Le Colonial

by Kien Nguyen

  Unlike the mournful Sister Lucía, Sister Natalia was a robust yet quiet nun just a few years older. Her physical being was as unremarkable as her personality. Working outdoors gave her plain face a healthy glow. The two young nuns recited their prayers together, often in a whisper. They were gentle and secretive, like doves.

  The eldest of the nuns was the lanky Sister Regina. In the morning, when the first round of roosters crowed, she roused herself from her hammock and left for the fields, wearing a straw hat that she had woven with the help of the village women. Her face, long and bony, was nearly as pasty as the stack of rice cakes she brought along for breakfast and lunch. No amount of hours under the sun could make her skin darken. Even the strongest noontime rays only added more freckles and wrinkles. The children put together a few French words they had learned from Henri and teased her with a new nickname: ma S?207-156?ur Pâle—“my Pale Nun.” She ignored them the same way she ignored François’s orders, clutching a simple cherrywood crucifix around her neck and mumbling under her breath.

  Ma S?207-156?ur Pâle dedicated her time to cultivating rice in a field that the village chief had designated for the use of the cha sú’, as the locals called the missionaries. Sisters Lucía and Natalia spent most of their day teaching the women and children basic lessons in language, history, and hygiene, as well as nursing the sick. When they washed their laundry along the riverbank, they were often joined by giggling women and children, who chattered to them in Annamese and sang songs that sounded like an out-of-tune violin.

  As an artist, François found it difficult to appreciate the native music and culture. Their paintings were limited to crude, repetitive, and unimaginative themes such as birds, trees, and flowers. They had no concept of sculpture or works of art in three dimensions, except for a few rudimentary forms of pots and vases. Their literature was mostly borrowed from the Chinese.

  Sometimes, as he rocked in his coarse hammock, François was troubled by the void in his heart where he knew a Jesuit missionary should feel compassion for his flock. This, he deduced, would come with time.

  He entered his second monsoon season, a period from May through October in which the weather could bring pounding rains or brilliant sunshine seemingly without warning. The field grasses grew so tall that elephants and rhinoceroses could hide in them. As the monsoons faded and the peasants began the heavy work of harvesting their crops, he realized it had been more than two years since he had left France. His life back in Villaume had taken on the hazy contours of a distant dream. It seemed to him that he had been in this exotic land forever.

  He grew thinner. His gaunt cheekbones protruded noticeably. His new diet included mostly rice and vegetables, and when meat was served, it had little to none of the fat he had been used to; but he never made his complaints known. Other obstacles demanded his attention. One morning, Sister Lucía discovered, much to her repugnance, that tiny black insects had infested François’s hair and beard. She had to shave his head. From then on, with his brown peasant outfit, dark eyes, and bare, shiny skull, the villagers could easily mistake him for a Buddhist monk.

  Word spread of the tall, round-eyed foreigner who practiced strange rituals, and peasants from nearby villages came to him out of sheer curiosity. Some said he was a holy man; others claimed that he was a white wizard sent by a Western god. These rumors were reinforced after they saw him and witnessed the beauty of his art. To them, he was a man of mysteries, distinguished from the other foreigners by a wall of superiority.

  François prayed with the villagers outdoors, performed the daily Mass, and baptized newcomers into the fold. His faith and commitment to his church, spurred by his success, soared like a kite. But unlike other missionaries, who had eagerly become a part of the new environment and adopted the parishioners as newfound friends, he kept most of his private time to himself.

  In solitude he rocked in his woven hammock, observing the world beyond the rectangular frame of his window. There, he would either add new entries to his French-Annamite dictionary or record his daily journal in a series of sketches.

  He knew it would be the achievement of a lifetime to establish Christianity here among these needy souls, and although his progress was slow, he believed his goal was attainable. But his efforts crumpled one gray, gusty day in October.

  Fast and cruel and furious were the stallions that galloped across the bamboo hedges. From where he stood, knee-deep in the river and halfway through a baptism, François could see about two dozen riders—bearded men with silk headdresses and fine embroidered attire. They were armed with swords, scimitars, and lances—the typical weapons of the East. Nearing the river, they slowed their advance. Harsh-voiced equestrians herded a crowd of villagers together like cattle.

  François was confused. The howls of men in pain, mixing with the terrified cries of children and women and the blasts of a horn, terrified him. Panic spread through the congregation that had gathered at the riverbank. Fighting his urge to run, François stepped out of the water and looked for Henri.

  To his relief, he spotted his novice, his five Annamese disciples, and the nuns standing in front of the mission. All appeared to be in shock. The Westerners had been convinced that the Annamites were a peaceful race who were only capable of singing love songs, making babies, fishing in the river, and planting rice shoots in the paddies. The sight of the armed riders and their warhorses, plunging and rearing behind the frightened crowd, was hard to comprehend.

  Grabbing one another’s hands, the nuns ran behind a large willow tree and watched the marauders pull to a halt a hundred feet from the mission. The peasants fell to the muddy ground in front of them. The soldiers’ banners, high on bamboo poles, snapped in the wind, and their brass horns blasted terrifying sounds.

  Following them came a horse-drawn wagon piled high with sugarcane, bamboo shoots, dried tobacco leaves, and two large cylindrical earthen jars. From behind the cart, Mandarin Chi TuyBn, on a spirited gray stallion, pressed forward and regarded his captured peasants. The cord and tassel of his cummerbund flicked around his slim frame like a silver python. As he faced the villagers, his men stretched out on each side to form a half-circle wall and box them in. There was no escape, except for the river, its golden haze behind them.

  Some villagers had already plunged into the water and swum away. Others turned around and rolled up their sleeves, prepared to fight; but their will and courage were quickly dimmed by the fierceness of the army. A sunbeam pierced the day’s dull glare, and for a moment, François could see nothing but the brilliant flashes that reflected from the soldiers’ weapons. The aroma of fish sauce and fresh mud permeated the air—the distinct odor of the peasants. Henri held out his arms and enfolded Sister Lucía’s delicate white shoulders. She pulled the other nuns along with her.

  It was noon. François pushed his way through the peasants until the missionaries were finally clustered together.

  “You know who I am,” the mandarin shouted. “Why are you trying to hide? For two years your village has neglected to pay land taxes and perform its annual statutory duty to the king. Today you must settle these debts or face dreadful consequences. Where is your elder? Where is that SL? Let him come forth!”

  The horse neighed as if to emphasize its master’s words. No one dared to speak. The naked children hid behind their mothers’ ragged skirts.

  François watched the mandarin’s yellow face, beaded with sweat. His features were distorted into a grimace of hate and exhaustion. It had been more than a year since François had seen the governor. Time had worn his withered body. It seemed to the priest that this was not a healthy man. He wondered if he should speak up on the villager’s behalf, but decided it was not his place to interfere.

  “Where is that elder of yours?” the governor shouted, devouring the captives with his eyes. “Who among you will show me the hut in which that rat is hiding? Make haste and speak up! I don’t like to be kept waiting.”

  A murmur spread among the huddled villagers. T
he governor veiled a triumphant smile beneath his fringe of whiskers. Before anyone could speak, SL, the village elder, pushed forward, leaning on a black staff. His footsteps dragged on the damp earth. He wore the brown ceremonial robe, the same one that François regularly borrowed to celebrate Mass. From his waist, the long skirt of the tunic separated into two panels, tattered and caked with dirt. The governor gave a thin chuckle.

  “Oh, Master TuyBn,” said SL, “there is no need to set a price on me. I am of no value. Must you come here in person, armed with guards so strong and so full of rage? You frighten the women and children.”

  “I’ve come to collect the king’s taxes,” snapped the governor.

  “We are poor peasants, Mandarin TuyBn,” said SL, pointing at the few acres of rice paddies around them. “As you can see for yourself, we have very few young men to plow the soil. Many have run off into the mountains. Without a large crop, we have no means of paying our tribute. We barely have enough food to feed ourselves.”

  Anger flashed in the governor’s eyes. His hands gripped the horse’s reins and pulled back. The animal gave a cry and reared its front legs upward. One flailing hoof kicked the wooden staff from SL’s grasp. He lost his balance and fell to the ground.

  “Then what do you do all day, old man?”

  The elder opened his mouth to reply. But before he had a chance, Mandarin TuyBn interrupted him. “It would take more than a few hectares of uncultivated lands for you to convince me that you are destitute. Any dog, cattle, or creature that lives in this land must pay its taxes to the king, and so must the people of Kim Lai. How can you be so disloyal? Not only have you stopped paying your public dues and encouraged your men to run away, but you are also harboring these white ghosts who preach the words of a foreign god. If their god is so powerful, why didn’t he bless you with gold and silver and many healthy sons?”

  SL fumbled on the wet ground in search of his staff. François, unable to remain still, strode forward, picked up the rod, and handed it to him. The old man leaned on François’s arm. The warhorse’s breath was above them, hot and impatient. Despite his fear, the priest kept his expression calm. God’s strength was within him. His disciples were watching. He retreated back into the crowd out of respect for Mr. SL. This was a secular matter. The old man must handle it his way.

  “But the people have nothing to offer you,” said SL, returning his attention to Mandarin TuyBn. “It is you that force them to run away, sire. Your very presence makes everyone want to flee.”

  “Don’t flatter me, old man,” said the governor. “Your people have one thing that I could put to use: the children.”

  The village chief cried out in disbelief. His tunic’s skirts whipped in the wind. The crowd behind him shuddered. Mandarin TuyBn’s men drew closer. Rattan ropes with grappling hooks flew from one soldier to the next as they prepared to attack. The women sank down on their haunches and clutched their children to their bosoms. Their husbands and fathers formed a circle around them.

  “You would not be so cruel, dear sir,” croaked the elder. “Beware of your retribution in heaven’s eye. The children are all we have left in this village. Take the cattle and the oxen. We will pull the plows ourselves. Or take us. But please, spare our young.”

  TuyBn stayed motionless. François thought he saw the mandarin furrow his brow. He prayed to see some compassion come alive on the governor’s face. Surely if François entrusted his fate to God, he would be rewarded with a miracle. He must!

  But the mandarin remained adamant. François heard a clamor behind him. He turned and saw that a few guards had spurred their horses to charge through the crowd. Some of the villagers were caught between the animals, fighting the soldiers with their bare hands. The air filled with anguished cries. Among the voices, François heard Sister Lucía’s scream.

  A soldier rode his stallion at a gallop into the group of nuns, shouting to frighten everyone else out of his way. With a clenched fist, he threw a punch at one of François’s disciples. It was LGc, Mr. SL’s son, who had been François’s first convert. The boy fell to the ground, his face bloody. In the same motion, the horseman leaned forward, wrapped his arm around the waist of the blond nun, lifted her off her feet, and flung her facedown on his saddle. She let out another cry that echoed through the barren fields. Her white legs, like the wings of a trapped moth, kicked in desperation. The soldiers cheered. Her captor’s hair and beard streamed as he made a circle around the prisoners.

  “Stop, you fools!” cried the mandarin. His voice was shrill and high.

  At once the guards returned to their original posts, waiting for their master’s next command. François felt he had received an answer to his prayer—the mandarin had revealed his empathetic side. Without thinking, he ran toward the soldier who was holding Sister Lucía. Her frightened, flushed face was being forced downward by the soldier’s burly hand. Soft locks of her long blond hair dangled below the horse’s belly.

  “Release her!” His voice quivered, weak as a child’s.

  The eyes of the mandarin were upon him. He prayed for God to be on his side. Whatever happened now was beyond his control. Suddenly he became aware of the silence he had just created.

  “Man from the evil land of the West,” said the mandarin, “I have warned your kind not to make empty promises to me. It has been over a year; where is my tribute? Where are my cannons, gunpowder, and all the supplies I was guaranteed? How dare you preach your religion or build your home in my province without paying your dues? Now you are turning the peasants against me with your falsehoods. No one works anymore. You have brought nothing but misfortune to my land. Compared to the mountain rebels, you are even more dangerous.”

  François gathered courage. “You must have patience, sire. Captain Petijean is a man of his word. If he promised to bring you those things, he will, as soon as his ships arrive.”

  TuyBn cracked his riding crop. It stung as it slashed against François’s face. He could hear the governor’s voice roar in unrestrained fury. “White devil, I have waited long enough. I blame you and your false cult for everything that became ill fated. Today I shall teach you a lesson for disrespecting our culture, our laws, and our ancestral deities.” Turning to his guards, he commanded, “Arrest all the foreigners and those that follow them.”

  The crowd slid away at the sight of the soldiers’ advancing horses. Henri and the two nuns stood frozen on the riverbank, as if paralyzed by the mandarin’s venomous hatred. Nearby, LGc rose to his feet. Blood and sand trickled from a large cut on his upper lip. He spat a tooth on the ground, turned to the mandarin, and cursed. His voice was lost in the tumult.

  The horseman that held Sister Lucía laughed and asked, “Master, will you reward us with this female devil?”

  His request received a cackle from Mandarin TuyBn.

  “Let me go!” Sister Lucía screamed. Her accent ignited a burst of laughter from the soldiers.

  Ma S?207-156?ur Pâle sprang forward, brushing past François. She grabbed the blond nun’s feet and tried to whirl her off the saddle, but was too weak to succeed. In a rage, she pounded her fists on the mounted soldier’s leg. The man stopped laughing. He had not expected this reaction from the nun. He clutched his reins as his horse spun away from her. François thought she would be trampled under the charging steed. But she clung on, sinking her teeth and nails into the soldier’s flesh. He roared in pain.

  Another soldier came to his rescue, thrusting a pitchfork straight into her back. So great was the force of his blow that the implement’s spikes slipped right through her. Ma S?207-156?ur Pâle fell against the horse. Inside her muddy black robe, her long, bony limbs jutted outward in a convulsion. The guard lifted her off the ground, allowing her body to stiffen before he thrust it back down. It was a long, agonizing moment watching her die.

  Sister Regina lay still on the ground.

  The horse that carried the other soldier and his blond captive continued turning until François came face to face with S
ister Lucía. She was screaming uncontrollably. But her cries ceased when she saw the corpse of the older nun.

  She looked at François, eyes wide with horror. Then a surprising calmness overcame her. “If you live to see Brother João,” she said to François, “please tell him that I have always loved him.”

  One of the royal soldiers came from behind François and struck the side of his head with a club. He fell on his face. The pain was almost bearable, but the ringing in his ear was deafening. From the muddy ground, he looked up, searching for Sister Lucía. The soldier had taken her away. He saw a few thin strands of smoke coming from the roof of his mission. From inside, red tongues of fire reached upward, consuming the entire year of his labor.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Quinion, 1775

  Mandarin TuyBn, governor of Quinion Province, was furi- ous as he neared his home three days later. Sitting astride his gray stallion on a small hill overlooking his properties, he frowned at the untended rice paddies and burned remains of cornfields. The deserted, tumbledown thatched huts of his villages were as dispiriting as they had been when he left. His failure to collect taxes from his farmers added to his frustration. Behind this devastation were the rebellious peasants who called themselves the West Mountaineers. In this dilemma, TuyBn stood alone.

  The opulent city of Quinion was about three hundred kilometers south of Hue City, the capital of the South Kingdom. To travel this great distance would take several days, and to get aid from King Due Tong’s military troops would take at least another six months. His Majesty was only nineteen, and the actual ruler of the country was his chief adviser, Vice-king Truong Loan, who would never authorize an army unless he received a substantial bribe. The rebels understood Mandarin TuyBn’s weakened position and took advantage of it. They raided his granaries, torched his fields, and stole his cattle. Even if the peasants’ forces overcame his stronghold, it would take weeks before the young king could learn the news and take action. By then Hue City, too, would be in danger.