Le Colonial

by Kien Nguyen

  The trees moaned under a restless wind. A swarm of fireflies surged around him. All the living souls that were sprinkled across the valley were asleep, waiting. He could see that he had been the one who was chosen to safeguard this strange flock, teach them the mercy of God, and lead them to salvation.

  He smiled. It was a new beginning. His next destination was clear in his mind: the King’s Screens Mountains. Prince Thom of the West Mountaineers had offered him a place in his army. If anyone could help him reestablish his church among the peasants, it would be Thom.

  François reached the mountain at dawn on the fourth day. As the morning fog receded, he saw clusters of the West Mountaineers camping along the riverbank. He went up the familiar path to search for Thom.

  To his right, a pair of Annamites clashed their weapons in a mock battle. As he walked past them, neither man seemed to notice his presence. Here among the poor, his ragged clothing brought him acceptance.

  He scaled the hill, panting and calling for LGc. His faltering enunciation drew a few suspicious glances. He waved to the onlookers, and they slipped back to their activities. He headed toward the cave, expecting to find LGc or Sister Lucía, because it was the last place he had seen them.

  A shout from behind the fence to his right drew his attention, only to be drowned by the prolonged lowing of an animal. He gazed into a dense herd of elephants and horses. Among their massive bodies he saw LGc’s impish face. Behind the boy stood Lady Bui, the female warrior. The long sleeves of her shirt were rolled past her elbows. Blood smeared her hands.

  LGc sprang up, beaming his sunken smile. Raising his arm, he whipped a stalk of sugarcane in the air to greet the priest. Then, with a shout, he raced across the stony field and leaped over the animal pen’s bamboo railing. Like Lady Bui, he was splattered with thick, red fluid.

  “Father François, you are back.”

  “Yes, I am,” replied François with equal enthusiasm. As the boy ran closer, he said, “I am glad to find you here, still camping on this mountain.” Concern eroded his joy. “But what’s this? Is that blood on you? Are you hurt?”

  The agonizing trumpet of an elephant shook the ground.

  “LGc, come here,” Lady Bui shouted. “I need your help.”

  The boy gave François an apologetic look. “I am fine, but I must go. One of the elephants, Mia, is giving birth.”

  He vaulted the fence and ran back to the female general.

  François followed. He could see the leathery face of an elephant hovering above him, one big, dark eye glaring with distrust. Its skin, stretched painfully at the midsection, hung on a wall of ribs. A wave of contractions rippled along its belly. He heard it whining as it shifted its lower body about the field, and he found himself touching it, massaging the rough surface that was caked with dried mud, trying to soothe the creature’s pain.

  “This ground is forbidden to strangers,” Lady Bui said without looking at him.

  “I want to help,” he said.

  Her arms were raised toward the elephant as she turned to François, squinting. Then he saw the crimson stream streak down the animal’s hind legs. A stubby tail arched in midair.

  The priest stood transfixed.

  Lady Bui said to him, “Do you see that bucket over there? Fill it with water so you can wash Mia and keep her cool. Behind the hut there is a stream. LGc, show him!”

  The boy led him across a dusty pasture and toward the woods. The moans of the elephant came louder.

  “Why hasn’t the army moved on?” he asked LGc once they were out of the female general’s sight.

  “Prince Thom is waiting to meet with the leader of the North Army,” LGc said. “So far we have no permission to enter the citadel. We’re still looking to capture the king of the south. Father, you came back —”

  He gave François’s arm a rough squeeze and then broke away in embarrassment. Turning anxious, he asked, “Where is Teacher Henri? Have you seen Xuan? I could not find her anywhere. Sister Lucía said that Xuan has run away to look for you.”

  They reached the stream. The priest placed his hand on LGc’s shoulder.

  “Do not worry!” he said. “Xuan is safe. Henri is looking after her.”

  “But who is looking after Henri?”

  “God is, dear child. It is time for the boy to find a mission of his own. I feel certain we shall see them again someday.”

  LGc turned in the direction of Lady Bui and said, “I am worried about Mia. I hope she won’t bleed to death.”

  François nodded. When they returned to the birth scene, the elephant did not move. Humbly, she was leaning against a tree, making a low-pitched moan. Somehow, during their short absence, the beast had given birth. Her baby lay in a puddle of blood and afterbirth, still connected to her by the umbilical cord.

  Lady Bui took the bucket from François’s hands and splashed the water on the new mother. She whispered in the animal’s ear. The elephant responded by massaging the lady’s back with her trunk. François noticed the jagged edge of a broken tusk a few inches above Lady Bui’s face.

  “It’s a boy,” she said proudly to François.

  The priest chuckled.

  “Since you wanted to help, priest,” she said, “you can name him.”

  Her compressed lips hinted at a smile. For the first time, he looked at her closely, and he noticed a certain motherly appeal in her face. He scratched his head, at first unable to think of a name. Then a thought entered his mind.

  He said with conviction, “Tín.” It was the Annamese word for faith.

  Comprehension washed over her face. With a generous thrash of her hand, she smacked her knee and beamed her approval.

  “Good name. From now on, he is Tín.”

  The next morning, François went to the great banyan trees to look for Sister Lucía. The cave was empty. The smell of an infected wound lingered in the air. With every step, he could hear the echo playing off the walls, increasing his sense of desolation.

  From the far end of the cave, a flickering light beckoned him. He blinked, looked again, and saw nothing. But as he sat on a boulder, the light flashed again from behind rows of stalagmites.

  As his eyes adjusted to the dimness, he could see, farther in a corner, a pile of debris that included broken arrows, damaged swords, and rusty utensils. Beyond that, the end of the cavern disappeared into the darkness, and it came to him that there must be a passage through to the other side of the mountain. He went forward, feeling his way with his hands.

  The stone walls were pocked with cuts and crevices, but none was large enough for a man to fit through. He kept moving forward until a cool wind breathed on his face, and his hand reached into emptiness—a doorway. Faintly, he could hear running water. He inhaled and stepped forward. The light was just strong enough for him to glimpse his surroundings.

  After several turns, the channel grew narrower. At one point, François had to squeeze his body sideways in order to pass through. He strained for the sound of the brook, hoping his ears would compensate for his lack of vision. At last, a blinding light fell on him from high up above a cliff. As the view opened up, the priest rubbed his eyes, overcome by the beauty before him.

  He was facing a clear lake, which was surrounded by rising peaks of jagged cliffs. Nature had made these walls so steep that it was impossible for anyone to climb up or down. He felt as if he were at the bottom of a dormant volcano, reaching for a patch of blue sky above. A few paces away, near a green bank, a bell-shaped gong dangled from an arched frame. Next to it, from a wooden armature, hung a log, waiting to strike.

  A shaft of light fell into the lake, glittering on the white feathersof a flock of painted storks. Along the perimeter, flowers of rainbow colors hosted hummingbirds and butterflies. To his right, a trio of glossy-maned colts nosed through the grass in a lazy search for food. He could see their mirror images in the water. Their presence suggested that there must be at least one other way to enter the valley.

  Feasting his eyes
on the beautiful scenery, François noticed little cave dwellings in the rocks. Each had a white door, along with window frames and shutters that were also painted white. A few figures crept alongside the shaded paths, but he was unable to distinguish who or what they were. One of them stepped forward into the light, and François recognized Sister Lucía. Like a vision, she was bathed in a golden aura.

  With a shove, she sent the log flying into the gong. Its resonant sound stirred the painted storks into the air as it boomed against the mountain walls. As if answering its summons, more of the inhabitants emerged from behind the white doors. Their faces and parts of their bodies were wrapped in white linen. He saw a stick-thin old man who was missing an arm, a younger one thrusting his legless trunk across the rocky ground. To the priest’s right staggered what looked like a rotting, living corpse of a woman. Her child dangled in the folds of her tattered clothing, sucking on her discolored breast. Among the faces, he saw Y Lan. Beneath the girl’s bandage, her agonizing look had been replaced by a dull tranquillity.

  Hearing François’s gasp, Sister Lucía turned and saw him.

  “Oh, Father, you’ve come to join us,” she said.

  François retreated several steps.

  “Who are these people?” he asked. “And why are you here with them?”

  “Welcome to Lepers’ Cavern,” she said. “These are God’s unwanted children.”

  His voice shook as he said, “B-but they are h-highly contagious. You c-could turn into one of them.”

  Her expression was serene. “I am one of them. I may not have sores on my flesh, but my insides are decaying.”

  He heard LGc calling him from a distance, a thoughtless adolescent voice: “Father, where are you?”

  He took Sister Lucía’s hand. “You are beautiful. In God’s eyes and in mine.”

  LGc called again, “Father, Prince Thom is waiting. You must come at once.”

  Lucía drew her hand away. “You should go,” she said.

  He muttered a good-bye. “I’ll see you again.”

  He turned and forced himself to hurry back through the cave.

  The rebels’ seat of government was high up on the mountain, on a ledge where the leaders could oversee their entire army. To get there, François and LGc had to climb a tortuous path, which grew increasingly narrow and difficult. On either side, the forest, with its twisting ancient trees and deep ravines, was home to a thousand dangers. Above him, the sharp pinnacles were indistinguishable behind thick white clouds.

  They walked toward the faint, reedy sound of a flute that rose through the rocky gullies. Even though he made no comment to LGc about Lepers’ Cavern, François was still disturbed by what he had seen there. As much as he tried to regain his composure, he knew the shock must be evident in his stiff body.

  Ahead, on a patch of green grass, stood a row of bamboo huts. Nearby, a brook foamed over the rocks. But the sight of war and its devastation could be seen in the distance, where the City of Hue still smoldered.

  “As you know, Father,” LGc said, “it is important for the royal family to live high above its people. This way, the king will be closer to the heavens than to Earth. And even our peasant king must have his rightful place under the sun.”

  At the entrance, two soldiers sprang to their feet and barred the way with lances. The bamboo plates of their mail banged together and made a clanking noise like wooden chimes.

  “This is Father François, the Western priest,” announced LGc to the grim-faced guards. “Prince Thom expressed his desire to meet with the holy man when and if he returned to the mountain. I am bringing him to His Majesty as I have promised. Go and report that we have arrived.”

  One of the guards nodded to his comrade. “What the boy told us is true,” he said. “I remember seeing this man a week ago. It was the master’s will to keep him here among us, just like the white-skinned nun.” To François he said, “Only you can follow me. Any weapons you are carrying, take them off now and leave them at the entrance. The boy will keep them as he waits for you.”

  “I have no weapons,” said François.

  Under the morning sun, François reencountered the peasant prince. Also present were his brothers—NhCc, the gambler, self-appointed king, and leader of the rebels, and Prince Lu—along with Lady Bui and a dozen or so other warriors with their weapons drawn and ready in their hands. In the clearing, the three brothers sat side by side. The wicker chairs that had been mounted on the backs of the elephants served as their thrones.

  Lady Bui stood a few steps behind Prince Thom, cloaked in her armored uniform. Her lips barely touched the base of a flute. Her eyes were shut. The sweet sound of her music took form like wisps of smoke, like droplets of rain, tenuously at first, then with fuller melody, each note reaching its own inflection, its own mood. Lost in a song, she again shed the fierce facade of a warrior to become a woman, full of grace.

  The prince nodded to François but raised one finger to prevent him from speaking. The guard fell to his knees and assumed the prostrate position. François stood, not knowing what to do.

  As the last notes of the song fell to a murmur, Prince Thom spoke, his voice full of surprise. “You’ve returned, holy man. And I see that you are feeling better. What changed within you?”

  François didn’t know if he was allowed to speak. Under the scrutiny of the Annamite rebels, he bowed. He could feel one pair of eyes, sharper than all the rest, devouring him with unconcealed hostility. He did not dare look up to find out which of the warriors it was. Instead, he directed his attention toward Prince Thom.

  “Do not fear,” said Thom. “Treat us the same way that you wish to be treated. There is no need for formality in our court. We are only servants of our people.”

  A snicker came from the king. With no trace of kindness, he shook his head and talked with a mouth full of red saliva—the result of chewing betel nut and lime powder. The concoction made his cheeks flushed.

  “My young brother is simple by nature. I have told him that a king must have order in his own court—that is my belief. But we have our different ways of governing. You may have noticed that as brothers, we all look alike. But we do not always think alike.”

  François looked up. The warrior whose eyes had consumed him with hatred was now whispering in Thom’s ear. There was a vague familiarity about the man that made François uneasy. He searched his memory, trying to recall an incident that would explain the man’s animosity. Then, with a chill, he remembered. In that moment, he foresaw his doom.

  The warrior had led the peasants who were transporting Pigneau de Béhaine and Prince Ánh when Henri had sacrificed the donkey to save them. Two splashes of donkey’s blood, flicked across his straw hat, refreshed François’s remembrance. Surely the man was reporting the bloody subterfuge to the prince. François sighed and awaited his fate.

  Thom rose from his seat, adjusting his golden robe. He was much taller than the rest of his men. In his opulent garment, the prince seemed a different man from the one François had met outside the cave days earlier.

  “Tell us, why did you return?” he asked François.

  “I’ve come to ask for your protection,” said François. “It is my Lord’s wish that I remain in this country as a missionary. But my task is impossible without your help.”

  “Can your god protect you, priest?”

  “He must, as he led me to you.”

  The king spat a glob of red fluid. It landed a few feet from François. NhCc interrupted. “This is idle talk. There is no doubt that you need our protection. But why should we help you? How do we know you are not a spy that was hired by either the north or the south king?”

  François chose his words cautiously. “I am a foreign priest who was condemned by the government of the south king. I almost lost my life and was forced to wear an iron collar to denounce my God. This humiliation precludes me from ever working with the forces of the south. Until a few days ago, I had never heard of the Tonquinese or the North Army.
So, Your Majesty, as you can see, your enemies are my enemies. Besides, I do not answer to any mortal. My master is the Lord in heaven. If you protect me, He will protect you.”

  The doubt remained in the king’s eyes. “Will you fight our foes alongside us, or does your religion forbid you to kill?”

  François felt cornered, yet at the same time confident in the face of the king’s challenge. They had not yet condemned him for helping the boy-prince escape. There was still hope. He recalled the Oath of Induction: “Among the reformers, be a reformer.”

  “If that is what it takes to establish a kingdom of God in this land,” he answered, “then let me be your soldier. But I will fight with God by my side. I won’t be alone. With the Lord’s blessing, we shall never fear losing any battle. Our Father will always protect us, watch over us, and satisfy our every need. I will never question His plan or His everlasting wisdom.”

  “For now, I have decided to trust you,” said Thom, pressing his hand on the priest’s shoulder. “Come, from this time on, you are one of us.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  The sun bloomed like a red dahlia, petals ablaze.

  For the last twelve hours, the bishop and his three young charges had been walking south along the shore of the South China Sea. They were eighty kilometers away from Quinion, a small fraction of the nine hundred kilometers they would have to travel to Saygun. There, the royal family had agreed to reunite after their flight from Hue City. Pierre had shed his mandarin’s uniform in favor of peasant garb. The wide-rimmed hats he acquired for himself, Henri, and the Annamite children were a necessity to deflect the scorching heat. They also provided an element of disguise.

  His clothes were damp from sweat; salt accumulated in the rough fibers. Unlike the boy-prince, he, Henri, and Xuan went barefoot. Their feet, inured to abuse in this tropical climate, had become leathery and flat, with toes that spread apart. Their callused soles made it easier for them to walk on the hot sand. From time to time, when the surf washed over the beach, they would step into it. The waves massaged their tired flesh and made their journey bearable.