The Unwanted

by Kien Nguyen

  “Quiet,” the man answered. “Kid, the less you know, the better off you are. So, shut up.”

  “We are going to Turtle Island,” Mrs. Dang said to me. “There, we'll wait for another, bigger boat.”

  The ocean seemed to expand around us. On the side of the boat, the waves made a steady murmur.

  “Here we are,” the man finally said. Facing the stern, I was unaware we had reached the island until the bottom of our boat came into contact with the rocky ground.

  “Listen to me,” the man said as he searched for a place to dock. “This is Turtle Island. Like the name, it is shaped like a turtle. The island is off-limits to civilians. The turtle's body is the mountain. The beaches are its legs. The mountain has three layers. We are going to the middle part. If we go too high up, terrorists and leftover guerrillas of the old government will kill us. If we get too close to the beach, we'll be in the hands of the Communists. They like to shoot first and ask questions later. Be extremely careful. Sometimes we run into illegal lumberjacks. Avoid them, too, if possible. The big boat will come tomorrow night. Now, let's get out of here before the brown dogs smell us.” He was referring to the Communist police, who wore dark brown uniforms.

  Turtle Island was a lush jungle filled with tropical trees and thick clumps of wild berries. Bushes grew past the shore and reached out into the water, making it an ideal place to hide out. We walked deeper into the forest on a narrow path across the swampy ground. Each time we moved, clouds of flies and mosquitoes swirled up, breaking the quiet with their buzzing.

  The man handed us each a knapsack. “Take this,” he said. “It contains your portions and some blankets for tonight. Watch out for the quicksand. Keep your feet steady on the rocks. And don't forget to keep an eye out for snakes.”

  We ran in single file through the wet and tortuous road leading to the middle part of the turtle's hump. Under our feet, the muddy ground was covered with dead leaves that sloshed as we marched further uphill.

  The rest of the escapees were waiting for us in a large open area not far from the trail. There must have been about thirty people, all women and children; not one was younger than ten years old. Their plastic mats were scattered on the ground, held down by rocks. Some of the women huddled under the blankets against the cold wind. The only men in the group were the two leaders. The young man who brought us to the camp was Can Junior. The older man was his father, Can Senior. He had just been released from a death camp a few months earlier. As I learned later, the old man had been an army sergeant under the old government. He, too, was barechested and barefoot. A pair of faded, cutoff khaki shorts covered the lower half of his body, and in his thin waistband I could see the steel handle of a pistol. A large, ugly scar on his left cheek sprang to life like an animated lizard every time he spoke. His black eyes glared as he introduced us to everybody else.

  We were told to share a space under a wild tamarind tree with two other people—a teenage girl and her younger brother.

  Mrs. Dang sat on a rock, worn out from the long hike. She beckoned to me, wiping the perspiration off her forehead. “Come here, Kien. You can rest next to me.”

  “Welcome to Turtle Island,” the boy said to me. He was about fifteen years old, his face covered with freckles and his eyes slanted like those of a puppet character from a Chinese opera. He and I were the oldest boys among the children.

  His sister, who was a few years older, had beautiful hands and feet. I helped her clear the dead leaves from our rest area. She looked up to smile at me. Her face, with its high cheekbones, appeared pale in contrast to her red lips. She, too, reminded me of a character in the opera playhouse—a marionette princess.

  Far beyond the trees, the sun peeked its carroty face over the dark blue water, sweeping away the silvery darkness. Some of the children ate breakfast out of their knapsacks. Soon, the shells of hardboiled eggs and banana skins littered the ground. The women watched their children and daydreamed about their new lives in America.

  “Come here, darling,” Mrs. Dang said from behind me. “Let me comb your hair for you.”

  I sat down in front of her, feeling the soft touch of her fingers on my scalp.

  She said softly above me, “Isn't this exciting? Tonight, we'll be boarding the boat. Who knows, in a short week we might get to Hong Kong, or the Philippines, or Malaysia, and then to America. I definitely would like to settle in California and look for my children. Together you and me, we'll get a small house by the sea, like Nhatrang almost. And when my kids come to join us, you'll be their big brother. You'll go to school and study anything you like. Then you can sponsor your family to America. Is this a nice dream?”

  Instead of answering, I snuggled closer to her body.

  That evening, we ate the caramel chicken that had been packed in our knapsacks, while Can Junior left the camp to wait for the boat signal by the shore. We huddled in the dark, covered with the thin blankets, cold but full of hope. Some of the children fell asleep, while others stirred restlessly. An old woman squatted down on the ground to urinate. Somebody tried to muffle a cough. Around us, the jungle hid inside a dense fog. Curled up against the tree, I slipped into a deep sleep in Mrs. Dang's warm embrace.

  When I awoke, the morning sky was as white as milk. The fog had lifted from the tall trees, except for a few tendrils that lingered in the blue shadow of the forest. In front of me, Mrs. Dang and a few other women were talking with Can Junior. I clutched the blanket around my shoulders and walked over to join them. An air of sadness hung over everyone.

  “I am sorry, I don't know anything else. We just have to wait,” Can Junior said to the women.

  “Wait for what, and for how long?” someone asked him.

  He walked away. “I don't know, but we may be here for a couple more days.”

  “What is happening?” I asked Mrs. Dang.

  She noticed me for the first time. Her eyes wore the frightened look of a trapped animal. “Someone stole the boat last night,” she said.

  “Oh, God. The big boat that takes us to America?” I uttered in shock.

  “No.” She shook her head. “The small ferry. About the ship, we couldn't get any signal from them, so we are stranded here, with no way out.”

  “What do we do?”

  “We wait,” she said mechanically, echoing Can Junior's answer.

  THE SECOND DAY went by uneventfully. We huddled next to each other to keep warm. Mrs. Dang watched me eat the cold food without touching her own. Above us, dark clouds started to form.

  On the third day, it rained. I ran out on the soggy ground, joining the other children to take a shower, while at the same time, storing rain water in the empty bottles for future use. The adults hid under the surrounding trees to keep from getting wet. Hope had dwindled along with our food supplies. Below us, the ocean moved like a giant dish of blue Jell-O under the sweeping winds.

  ON THE FIFTH DAY, the women scattered into the jungle in groups to search for wild mushrooms, berries, and greens, while the two men fished at a nearby stream. The island offered little in the way of food. Sea spinach and wild berries were among the meager vegetables we harvested near the swamp. Despite the elders' warning, we ate the cooked vegetables and became violently ill that night. The next morning, when the cold rain revisited the island, we washed the vomit off our clothes. As hungry as we were, the incident instilled a fear in all of us, and everyone gave up the food search. The children sucked on the last of the rock candies while the adults slept their starvation away.

  On the afternoon of the sixth day, Mrs. Dang pulled me deep into the woods, away from the other escapees. Not until we were at least thirty feet away from the camp did she unwrap her shawl and show me the contents. Three hard-boiled eggs appeared like props in a magic trick.

  “Here, darling,” she whispered to me. “Eat them quickly before someone sees us.”

  Unable to tear my eyes away from the food in her hands, I asked her, “Where did you get these?”

  “I saved t
hem for you,” she answered.

  I swallowed loudly. “What about you, Auntie? Aren't you hungry?”

  “No, darling.” She smiled and shook her head. “They are yours. Go ahead, eat them.”

  BACK AT THE CAMP, Can Senior was holding an emergency meeting. Mrs. Dang and I joined the rest of the runaways on the dirty ground. He stood on a rock in front of us, licking his lips nervously. Like everyone else, he had lost a lot of weight in the last six days. His chest caved inward, and his rib cage stuck out from his torso.

  “Let's talk about our alternatives.” He asked the crowd, “Who among us want to surrender to the brown dogs?”

  A wave of dissent swept the group. People cursed the boat that never came, blamed their own bad luck and each other, jumped up and down, and shouted at one another. Can Senior waved his hands to quiet them down.

  “Be quiet,” he yelled. “There is still hope.”

  The group froze.

  “There is a way out,” he continued. “We have a gun. We can steal a motorboat from the illegal lumberjacks and escape. Who wants to take this risk? Let me see a show of hands.”

  “Don't those woodsmen have weapons with them?” a woman asked. “What if we lose?”

  Can Senior shrugged. “We don't have much choice, madam. If we lose, we'll die, but if we surrender or do nothing, we'll also die.”

  I searched Mrs. Dang's face for guidance, but she turned away. I stood up. All eyes were on me as I spoke. “I don't want to surrender. Just like all of you, I got stuck here because I was searching for freedom. Let freedom guide us out of here.”

  Someone cried out from behind me, “Well put, child. Let's fight for a ride home.”

  There were whimpers of disagreement among the women, but most of them finally agreed that we should seize control of a boat. Can Senior looked at me and asked, “What is your name, son?”

  “Kien.”

  “And you?” He turned toward the boy with slanted eyes, who stood next to his sister under a tree.

  “Van,” the boy answered.

  The old man then said, “My son and I will attack the loggers from behind. Can you two back us up?”

  “No,” Mrs. Dang and the boy's sister cried simultaneously.

  “Sorry, ladies,” he said. “I need them to balance the fight.”

  “What do we have to do?” I asked him.

  “Take me instead,” Mrs. Dang said, holding on to my arm tightly. “I can fight if I have to. Leave my boy out of this.”

  “Not a possibility,” he told her. “In the old days, whenever I tangoed with Death, I needed my men. Death is here right now, and your son will do just fine.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  In a single line, Can Senior, his son, Van, and I moved deeper into the jungle, leaving the women and children behind. Far away, a thunderstorm growled like a hungry stomach. Lightning flashed against the reeds, turning the purple branches of the trees around us into monsters out of a horror story. Can Senior held the gun in a tight grip. We hung on to each other and crawled on the slippery ground like a giant earthworm in the eerie blue light of an early afternoon.

  Can Senior suddenly stopped. He signaled for us to duck further down on the sloppy ground. “Don't anybody move! Stay where you are,” he whispered.

  From my position, I could see a shadow chopping at a tree thirty meters away. The logger was not alone. I could hear other voices blending with the rumble of the thunderstorm and the scream of the winds. Can Senior gestured for us to crawl closer to him.

  “Here is the plan,” he whispered. “There are four of them. Two men are having lunch. You can't see them, but they are behind that tree. You see the other two, don't you? Kien and Van,” he said, pointing at the two loggers, who were within a few meters of each other, “can you two take care of them? My son and I will stand guard right here to cover you. Take a rock like this one and sneak behind them. Make sure you knock them unconscious. Do not worry if they see you. If it happens, just try to distract them as long as possible. We'll come out and rescue you. Easy enough?”

  He handed me a rock that was slightly bigger than my fist. Van chose his own weapon, another rock that had a similar size and shape.

  “How can we sneak up to them while they are facing us?” I asked the old man. The thought of wounding someone made me sick with fear.

  “I have a way to do it,” Van said.

  “Tell us,” Can Senior ordered.

  “We can attack the targets from above the ground.” He pointed at the branches that shot out like dark spears over the two men. “Kien and I can pussyfoot from branch to branch and get close to them. Then when the time is right, ssssssfurt”—he made a dropping sound—“right on the skulls.”

  “Excellent idea, son,” Can Senior said. “Now, go, both of you.”

  Van got up and shoved the tail of his shirt inside his pants. Like a kangaroo protecting its young, he stashed the rock inside his shirt and tightened the belt around his waist. With his hands free, he climbed up a tree. I copied his every move and followed. From the branch of one tree, he hopped to another like a squirrel, making little sound. I trailed after him shakily, finding it hard to keep myself steady on the slippery bark. The strong winds screeched between the lush green leaves. Gravity pulled heavily at the rock in my shirt. Far ahead, Van reached his destination. He perched in the tree above his enemy, waiting impatiently for me.

  As I moved closer to my target, the branches grew smaller and farther apart. I prayed silently, looking deep inside myself for new strength. Finally, through a thick curtain of leaves, I saw the lumberjack's dark hair and a section of his red flannel shirt. Another branch and I would be directly above him.

  Across from me, Van held the rock in his hands. I followed his lead, reaching out to steady myself with one hand so I could pull out my weapon with the other. But instead of the hard surface of the branch, my hand brushed across a soft, cold, slippery, and moist foreign object. I looked down at a python, larger than my leg. Its body was twisted around the branch right underneath me. It cocked its diamond-shaped head to stare at my face.

  I shrieked and jumped backward. The branch under me snapped in half. I fell onto a bed of dead leaves below, a few steps away from where the logger stood. At that moment, Van dropped the rock on top of his victim, knocking him to his knees like a chopped tree. He fell facedown on the muddy soil.

  The ground had enough of a leafy cushion to break my fall; however, my blood-curdling scream and my unexpected appearance alarmed the other loggers. They dropped their lunches and ran out from behind a bush, their axes gleaming in their hands. The enemy closest to me also lifted his ax. His face was dark and deadly. I pushed myself away from him, but fear paralyzed my limbs. I froze and blinked at him, waiting for doom.

  “Stop, or I'll shoot.” From the hidden path, Can Senior and his son stormed out. His gun pointed at the lumberjacks.

  The logger in the red-striped flannel shirt screamed at us, “You damned spirits, you killed my brother.”

  “He didn't die. Just passed out,” Van answered matter-of-factly. He had gotten down from the tree and was examining the body on the ground.

  “Who are you people? What do you want from us?” one of the woodsmen asked. His face was dotted with chickenpox scars, which kept his expression somewhat emotionless. It was difficult to tell whether he was surprised or angry.

  “We need to borrow your boat to go back to Nhatrang,” Can replied.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  The scar-faced man glared at the gun in Can Senior's hand. “You wouldn't dare. The police will be here as soon as you fire that gun.”

  Can Senior spat on the ground. “I wouldn't bet on it if I were you. In this rain, who could hear anything? Do you want me to prove it?”

  “No,” the logger said. “Please, trust us! We'd like to take you to shore, since we are the only ones who know how to make that cranky motorboat of ours run.”

  “Why should I trust you?” Can Senior asked.
>
  “You've got a gun. Just tell us what to do, and don't hurt me or my men.”

  Can Senior nodded. “In that case, I'll take two of your men with me. The other two can stay on this island. Once we get to Nhatrang safely, the ones who take us can rejoin their friends.”

  The scar-faced man pointed at himself and the man in the red flannel shirt. “Take us then. We know the route.”

  Can Senior turned to Van and me and ordered, “Look in their stuff for ropes, and tie those two up against each other. Make sure you gag them.”

  With Can Junior's help, we positioned the two prisoners on the ground with their backs to each other. One man was still unconscious as we moved them closer together. Blood from the man's head wound left a trail of red dots on the jungle floor. We made tight knots around their ankles and wrists. Some of the blood dripped on my fingers, and I fearfully wiped it away.

  With his hands high above his head, the scar-faced man said, “Just tell me, how many of you are there?”

  Can Senior ignored him.

  BY THE TIME we got down to the sandy beach, it was early evening. The sky was dark with heavy clouds, and the rain fell harder. Thunder again boomed through the trees, which flashed with lightning. Along the coast and concealed under stacks of coconut leaves was the boat. Thirty feet in length, it was made out of plywood and tin plates and painted a rusty orange, though most of the paint had peeled off. The engine, composed of a generator and a jumper wire, sat between the bilges in the stern. An iron shaft connected the engine to the propeller through a hole in the aft bulkhead. Along each side of the deck was a row of benches that could accommodate six to ten people. The boat had been loaded with about a dozen freshly cut logs, all the same length. Can Senior ordered us to toss the stolen lumber back on the beach to make more room for the passengers.

  We pushed the boat out to sea. The loggers' axes lay together on deck under a sheet of plastic. We huddled in each other's arms on the benches, while the smaller children lay on the floor. Can Junior and Can Senior settled themselves at the bow. Their gun aimed at the boat owners, who sat at the far end.