Le Colonial

by Kien Nguyen

  “Is there anyone left in the royal quarters or the Forbidden City?” asked the king.

  “We searched everywhere, Your Majesty, and found it is all empty.”

  “Look again, house by house, until you find them.”

  Zicheng hesitated. “It is getting dark, and our men are exhausted. We cannot keep searching every house in the citadel. What do we do with its citizens, the Buddhist monks, and the foreigners, sire?”

  “For now, keep guard over the citadel and spread the message to every door that we mean them no harm. Allow no one to leave. I will establish new order tomorrow.”

  François listened with relief. He wondered if the bishop and his novice were still somewhere in the fortress. No one noticed him when he dismounted from his horse. Although he had never been to Saygun before, he had an idea where he was going. There had to be a pavilion reserved for the foreign Christians in this complex city. With a bit of luck, he knew he’d be able to find out where it was.

  Along a stone-paved road that led him through an orchid garden, François came upon a succession of palace apartments. The sun was sinking fast behind the mountains. Night had already gathered under the tall trees. All the doors and windows were open, their shutters swaying with the breeze.

  He could see into the rooms. There was no light in any of the dwellings, no signs of life. The strewn personal belongings, a book left open, and food arranged on a table gave the impression that the occupants had vacated in a hurry. At the end of a street, he came to a communal well. A few feet away, a eunuch huddled behind a wooden vat of fish sauce. François grabbed his collar and pulled him from his hiding place.

  “Please spare my life,” the eunuch hissed, covering his eyes.

  “Cha CA,” François shouted in the frightened man’s face. When he saw a hint of acknowledgment, he continued, “Do you know Cha CA?”

  The eunuch nodded, pointing toward a series of pagodas and towers. The tiers of red roofs and gold trim blossomed like lotus petals, adrift on a hilltop.

  “Yes, yes, the Christian priest! I know where he lives. Over there! I’ll take you.”

  The compound looked like a Buddhist temple from the outside. The eunuch led him through the galleries that connected the apartments, crossing an open field toward a sandstone tower. It was built in the shape of a Buddha’s head, surrounded by smaller buildings to form a mandala, the Buddhist symbol of the universe. He paused in awe. The artist in him was captivated by the splendor of this ancient holy structure.

  Then he saw the Buddhist monks—hundreds of them sitting in meditation, so still and silent that at first he mistook them for statues. But their orange robes and brown skin showed they were alive. Each wore the same vague smile, row upon row. He would not dare to disturb even one of them.

  The eunuch pulled at his arm and whispered, “This is where he lives.” He pointed to an ornate pagoda.

  Ignoring him, François climbed the steps to its entrance. The heavy wooden doors were locked. He pulled at the round handle, banging it against the metal frame, then listened to the knocking that reverberated inside.

  “Bishop Pierre Pigneau de Béhaine, Novice Henri Monange,” he shouted. “Are you in there?”

  There was no reply.

  He tried again. “It is I, François Gervaise. I’ve come looking for you. Alone! Open the door.”

  He placed his ear against the door and could hear movements from the other side. At the squeaking of old hinges, he stiffened. The door slowly opened, and he saw the high forehead of the bishop, furrowed with more creases than he remembered. De Béhaine moved aside, leaving room for François to enter. Once he was inside, the bishop secured the bolt.

  “Father François, we meet again. I am impressed that you were able to find me. How did you do it?”

  François licked his lips. “Your Excellency, I am glad that you are safe. To find you, I had to think like you. I asked myself, what would Bishop de Béhaine do in this situation? And the answer came to me. It was quite simple.”

  “What do you mean, think like me?”

  François ignored the question. He looked around the room, studying the colossal Buddha statues at the end of the hall.

  The bishop chuckled. “So you joined the Mountaineers. It is wonderful that we have a spy in the enemy’s army.”

  François glared. For the first time, he wasn’t affected by the bishop’s intimidation. “I am not a spy, Your Excellency. I joined them because I believe in their cause.”

  “Impossible! You are not a rebel,” the bishop exclaimed.

  To François’s right was a closed door. A ray of light came from the crack under it. A constant flickering indicated moving shadows inside. The bishop stepped into his range of vision, blocking his view. A baby cried. Its soft sound was quickly muffled.

  “Listen to me,” pressed the bishop. “You can’t be a rebel. I need your help.”

  François asked with a hint of sarcasm, “The same help you’ve demanded from Brother João? What have you done with my Henri?”

  For once de Béhaine looked abashed. “I didn’t do anything to Henri. He disappeared in the confusion. I haven’t seen him all day.”

  “I came from the battle where they killed Brother João,” said François. “The Mountaineers mistook him for the prince that got away. Don’t you expect me or my novice to give up our lives for your cause!”

  “Whether or not you are a rebel, you are still a priest,” said the bishop. “My cause is the cause of the Jesuit order. We are here to establish a Christian kingdom on this soil, so we must work together. All my disciples must bolster my authority and support my vision. And my vision is to have Prince Ánh as the next king of Annam. This is also the desire of His Majesty Louis XVI, king of France. I am merely fulfilling his wish, as well as my obligation to His Holiness, the pope.”

  “I do not serve the king of France,” François said. “I serve God. In my quest for the truth, it was His will that brought me to the peasants’ army. Their leader, Prince Thom, will soon be the rightful ruler of this country. He is strong, wise, courageous, and compassionate. He will win the civil war and make the kingdom whole. All the bloodshed will end, and the people will be at peace. Their spiritual lives, therefore, will be fulfilled.”

  The bishop laughed. “I see that you are still as naive, stubborn, and idealistic as you were the first time we met in Avignon. Your youth has blinded you for too long. Peace will never inspire faith in religion and in God. Only war can do that! Chaos and destruction will oppress people and make them despair. That is when they’ll fall on their knees and pray.”

  “Pain and suffering? Are those the goals of your career, Bishop? No wonder you are failing.”

  De Béhaine chewed his knuckles. His catlike eyes stared in reproach at François. But even in his agitation, he kept his voice steady. “Priest, you are consumed by your own pride. You are not serving God. I know why you are seeking me out. You are trying to show me your victory, to prove that I am a failure. You have wanted to do that for so long. Well, you have succeeded. You are on the winning side, but only for now! Remember, you are not here to make the heathens happy. You are here to make them Christian. You may offer them a better life today, but I promise them a better life after death.”

  François turned away. In a low voice, he said, “I didn’t come to gloat. My aim was to introduce you to the rebel leader so that our mission could be made easier. But I see clearly how different our beliefs are. Farewell, Bishop. The next time we meet, the two of us will be on opposite sides of a battle. My last warning to you is about those women and that infant you are hiding. The Mountaineers are looking for them. Sooner or later they will find and kill them, including those who harbor them.”

  He adjusted his armor and reached for the door.

  “Wait!” the bishop called after him.

  François looked over his shoulder. In the yellow candlelight, a woman emerged, carrying a newborn baby in swaddling clothes close to her bosom. He was unable to see
her face in the dim light. The child sucked at her exposed breast, the reason for its silence.

  “You must help me hide them,” pleaded de Béhaine.

  “Give me one reason why I should.”

  “Y-you m-must,” came the shaking voice of the bishop, “because when it is about deceit, you are the master. I need you, François Gervaise. Or should I address you as Vicomte Étienne de Charney?”

  His malice cut through François, knocking him off balance.

  The bishop continued, “Remember at Hue Citadel when I told you that I knew more about you than you realized? Well, I did.”

  Suddenly, François felt like a criminal. He choked, repressing his tears. “When did you know?”

  “From the first time we met, I have had my doubts about your past. But it wasn’t until I discovered the stiletto in your possession that I felt the need to investigate its origin. While you were ill with cholera, I went to see Father Dominique in Villaume. The priest recognized the dagger and was deeply affected by its sight. That particular heirloom, with the coat of arms from a noble family, belonged to the twenty-year-old Vicomte Étienne de Charney.” He took a breath and continued.

  “You see, Father Dominique was not only the family priest for the de Charneys; he also taught Étienne fine art and music. According to the good father, the vicomte was a promising artist, blessed with nobility, wealth, talent, and handsome looks. However, all that came to an abrupt end when he was challenged to a duel by a Freemason over the daughter of an innkeeper.

  “The night before the duel, Étienne vanished, too cowardly to fight his opponent and too ashamed to face his father. Imagine my surprise when I heard your confession. You claimed to have murdered the vicomte and kept his dagger. Did I mention that I also met that Freemason, who has since wedded Helene, the innkeeper’s daughter, and still resides in the south of France? His name is François Gervaise.”

  François shuddered. The mention of his past was shocking, even to him.

  The bishop continued, “One thing I didn’t understand then—why did you confess to me a crime that you didn’t commit? And it occurred to me, it is a matter of pride. You would rather have me judge you as a criminal than as a coward. Cast out from Villaume by your self-inflicted disgrace, you abandoned your identity and came to the charterhouse in Villeneuve lès Avignon. There you heard about my mission to Annam. And you thought that in this faraway land you could start your life over and find your courage.”

  He chuckled bitterly. “It is ironic, isn’t it? You were not only a coward, but also a liar. Still, I accepted you. I saved your life, rescued your soul, and gave you a chance to be the man you wanted to be. For what? To watch you condemn my mission, forsake me, and make a fool of me?”

  Lost in his rage, the bishop made a fist and struck a stone statue. The collision made a hollow sound. He bent and clutched his hand in pain. François hurried over.

  “Don’t touch me!” he yelled. “Vicomte de Charney, did you find what you have come here for? Remember, I am not the only person who can see you as you really are. I am not your enemy. It is the man you look at in the mirror.”

  The wall echoed his accusing words. François fell to his knees.

  “I am not a coward,” he cried. “I didn’t fight the duel because I knew I couldn’t kill anyone.”

  For the first time since she entered the hall, the young mother spoke. “Peasant priest, if you truly favor peace, you must help Cha CA save us.” She reached for his hand.

  He looked up at her through a wall of tears.

  “I am Princess Jade Bình, daughter of King Le of the North. I was betrothed to Prince Ánh when I was ten years old as a peace offering. If the Mountaineers put me and my son to death, my father will declare war on them. Our deaths will only escalate the ancient rivalries between the two kingdoms. If you believe in peace and harmony, then I cast the responsibility for our lives into your hands.”

  François sank back on the floor. Surely, in the eyes of humanity and of God, to save this kingdom from further destruction he must help Ánh’s wives and child to survive. But would he help them to save himself?

  Holding his head in both hands, he said, “You know the Mountaineers are looking for you. And they won’t rest until they find you. Only extreme measures can help you avoid detection. Are you prepared to do whatever it takes to keep yourself and your child alive?”

  She traced her finger across the infant’s delicate eyebrows. Her voice was steady. “I will do anything you say,” she said, “provided that I am not parted from my child.”

  “Very well,” said François. “Come with me.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  The horse, carrying Xuan and the prince, leaped into the river.

  Henri flung himself to the edge of his boat to catch the animal’s reins. He missed. With a terrible splash, the water opened and swallowed them. The current broke them into three pieces. The prince was the first to emerge, gasping and struggling. Henri grabbed him by the collar. Ánh choked. His eyes blinked with terror.

  “Hold on to the side of the boat,” said Henri.

  “There’s water in my eyes,” Ánh cried. “I can’t see and I can’t swim. Help me!”

  Henri looked ahead. Twenty feet away, Xuan thrashed against the violent flow. On the cliff above them, as the sky was growing dark, burning arrows spat flames in their direction.

  Henri placed Ánh’s hand on the boat’s rim. “Lift yourself in while I release the boat.”

  Bolted to the wooden gunwale was an iron prong meant to support an oar. Ánh fumbled and found it. He pulled himself out of the water. As he slid headfirst into the boat, an arrow pierced his upper arm, nailing him to the hull. He screamed, but his voice was drowned out by the shouts of the Mountaineers, who were descending the steep shore. Henri slashed the rope that bound the boat. The river swept them away.

  They rode the rapids, passing Xuan. Despite his efforts at the oar, he could not get to her. In the warm dusk, he could see she was becoming exhausted, her arms flailing with diminishing vigor.

  “Xuan, Xuan,” he screamed, turning the boat against the current.

  She saw him and stopped struggling. The swift turbulence tossed her toward him with a dangerous momentum. He let go of the oar to catch her and braced his knees against the rough wood as he pulled her in with all his might. The vessel shuddered and leaned, threatening to turn over. The prince wrenched himself from the floorboard and crawled to the opposite side to balance the boat with his weight.

  “Let her go,” he bellowed to Henri. “You’ll kill us all.”

  Henri ignored him. She was in his arms, and no force of nature or royal command could part them. He pressed his face against hers, inhaling the aroma of soapberry in her hair. As the boat tumbled downstream, the trees seemed to be flipping like pages of a book. The forest murmured and was filled with a soft, blurry light that erased all his fears. How wonderful it was to be in the mouth of Death and no longer afraid!

  “I love you,” he whispered in her ear and sank back, embracing her.

  She nestled against him. The river curled away behind them as the vessel plunged into the darkness.

  The current took them deeper into the jungle. Above, thin shafts of moonlight crept upon them through the foliage. Swarms of mosquitoes came out of their nests and feasted on the runaways’ exposed skin. Henri swatted his face and neck. The smell of blood from the squashed insects mixed with the odor of rotting leaves.

  They huddled together, cold, wet, and hungry. The rushing of water, the creaking of the boat, and the heavy thud of unseen creatures kept them alert. Henri could find no shelter along the steep, rocky shore.

  With Henri’s knife, Xuan cut away the arrowhead that broke through Ánh’s upper arm. Her movement was skillful, despite the darkness. Ánh rested his head on her shoulder and bit down on a piece of wood. Henri could hear his sniffling and occasionally a breathless hiss. The prince was fortunate that the arrow was not dipped in poison.

 
“Help me pull the stem out of His Highness,” Xuan said to Henri.

  The novice intoned a prayer. Then, with a quick tug, the arrow came free in his hand. Xuan tore a strip from her tunic and pressed it against the wound.

  Ánh raised his head toward the heavens and howled.

  At daybreak, they woke to the distant crowing of a rooster. Thatched huts and thin strands of smoke appeared beyond the thick greenery, signs of a village. The boat was moving slowly as the river divided into many smaller branches. A dozen feet away, the bank was a patchwork of stagnant mires and hyacinth grassland that reached to the edge of the forest. Decay was strong in the air.

  Henri rose and rubbed his hands together for warmth. His body was soaked in dew. He yawned and scanned the stream, searching for a place to dock. The water undulated, bubbling with an eerie unease. He craned his neck, then stiffened. What he saw sent a shiver through him.

  In the black mud, barely visible in the dead grass, were the scaly backs of crocodiles, dozens of them entwined like tree roots. Xuan, following his gaze, withdrew in dread. The prince, haggard and pale, looked on with indifference. The blood had dried on his wound. He clutched his injured arm to his chest.

  Six feet above the stream’s surface dangled the branches and secondary roots of a banyan tree. Henri grabbed one and guided his boat to land. The movement of the vessel dispersed the reptiles. Some vanished under the torrid water. Others waddled away.

  “I don’t want them near me,” Xuan whispered.

  “Listen to me,” said Henri. “We have to find shelter in a village. The prince needs to rest so his wound can heal. I’ll go first. You both will follow me. Run as fast as you can.”

  Without giving her a chance to object, he dipped one foot into the mud. It swallowed him up to his ankle. His movement, although slight, ignited a reaction all across the marshland. The crocodiles lifted their heads in anticipation. The four nearest him scuttled through the mud. Their feet made a slurping noise. Xuan tried to hold Henri back, but he had already gone beyond her reach. The crocodiles, familiar with the terrain, were able to move faster than he. Before they could snap their jaws into his flesh, Henri jumped up and clung to a banyan branch. He hoisted his body upward and swung his legs around the limb. The suddenness of the danger made him scream with nervous excitement.