all sense. He completely forgot that the other side had more men, and that they were bigger than he was.
"You really want to test me, Kham? Fine! Beat the hell out of him, boys. Make him crawl home and bow at his father's feet!"
Sing shouted the order across the market.
The moment he finished speaking, all four of Sing's men lunged at Kham and Ming. A fight exploded in the middle of the market square. Vendors shrieked and shouted while the villagers backed away in a rush. Kham was only sixteen, but his body was powerfully built from hauling heavy loads, carrying timber, and walking through the forest. He twisted aside and barely avoided the first henchman's punch, then drove a straight right into the man's chin and sent him crashing onto the dusty ground in a cloud of dirt.
Kham leaped and kicked another man square in the chest as he charged from behind, sending him stumbling backward into a vegetable stall and knocking it apart. But two against five left them badly outnumbered. Ming tried to help his friend, jumping onto one of the henchmen and locking his arms around the man's neck, only to take a hard punch to the stomach from another. He doubled over, collapsed onto the ground, and was set upon by a rain of kicks.
When Kham turned anxiously to look at Ming, Sing seized the opportunity. He spotted a hand-sized bamboo pole lying nearby, grabbed it, and swung it hard into the middle of Kham's back. The blow landed with a sharp crack.
Kham cried out in pain and dropped to his knees, his vision going dark for a moment.
"I told you, you're a pathetic little son of a shaman!"
Sing laughed in triumph and kicked Kham hard in the ribs, sending him rolling through the dust. The metallic taste of blood filled Kham's mouth.
But pride kept him from giving up. Gritting his teeth against the pain radiating across his back, he scooped up a handful of dirt and sand and flung it straight into Sing's face. Sing howled and covered his eyes, blinded for a moment. Kham used the opening to push himself up and ram his head into Sing's chest, knocking them both flat. They grappled and thrashed across the dirt, each striking wildly. Kham climbed on top and punched Sing in the face again and again. Seeing their boss in trouble, Sing's henchmen rushed in, dragged Kham away, and beat and kicked him without restraint.
Finally, the village headman and several men from the market could stand it no longer. They ran in to intervene, struggling to pull the two sides apart.
"Let go of me! I'll get you for this, Kham! You and your father can get ready to die. You won't be staying in this subdistrict. I'll have my father send men to take care of you tonight. Just you wait!"
Sing wiped the blood from the corner of his mouth. His eyes were red with hatred as he shouted the threat in a vicious voice, then led his disheveled henchmen back to the military jeep parked in front of the market.
That evening, the cold wind blew harder than before. The last sunlight faded until only darkness remained, spreading over the village. Crickets began scraping their wings and calling. Kham limped home to the teak house in pitiful condition. His face was bruised black and blue, his left eye swollen shut, and the corner of his mouth split and bleeding. His favorite T-shirt was torn and smeared with dirt and blood. He clutched his ribs, which throbbed with every breath, and crept up the stairs one step at a time, hoping to slip into his room without his father seeing him.
But as soon as he stepped off the final stair, he stopped short. Father Nil was already sitting in the hall, waiting beside a lit kerosene lamp. The lamplight revealed the stern, worried face of his father.
Father Nil looked over his son's condition and released a long sigh. There was no anger in a father's eyes, only unmistakable worry and sorrow. He did not curse or reproach Kham even once. Instead, he slowly slid a bowl of holy water and a cloth-wrapped bundle of freshly pounded herbs—plai, turmeric, and aloe vera—toward him.
"Take this medicine and apply it to your wounds. I told you, didn't I, Kham? Impulsiveness, pride, and arrogance will bring great trouble down on your head."
Father Nil's voice was calm, but every word cut deep into the listener's heart.
"I didn't do anything wrong, Father. He came looking for trouble and insulted you first. He called you a fraud who deceives the villagers. I couldn't just accept that!"
Kham's voice weakened. Physical pain began shooting through him, but his eyes remained stubborn, refusing to admit fault.
"You may not have been wrong to get angry on my behalf or defend your own dignity. But you were wrong to underestimate your enemy. Using force to solve a problem without considering the consequences is foolishness. Sing is Kamnan Man's son. You know he has money, men, and gunmen... Earlier tonight, the kamnan's men came riding horses and prowled around in front of our house. They sent Thit Chot to warn me."
Father Nil paused and looked at his son heavily. His eyes grew darker.
"He said... if I don't drive you out of Phrae tonight, tomorrow morning they'll send a gunman to blow your head off right here in the house."
Kham's eyes widened in shock. Fear began to take shape in his heart for the first time. Only now did he understand the consequences of what he had done.
"What? Father, they'd really go that far? All this over a fistfight?"
"A thug like Kamnan Man will do it. He won't let some nobody like you humiliate his son in the middle of the market and make him lose face. A shotgun has no eyes. It won't ask who you are before it fires. And the law around here can't reach men like them."
While father and son sat in tense silence, faint footsteps sounded behind the house. Ming secretly climbed the back stairs, his face twisted with extreme panic. He was bruised no less badly than Kham, and he clutched a ragged cloth bundle containing two or three changes of clothes.
"Kham! Father Nil! This is bad!"
Ming whispered in fear, panting hard.
"I just overheard some of the adults talking... We can't stay in this house anymore, Kham. Kamnan Man's men are already at the entrance to the village, carrying double-barreled shotguns and watching the road. They're definitely planning to ambush us tonight. That's why I had to sneak here through the back gardens!"
"We're screwed... What am I supposed to do, Ming? Run for my life and hide somewhere?"
Kham asked, deeply troubled. He did not want to be the reason his father suffered too. If the men came to the house, his father might be caught in the crossfire.
"I've got a way out, my friend!"
Ming hurried on, a glimmer of hope in his eyes.
"This afternoon at the market, I heard cart merchants from the south talking. They said a huge timber concession is opening in the deep forest of Sukhothai Province, around Si Satchanalai. The big merchants need young men with strong backs to cut trees and haul logs. Anyone who knows how to judge an elephant's qualities can work as a mahout and earn even more. There's food and a place to sleep at the logging camp. The forest out there is dense and so far from help that no gun could reach it. It takes several days by cart. I guarantee Kamnan Man's influence won't reach us there. Let's go strike it rich and make something of ourselves!"
Kham stood speechless for a moment. Ming's proposal was like a light at the end of a tunnel. The frustration and resentment he felt toward his birthplace, along with his fierce desire to prove himself, rose up inside him. He saw a chance to face the wider world, to escape the shadow of being a "shaman's son," and to earn money with his own strength—to show his father that a person could become great without relying on spells.
"Let's go... I'm going, Ming!"
Kham accepted in a resolute voice, his eyes blazing with determination.
Father Nil listened silently to the two boys. He sighed once more, knowing that once his son made up his mind, it would be difficult to change it. This might be his only way out now—better than leaving him behind to wait for a bullet. Slowly, he rose and walked to the shrine. He bowed to his teachers and masters, then took down several important objects.
He returned to Kham and handed him the family's old healer's knife. The blade had been forged from Namphee steel the color of a jewel beetle's wing, while the handle and sheath were carved from golden takian wood and inscribed with ancient Lanna characters, giving them a solemn, fearsome appearance. He also gave his son a raw-cloth bundle containing several kinds of dried medicinal herbs.
"Since you've decided to go... I won't stop you."
Father Nil's voice was firm but carried deep affection.
"This is the healer's knife passed down by our ancestors since the time of your great-grandfather. Keep it on you at all times. Never let it leave your side. The forests of Sukhothai are vast, wide, and deep beyond measure. Remember what I'm telling you: the forest doesn't hold only wild beasts and jungle fever. It holds the forest curse, guardian spirits, forest ghosts, tree spirits, and hidden things beyond anything humans like us can imagine. These herbs and this knife may protect your life when you find yourself in desperate straits."
Kham accepted the healer's knife and medicine reluctantly. He hastily tied the knife sheath to his waist, intending to shove it into the bottom of his shoulder bag as soon as he was out of his father's sight.
"Don't worry, Father. I have hands, feet, strength, and a brain. I can take care of myself. I'll come back with enough money to build you a new house."
"Good luck... Remember my words. Keep your wits about you. Do not insult sacred things. Do not destroy any life without reason. And never, ever underestimate the forest."
Father Nil gave his final blessing and gently ran his rough hand over his son's head in farewell.
That very night, deep in the darkness, as the cold wind shrieked through the village, Kham and Ming each slung a shoulder bag over his back and slipped out of the teak house. They moved silently along the rice-field embankments and through the banana groves, avoiding the eyes of the kamnan's men lying in ambush. They headed for the southern footpath that led toward Sukhothai.
Before crossing beyond the village boundary, the seventeen-year-old boy looked back one last time at the tiny, fading lamplight shining from his father's window. His heart held no fear of anything. There was only ambition, hot blood, and absolute faith in his own two hands. He was ready to enter the world of timber work and confront his fate. His journey into the mysterious deep jungle was about to begin at that very moment.