The Mountains Sing

by Que Mai Phan Nguyen

  “Cut . . . one by . . . one.” My mother lay down on the ground.

  I nodded, wondering how long it’d take to make a hole. As I worked, blisters swelled up under my skin. It took many chops to defeat one single vine. My arms ached, my hands started to bleed. “Food for the children,” I told myself, raising the knife, my body bent forward, sweat stinging my eyes.

  I don’t remember how long it took me to chop enough vines to create a small opening, but I do remember what I saw through it: a field of corn plants.

  “Food, Mama! Food.” Throwing the knife aside, I slipped through, pulling my mother behind me.

  We faced the field together. On top of dry soil stood hundreds of plants, skinny and yellowish. My eyes searched among the leaves and my heartbeats quickened. Ears of corn. “Who owns this, Mama?” I looked around.

  “No idea . . . Your father found this by chance.”

  We crawled toward the middle of the field. Hunger didn’t let us travel far. My hands and legs were shaking. I held my breath, reached up, picking a corn ear. The size of my bony arm, it felt solid in my grip. I tore away the outer husks, my mouth drooling at the sight of corn seeds: milky, perfectly white, like rows of baby teeth.

  I lifted the corn to my mother’s mouth. We shared the delicious food. My stomach rumbled. The hair on my arms stood up at the pleasure of eating.

  “Chew carefully,” whispered my mother. “Our stomachs have been empty for too long. Eating too much and too fast can kill us.”

  I nodded, taking another bite, wondering how I could stop myself.

  “Ahh. You thieves!” A voice thundered, sending a shudder from my head to my toes. The half-eaten corn rolled down to the soil.

  Clutching my mother’s shoulders, I looked up to see a towering man. A meaty face, narrow eyes. A bald, shiny head. Wicked Ghost!

  Remember what I told you about this man, Guava?

  “Please, Sir . . .” My mother trembled.

  Wicked Ghost answered by raising his whip. Pain surged through my neck and back. I watched in terror as the whip landed on my mother’s head with a swishing sound.

  “No. Please.” I shielded her with my arms. The whip slashed across my shoulders.

  “Forgive us, Sir.” My mother brought her head to the ground, kowtowing to Wicked Ghost.

  He turned his whip on her, spattering blood into the air. “Forgive and let you steal all my corn? Forgive and see the mob come out here and make me hungry?”

  His kick sent her sprawling.

  “Mama!” I jumped toward her. Pieces of flesh had been ripped away from her skull and neck. Blood was streaming down her face. I reached for Wicked Ghost’s feet with both of my hands. “Don’t beat my Mama, I beg you. I’m the one that took her here. I’m the one who stole your corn.”

  The whip lashed down, knocking me to the ground.

  When I came to, the sun was setting, drenching me in its thick, red light. I wiggled, but my legs and wrists were bound. I’d been roped and tied to a large tree trunk.

  “Mẹ ơi!” I called. My frantic eyes found my mother. She was several body lengths away, a heap on the dirt. Her long hair covered a part of her face. Blood had caked on her head and around her mouth.

  “Mẹ ơi!”

  She didn’t move. No lifting of the head. No flinching of the skin. I launched myself toward her but the ropes held me back.

  I drifted from a cold night into the heat of a blazing morning. I called but my mother didn’t make a sound. I cried until the world faded into darkness as deep as a grave.

  Intense pain shot through my body. Opening my eyes, I realized I was being dragged across the forest. A stick-thin man was clutching me by my ankles, pulling me forward. He was huffing and puffing, his stomach bulging out in a peculiar way.

  “Somebody, please help!” I croaked.

  The man dropped my legs. “Shush, be quiet if you want to live, Diệu Lan.”

  My heart was in my throat when I heard my name. Crouching down low, the man got closer to me. A dried bottle-gourd dangled on a string in front of his chest. I could see his face now: weather-beaten and haggard.

  “Who are you?” I wriggled away from him.

  “Run, Diệu Lan.” He unlooped the string of his bottle-gourd, giving me his water. “Get out of here, before Wicked Ghost finds you.”

  “My mother . . .” I turned back to the road we’d just traveled. “Please help her.”

  “I’m sorry . . . Madam Trần . . . she’s no more.”

  “No!”

  “Shush. They’ll hear you. Leave now or they’ll catch you.”

  I tried to stand up. “Take me back to my mother. Take me back now! She can’t be dead.”

  “Diệu Lan, listen to me.” The man gripped my shoulder. “Please . . . believe me. I work for Wicked Ghost, but I am indebted to your parents. My wife nearly died in childbirth. Your parents found a doctor. They saved her, and they saved my son. If Madam Trần was alive, I wouldn’t have left her there.”

  The man’s words were sincere, and they cut into me deeper than any whip. Wicked Ghost had killed my mother. Blood had to be paid by blood.

  “My name is Hải. Your brother Công knows me.” The man nursed water into my mouth. “I’m sorry I came too late. I’ll find your mother a good resting place, I swear.” He pulled something out of his shirt. Ears of corn. They were the reason for his bulging belly. As he put the corn into my pockets, I remembered something. Something that made me cry out in anguish.

  “What is it, Diệu Lan?”

  “Uncle . . . my mother had a gold and ruby necklace in her pocket. If I’d remembered to offer it to Wicked Ghost—”

  “Then you could have saved her?” Mr. Hải shook his head. “If you assume so, you don’t know him at all. That man is beyond evil. And did he give you the chance to think?” He pointed at the path to my right. “It’ll lead you back home, hurry.”

  As I wobbled forward, Mr. Hải disappeared into the trees. I told myself not to forget his name. Hải means ocean, a deserving name for a man whose compassion ran deep.

  I don’t know how I found my way out of the forest and how long it took me to get home, but I know that Mr. Hải saved your mother and uncles, Guava. The ears of corn he gave me enabled them to survive two more weeks, until a kind Catholic priest came to our village, bringing some food. Later, the Việt Minh helped our villagers attack the Japanese and French rice supplies.

  But help came too late for many. The Great Hunger claimed more than half of Vĩnh Phúc. Many families had no one left to carry their name forward.

  The Great Hunger gobbled down such a big part of my life, taking away not just my mother but also my sister-in-law, Trinh.

  Oh, Guava, I used to think that we were the ones in charge of our destinies, but I learned then that, in time of war, normal citizens were nothing but leaves that would fall in the thousands or millions in the surge of a single storm.

  For months after my mother’s death, whenever I slept, I saw her slumped against cracked soil. I’d wake up screaming, telling her that I was sorry for not being able to save her. I was twenty-five years old, and had seen both my parents murdered.

  Mr. Hải came to visit us after the Great Hunger. I knelt before him to thank him. He took Công, Hùng, Mrs. Tú, and me to my mother’s grave. He’d laid her in a corner of Nam Đàn forest where wildflowers blossomed through all four seasons.

  Mr. Hải told me he’d searched my mother’s pockets as well as her surroundings but couldn’t find the necklace. He helped us retrace the path my mother and I had taken before we reached the cornfield. We looked under the bushes and fallen leaves, hoping to find that remarkable piece of jewelry. But there was no hope. Many people were there, taking away and burying dead bodies. Any of them could have found our family treasure and kept it for themselves.

  Oh, Guava, I wish I still had your great-grandma’s necklace to give you. It was the Trần family’s heritage.

  We returned Mr. Hải’s kindn
ess by giving him a piece of our field. He tried to refuse it, but we didn’t let him. If there was someone from our village whom we could trust, it was this man who had risked his life to save ours. Years later, when we rebuilt our family business, Mr. Hải became the supervisor of our workers.

  I knew Mr. Hải was kind and brave, but I didn’t know that one day he would once again be our savior.

  So, you must be wondering what happened to Wicked Ghost. When I came home from the cornfield, Hùng and Công sharpened a chopping knife. They found Wicked Ghost drunk and alone in his house. Wicked Ghost was crazy; he dared Hùng and Công to kill him. He said that my mother had died of hunger. He said he knew nothing about the necklace. Hùng and Công could have hurt him easily, but they turned away. They weren’t as evil as Wicked Ghost, you see. Anyway, after the Great Hunger, Wicked Ghost could no longer harm anyone else. He was always drunk, talking and crying to himself. Perhaps the spirits of those he killed had come back to haunt him. Gieo gió gặt bão—He who sows the wind will reap the storm.

  In 1946, one year after my mother’s death, Wicked Ghost disappeared. It was rumored that he, his wife, and their young daughter had moved to the wife’s village, somewhere in the middle region. I didn’t care where he’d gone, I was just glad that he left. Years later, when I became a Buddhist, I learned that I should forgive people for their wrongs, but when it comes to Wicked Ghost, I can’t, Guava. I don’t ever want to breathe the same air as such a terrible man.

  During the following years, we worked hard. Công and I put into practice all the skills my parents had taught us. We grew crops that were in high demand. We saved and invested. We buried jars of dry food in the garden, so that we’d never go hungry again. Over time, our family business started to blossom. Our cattle stalls were once more alive with animals, our fields green with all types of rice and vegetables.

  My love for your grandpa blossomed, too. In the Year of the Pig, 1947, I gave birth to your Uncle Thuận, followed by your Aunt Hạnh one year later—in the Year of the Mouse, 1948. I turned twenty-eight that year and was already blessed with five children, and I wanted to have many more.

  I remember clearly the summer I gave birth to Hạnh. It was hot and humid. The air vibrated with cicadas’ cries. Following the nằm ổ custom, I was confined to my bed for the whole month, a bucket of hot coals constantly smoldering under my bed. Hot coals were meant to ward off evil spirits, but the heat was almost unbearable. My whole body stank and itched; I was forbidden to take a bath or wash my hair.

  Three weeks into nằm ổ, I was going mad. One morning, after breastfeeding Hạnh and putting her to sleep, I wrapped a scarf around my neck and snuck out of my room. Inhaling fresh air deep into my lungs, I walked along the corridor, passing my brother’s bedroom. Arriving at the living room where new furniture was gleaming, I looked for my parents. There they were, high up on the altar, behind bowls of incense.

  “So skillful!” A child’s voice flowed toward me, together with the rhythmic tick-tick sound of a featherball being kicked. Ngọc, Minh, and Đạt were counting, together: “Một trăm bảy mươi mốt.” One-hundred and seventy-one times! Could someone kick the ball so many times without dropping it? I stood up, bowed to the altar, and went out to the front yard. Squinting, I saw the children standing in a circle.

  Dressed in shorts, Minh was bare-chested, sweat glistening on his skin. He was balancing on one leg, his other leg kicking a featherball. My brother Công had found the best feathers and pinned them to a rubber base, to make the ball. My children had become his children.

  As the featherball fell, Minh’s foot raised to meet it with a happy click. The ball fluttered upward, once again.

  “You’re so good,” I said. The children turned. Minh dropped the ball and in an instant, all of them darted over to me.

  “Mama, Mama,” they cheered, their embraces tightening around me.

  I knelt down, wiping droplets of sweat from their faces. “Play in the shade.” I led them into the shadow of the longan tree.

  “Why are you out here, Mama?” Ngọc stared at me. “Grandma Tú said you have to stay in your room.”

  I had to laugh. Guava, at a young age, your mother was already bé hạt tiêu—a little hot pepper.

  “I’ll ask for her permission then.” I hurried across the yard before emerging into the coolness of Mrs. Tú’s room.

  “Dì Tú ơi,” I called. She was squatting on a straw mat, Thuận in her arms.

  “What’re you doing here?” She frowned.

  “Mẹ.” Thuận babbled, craning at me.

  “Mama is here. Here’s Mama.” I cooed, reaching out for Thuận. Just over one year old, he looked adorable with a single tuft of black hair crowning his head. His father had cut his hair according to the traditional trái đào hairstyle.

  “Why have you left your room? Bad winds will make you sick.”

  “It’s been three weeks, Auntie.” I tickled Thuận’s neck with my nose. He giggled.

  Mrs. Tú walked toward a large wooden trunk, where fruits picked from our garden were kept to ripen. There, you could easily find tiny yellow thị fruit radiating delicious fragrance, papayas reddening under layers of jute bags, and juicy na fruit opening like flowers.

  Mrs. Tú fetched a golden banana and returned to the straw mat. Thuận crawled out of my arms and onto her lap. She laughed, peeling the fruit. Thuận clutched it with both hands, munching.

  “Smells good.” I gave Mrs. Tú a begging look.

  “You know you can’t eat raw fruit yet. Not yet. Go back to your room.” She stood up again. “I’ll bring you a bowl of black chicken and herb soup.”

  Black chicken and herb soup, again? It was supposed to help my body regain strength. It’d tasted delicious at first, but the herbs—stewed ngải cứu leaves—were overwhelming. I shuddered.

  Instead of protesting, though, I watched Mrs. Tú walk across the room. Unlike the children, she’d never recovered from the Great Hunger. She’d lost most of her hair. If it weren’t for her, things would have been worse for us.

  Returning with a long-sleeved shirt, she made me put it on. She unrolled the sleeves until they covered my fingers. Wrapping a thick scarf around my neck, ears, and head, she spun me around. Once she was sure there was no more exposed skin where evil spirits could attack me, she pushed me lovingly out of her room.

  Walking past the side garden, I caught sight of bent backs. My husband and brother were chatting away while working on a square patch of young rice plants. The planting season had come and they’d transformed a part of our garden into the hatching place for rice seedlings.

  The children ran past me. “Mama, want some green guavas?” Minh asked.

  “Oh, yes, please.” Saliva gushed to my mouth, but I knew I’d have to hide those fruits from Mrs. Tú.

  The children skirted around the kitchen, headed for the thick fence in the back. There, they would crawl through a secret hole to get to the plot of land my parents had given Mrs. Tú to build her own home, but on which she’d grown fruit trees instead.

  I sank into the cradle of our front yard. It was mid-morning and the sun was drawing its ball of fire across the sky. An ox cart rolled past our gate. My village was alive around me. I inhaled its energy deep into my lungs.

  My Father’s Gift

  Hà Nội, 1975

  “Be patient. Be patient.” I laughed. Pushing Black Dots and Pink Nose out of the way, I dumped bran mixed with chopped water spinach into their trough. The animals buried their mouths in the food, chomping, their tails wagging.

  “Hương, are you home? Anybody home?” a voice called. Wiping my hands against my pants, I rushed to the door, pulling it open. Auntie Duyên. She stood slender in the morning light.

  “I still can’t believe how much you’ve grown.” She beamed. “What a pretty young woman you’ve become, and you’re getting fat.”

  “It’s great to see you, Auntie.” I grinned, happy that Auntie Duyên called me fat.
Everyone I knew was trying to gain weight, but how could they, with so little food?

  At the dining table, I pulled out a chair for Auntie Duyên and ran to the kitchen. With my aunt here, it was almost as if my father were home. Auntie Duyên was the only sibling my father had. Their parents had died young. They did odd jobs to support each other growing up.

  Bringing back a pot of green tea, I found my aunt in front of Uncle Thuận’s altar, incense sticks smoldering between her palms. She bowed her head in silence. Grandma had taken apart the altar only to have her secret revealed: a friend of my mother had passed by when Grandma wasn’t home, telling my mother how sorry he was for her loss. I would never forget how long my mother had cried, clutching Uncle Thuận’s clothes against her chest. I’m not proud of this now, but at that time I felt as if all the rivers of her tears had flown toward the spirit of my uncle, leaving her motherhood for me dry.

  Auntie Duyên sat down at the table. “Is your mother feeling better? Is she home?”

  I nodded, trying not to spill the tea as I poured it. “Mama . . . I think she’s sleeping.” I gestured toward my parents’ bedroom.

  Auntie Duyên looked up at the clock. “Let me try and talk to her again.” She emptied her cup, then carried the teapot into the room.

  I wondered how long it’d take for Aunt Duyên to come out, the corners of her mouth sagging with disappointment. My mother had managed to disappoint all of her visitors, including her younger sister. Poor Auntie Hạnh, who’d traveled all the way from Thanh Hóa Province, just to see her.

  I tried to read my textbooks, but words were empty and colorless. I had to go back to school soon, otherwise I’d be kicked out. The door to my mother’s room was still closed. Pretending to sweep the floor, I tiptoed across to it, putting my ear against the wood. Murmurs and occasional sobbing. My mother’s voice. I closed my eyes, listening, but the murmurs melted into the air before their meaning could reach me.