by Kien Nguyen
Around him, the mist grew thicker, and the buffalo keeper blurred from view. Henri lay down and tried to sleep. The rope around his ankles limited his mobility, and the supine position made it difficult for him to breathe. Father François was twisting in his sleep. His soft snoring vibrated in the night.
Henri gazed at the sky. His mind drifted above his battered body with a sense of loss. The sky above the campfire was a wall of blue indifference. And the moon—a severed head—floated in a puddle of its own blood. Scattered thoughts rushed through his brain.
He fell asleep with his mouth open, as if preparing for a scream.
Morning came with a burst of sunshine. The brightness penetrated his eyelids and forced him to blink. His thoughts echoed, slow and remote, as if from a well. His first whim was to return to sleep, but approaching footfalls quickened his pulse.
Around the mountain, the moving forms of the peasant soldiers circled in groups of four or five to practice their combat skills. The mud smeared their feet; their clanking swords and scimitars mirrored the sun. Beyond them, the dark outlines of trees and shrubs climbed the mountain peaks against a blue sky.
Henri stretched. His right hand passed over his brow against the glare, and he realized he was no longer bound to the tree. The flood had receded during the night. The ground was exposed in small patches, forming a broken path toward Hue Citadel. Still, the current was churning too strongly for the rebel army to cross. Through a black mist of ash he saw a crumbling battlement. Here and there in the marshland jutted the upturned hulls of sampans that had been wrecked the night before while attempting to flee the city. The attacking fleet appeared to have entered the citadel. The acrid smells of gunpowder and sulfur tainted the air, making his eyes water. He thought he could hear cries from behind the fortress’s walls.
A hand clasped his shoulder, too rough to belong to François. He turned, and the buffalo keeper looked down at him. In the daylight, his body seemed scrawny and stunted. A formless black garment cloaked him to his knees. He narrowed his eyes in a grin.
“They are hunting for King Due Tong,” the boy said, pointing at the citadel. “A spy reported that he saw him escape last night with what remained of his army. I hope I can catch the soldier who knocked out my teeth. When I do”—he folded his hand and threw a punch in midair—“I’ll break every tooth in his mouth so he’ll spend the last of his days tied in a barn and slurping soup from a manger.”
Henri squinted in puzzlement. He had witnessed a great battle, but he understood little of what he had seen. He could not tell who was fighting, or who was winning. LGc’s anger made him uneasy, even though it was hardly a surprise. He wondered if he should preach to the native boy the philosophy of turning the other cheek. But he was no longer a missionary. The iron collar around his neck reminded him to hold his silence. Using his healthy hand, he rubbed LGc’s shoulder.
With a weak smile, he said, “I forgot how strong you are. The poor sentry, it would be his most unfortunate day on Earth if you ever got your hands on him.”
LGc snorted his appreciation of Henri’s sentiment.
Henri realized that his teacher was missing. “Do you know where Father François is?” he asked the boy.
“I released him early this morning, while you were asleep. He went to visit the wounded girl and her sister.”
“What do you mean by ‘released him’?” asked Henri. “Are we not your prisoners?”
“It would indeed be an offense against your god if I detained any of you holy men,” said LGc. “I’ve stated your innocence to my superiors and told them what we have endured together. They agreed to free you. You can leave whenever you wish, Teacher Henri. But if you depart from NgK Bình Mountain, you will not be under our protection. I urge you instead to join us.”
“I cannot, and neither can Father François,” replied Henri. “We must continue with our journey. My teacher is not well. He should return to France. And I intend to go with him wherever he goes. As you know, I am his only companion.”
Seeing the disappointment on LGc’s face, he pressed on. “Please take me to Father François. Besides, it would be ill mannered for me to leave the poor orphans without saying farewell.”
Henri followed LGc up the mountain along a path of footprints. As they ascended, the two young men passed through some thirty or more crude campsites. The main body of the peasant army clustered on the side nearer the river, while the leaders bivouacked two hundred yards higher, where they could observe the entire Hue region laid out like a map.
The trail twisted over slippery cliffs and past steep ravines until at last they came to a cave. In a clearing near its entrance, an empty hammock hung between the trunks of two banyan trees. No one was in sight. Henri peered into the darkness where the mountain was hollowed out. Beyond the opening lurked an unfamiliar dampness. The native boy went in, followed by Henri. He crouched to keep his head from hitting the low entrance.
Inside, coolness engulfed him. Toward the back of the cavern, a smoldering torch flickered. Black soot was smeared on the dome-shaped ceiling. The smells of wild herbs and rice alcohol were in the air.
Y Lan, the injured girl, lay on one side with her knees drawn up under the pink blouse. Her face was wrapped in a cloth that seemed to be bathed in some kind of plant sap. Nearby sat her sister on a rock, her chin resting on one knee. There was someone else, a woman, whose profile was lost in the surrounding blackness. A scarf was wrapped around her head. At her feet, a stone mortar held a thick reddish liquid. She soaked a round banyan leaf in the potion and handed it to Xuan. The girl then held the leaf over Y Lan’s face and pressed it lightly against the bandage covering her sister’s wound.
“Bó’ Y Lan, ba hôn chín vía, Y Lan, vê d-ây,” she chanted. The magic invocation entreated the wounded twin’s spirit, beckoning for her return.
A small fleck of red light illuminated Xuan’s exhausted, fearful face. François was nowhere in sight.
Xuan ceased her ritual to gaze at Henri. With a happy shout, she leaped over her sister and flew into his embrace. Henri was surprised, first by her reaction, and then by his own. A sudden warmth flooded his heart, and he pulled her closer to him, peering through the loose strands of her hair.
Under the torch, the woman rose to her feet, turned around, and removed her scarf. Her hair was golden, its sheen reflecting the flames. And while Henri looked on, she walked past him to exit the cave. It was Sister Lucía. Whether or not she recognized him, the nun showed no expression.
The other twin watched them from her bed. But before he could react to the shock of Sister Lucía’s presence, he saw pain course through Y Lan’s bandaged face. Henri broke away from Xuan. Her fingers, wet from the medicine, left purple marks across his tunic.
“You found us,” Xuan whispered. “We couldn’t bear to be trapped here alone. But now you’ve come.”
A cry escaped Y Lan’s throat. Her face became red as she struggled to sit up. The dressing gripped her skin. Xuan ran back to assist her, reaching for the banyan leaf to soothe her face. She resumed her chanting to the rhythm of her hands. Bó’ Y Lan, ba hôn chín vía, Y Lan, vê d-ây.
Henri came closer. In his confusion, he wondered where Sister Lucía had gone. His shadow draped over the twins.
“I believe she is trying to speak,” he said. “What shall we do to understand her?”
“I know what she wants to say,” replied Xuan. Her voice sounded thin and weary. “She cannot endure the pain.”
She placed the leaf on Y Lan’s face. The wound soaked up more liquid, and her masklike bandage reflected the fire.
“Hush,” she muttered. “Don’t try to talk. It only makes your wound bleed more.”
The injured girl lowered herself back on the nest of leaves. Her neck tightened, and a few sounds escaped her throat. This time, Henri could understand her anguished cry.
“I want my má!” she called out. “Where is má?”
Xuan choked back tears. LGc sat on the ground
next to Y Lan. He lifted her head and laid it in the cradle of his arm. To Henri’s surprise, LGc took the leaf from Xuan’s hand and continued the strange practice, calming the sick girl with his tenderness.
“Bó’ Y Lan, ba hôn chín vía, Y Lan, vê d-ây,” he sang. “Y Lan, I retain thy three souls and nine spirits in thy body. Do not dare to depart! Instead, I command thee to heal thyself.”
Without thinking, Henri said, “Why are you chanting that superstitious hymn?”
LGc raised an eyebrow to look up at him. “I am no longer your disciple, Teacher Henri. If you decide to stay with us, you can teach what healing power your god possesses, and then we will listen.”
The soft light inside the chamber grew dark, and an outraged voice exploded from behind Henri. “Nonsense!”
The word echoed against the walls. Henri turned and faced a group of peasants. Some of them were clad wholly in black; others wore protective armor made from bamboo.
Standing in front of the rebels was a young man in his early twenties—undoubtedly the mightiest Annamite man Henri had ever seen. His wavy jet-black hair fell to his broad shoulders. Except for the horsehair string of an ivory bow wrapped across his muscular torso, he was bare-chested, and over his shoulder a quiver of arrows was visible. His tanned, smooth upper body towered over the other peasants. With his handsome features and firm posture, he reminded Henri of an oak tree.
On his right stood a woman warrior, clasping a naked sword. Its handle, half-hidden in her grip, was adorned with jewels that sparkled with a rainbow of color. Unlike the weapon, she seemed crude and earthy, with a weathered face and a long, flat body. Her thin lips were pressed together, and her eyes, much too far apart to be considered attractive, looked at Henri with a scrutiny that made him divert his stare.
Next to her was François, cleaner than the night before. In place of his dirty rags was the same black garb worn by the peasant soldiers. Henri realized that his teacher no longer wore the metal collar.
“Prince Thom!” exclaimed LGc. He bowed his head.
Xuan fell to her knees.
Thom opened his arms and smiled, showing a row of straight, white teeth. “You must not pressure anyone to join the West Mountaineers,” he said to LGc. “We are an army of volunteers, and our warriors are fighting for freedom. If the foreign teachers do not wish to stay, they can leave of their own free will.”
Henri looked at the rebel prince. Thom spoke Annamite in a pure form, much like the language Henri had absorbed from Father François while on shipboard, and the novice could understand him far better than he could the other peasants. Still, he was so full of questions, he did not know where to begin.
He asked, “Who are the West Mountaineers? And why are you attacking the citadel?”
Thom put one foot on a rock and assumed a relaxed pose. His voice was gentle when he replied to Henri. “Foreigner, you speak our language well, but I see that you understand little of our political affairs. Let me inform you about our history. Seven years ago, when the boy king Due Tong was crowned, he was twelve years old. Since he was unable to rule the kingdom on his own, he appointed Truong Loan as his vice-king. Loan became a fiend and in a short time had gathered enough power and wealth to govern the country.
“The vice-king decided to raise and collect unlimited taxes. They were so high that the peasants were unable to pay them. Those who could not pay were forced to give up their lands, or to sell their cattle, or, worse, to send their children into slavery. Loan himself sired many offspring, and he arranged for them and the king’s relatives to be raised in wealthy houses throughout the land, where the families were forced to support them in royal style. In order to accommodate this heavy load, the local rich in turn robbed their poor. As for the king’s army, any warrior who did not wish to go to war could buy his way out with ivory, gold and silver pieces, or other treasure. The country was racked by corruption, hunger, and injustice.”
He drew a deep breath. “My brothers and I are the only hope that the peasants have. We are fighting for our survival and freedom, and for a fair government. You asked who the West Mountaineers are. They are each and every one of us—the peasants of Cochin China. We have not yet attacked the citadel because we are not strong enough. The northern kingdom of Tonkin is trying to crush the South. It was their war boats and cannons that you saw last night. We are here biding our time.”
Henri asked, “Why are you coming to the battle if you are not going to fight?”
Thom said, “In many ways, the northern army is far better prepared than we are. Like the southern king, they know about us and also consider us rebels. Our goal at this time is to capture the royal family of the southern kingdom as they flee the citadel, and then turn them over to the North. In that way, we can establish an alliance with the northern king and ensure our survival and safety. They need our help because we are the farmers. We are the men who work the land. Without us, their wealth will dwindle to nothing.”
“But, Prince Thom, clearly you are an educated man. How can you be both a prince and a farmer?”
He gave a boisterous laugh. “A prince of the poor is a peasant nonetheless. I wear their clothes and carry their banner. My education came from a few years of schooling. You can address me as Thom.”
“Why are you telling me all this?” Henri asked.
His boldness seemed to exasperate the woman warrior. She glared at him.
The prince replied, “You saved our children even when you were in danger, as any true holy man would. Every year, more and more of the white ghosts enter our country. We have no choice but to learn their ways. In return for the freedom I am about to grant you, I want you to tell them about our plight so that they can understand who we are and what we are fighting for.”
He turned to the female warrior. “This is Lady Bui, one of my chief commanders. She is so skillful with her sword that she can remove an enemy’s eyes during battle without taking his life. She will now release the yoke of denouncement from your neck.”
The woman strode forward and her sword flashed. The blade’s tip snicked into the lock that held the collar together. Then she twisted her wrist, pulling Henri forward. His neck was inches from the blade. After a few such thrusts, the lock broke in half. When the woman withdrew her weapon, the collar slipped to the stony ground with a thud. He clutched his neck, expecting to feel a gush of blood, but instead, his fingers glided across smooth skin, itching from the brisk air. At last, he was able to breathe again.
“Teacher, you are a free man,” Thom said. “Now, you can go.”
In the clearing outside the cave, the missionaries divided their scanty possessions into two bamboo baskets. Most precious among them were the gifts of food and clothing given to them by Thom, the peasant prince. Fresh fruits, cooked rice, and chunks of sun-dried venison wrapped in banana leaves formed tidy packages for their journey. In addition to the clean garments they had on, each man received an extra article of clothing, made from the same heavy plain-woven fabric and dyed in vegetable ink to a muddy, nondescript color.
At Thom’s command, one of the soldiers produced a donkey to carry the goods. Henri attached the baskets to both sides of the saddle, making sure to distribute the weight evenly. He was able to feel his fingers again, thanks to a shaman who had reset and splinted them. Their dull ache reassured him that they were still part of him.
As he prepared the donkey, the peasant prince perched a few feet above him on the branch of a banyan tree. Thom was looking down at the city with steady concentration. His bow and arrows were slung from a branch near his fingertips, within easy reach. His attention was riveted on things that Henri’s untrained eyes would never see.
Through a deep green curtain of leaves, the sun dappled yellow dots of light on the hard soil, and above him the trees tossed their limbs in the wind. When the pack was secured on the donkey’s back, Henri looked up at François, who was staring at the ground with an absent expression.
“We are ready to leave, sir,”
he said to Prince Thom. “With your permission.”
Behind him he heard a sniffle. He turned and saw Xuan standing in the shadow of the cave’s entrance, with her arms wrapped around Sister Lucía.
“Where is Sister Natalia?” he asked the nun.
“Dead,” she replied.
“How did she die?”
Lucía rubbed her temples with the palms of her hands.
Prince Thom answered, “We rescued your friend from the house of TuyBn when we invaded Quinion. She was the only one who survived. We are grateful to have her helping us with the sick and wounded.”
Lady Bui added, “The shaman has been teaching her his healing skills.”
The news of Natalia’s death left Henri speechless. The fact that Lucía had survived the brutality of the soldiers amazed him.
“Where are you planning to go?” the prince asked. Pointing to François, he added, “He’s obviously not well.”
Henri frowned, thinking. The speckles of sunlight grew rounder on the ground. It was almost noon. Soon he would be somewhere on the graveled trail, taking François away from Hue City, and these dismal events would become little dots of memory, stored in the darkest places of their minds. He could feel his veins pounding with the desire for motion.
“I want to take my teacher to Quinion Port,” he replied. “There we will find a ship that will take us back to France. Since Father François is unable to make his own decision, I think it is best for him to return home. I have a mother waiting for me in Paris, so I am going with him. It seems a terribly long time since I left.” He gave a low gasp, suddenly aware of the import of his words. “I can’t stay here any longer. I must go home.”
Turning to the nun, he said, “Sister Lucía, come home with us.”
