The Cascading, Book II: Fellow Girl

by CW Ullman

  The boatman spoke to Mr. Pok, “I’ve been up and down this river all my life and I’ve never seen it this empty.”

  Mr. Pok thought this was a sign that something was horribly wrong. Phnom Penh had been a sleepy little river village named after Lady Penh who put statues of Buddha and Shiva on a hill (phnom) centuries ago. The French colonized Cambodia in the early part of the twentieth century and turned it into the “Pearl of Asia.” It had always been a thriving fishing and commercial waterfront with hundreds of thousands of people living on the Mekong’s banks. As their boat slowly motored up the main channel, those banks were now empty.

  “We need to make good time, because I don’t know how long it’s going to be like this,” Mr. Pok added.

  If a river could be a ghost town, the banks of the Mekong had become that. Most of the boats had either departed or were tied up. Periodically, their boat would encounter a vessel floating empty or as a gruesome alternative, carrying dead bodies. All the traffic going south that My Ling had seen earlier were the lucky people getting out of Phnom Penh ahead of the Khmer Rouge’s onslaught.

  But they were confronted with a serious problem; the boat was running out of fuel and needed to stop. When the boatman announced the fuel problem, My Ling could read in the sagging shoulders of Mr. Pok that she had a problem as well. The boatman informed Mr. Pok they would have to find a riverside fueling pump or venture onshore to fill the four, five-gallon cans. He told Mr. Pok it would be his job to go ashore if they could not find a pump on a dock. Mr. Pok acted as though this dilemma would not be a problem. He signaled My Ling to come out from under the van and told her they would be the volunteers to get fuel onshore. She surprised him when she acted as though it would be of no concern. Mr. Pok suggested to the boatman to pull into a nearby fueling dock and if it was empty they would go ashore.

  Mr. Pok leaped onto the dock and grabbed the nozzle, but it was empty. He motioned to My Ling to bring two five gallon containers on the dock. She stepped onto the dock with two cans and Mr. Pok grabbed two more. They headed into the darkened town.

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  “You wouldn’t know where there is a nearby station, would you?” Mr. Pok wistfully asked.

  She wanted to react with an “Are you crazy look?” But, resisted and instead shrugged.

  He cursed in Khmer and they skulked off to the city. There was no one out, except at the end of one street where a young teenager stood with an AK47. Mr. Pok kept My Ling from stepping out of the shadows.

  “We’re going to wait here until it gets dark, and then we’ll stay in the shadows and find a station,” he suggested. He then asked, “You got any ideas?” She was amazed that he would ask her, but nonchalantly shook her head.

  The teenage boy with the AK47 stood at the end of the street throwing rocks through windows and singing. My Ling and Mr. Pok stepped into a vacant shop and waited for darkness. Mr. Pok fell asleep as My Ling stood watch. When the teenager left his post, My Ling awakened Mr. Pok, who with a start kicked one of the fuel cans. The teenager stopped and in Khmer yelled down the street.

  “Who’s there?’ he shouted.

  Mr. Pok nervously shaking, “We have to run.”

  My Ling grabbed him and shook her head. She did something her father did on the estate to stop her from acting hastily: she held her hand out and pumped it up and down to have him wait. She looked around and spotted a short iron bar lying on the ground. She pointed to a corner for Mr. Pok to go and stand. She looked back around a corner to see the teenager running in their direction, shouting for whomever was there to show themselves. She slammed the bar into her fuel can and then stepped back into the shadow by the door. She left the fuel can in the middle of the hall so it could be seen from the street and then waited.

  The boy stood in the street and yelled into the hall, “Come out in the street.”

  My Ling did not move, but Mr. Pok was panting and shaking and could not compose himself. The teenager walked slowly into the hall, again shouting for whoever was there to come out and Mr. Pok stepped forward.

  “Don’t shoot. I’m just trying to get fuel for my boat,” Mr. Pok said with his hands over his head.

  “You’re not supposed to be here,” the boy warned as he entered the hallway. “Any stragglers are to be shot. Step out where I can see you.” Those were the last words he would every speak.

  My Ling swung the bar and caught him in the back. She yelled to get his gun, but Mr. Pok was frozen in fear and did not move. The stunned teenager grabbed his gun just as My Ling rained repeated blows with the iron bar upon his body and head.

  While she was hitting him, she was screaming at Mr. Pok to get the gun. Mr. Pok still riveted to the floor in fear watched as My Ling beat the gunman to death. She ceased when Mr. Pok regained his composure and told her to stop.

  “What…,” Mr. Pok was stunned by the ferocity of My Lings attack. He did not expect her to hit the boy much less beat him to death. He looked at her with an amazed expression.

  “Why didn’t you get the gun?” My Ling asked.

  “I…didn’t know what to do,” Mr. Pok said. “You…uh…”

  “She exhaled in deep breaths. “He would have either killed us or we would’ve been captured.”

  “How…?” Mr. Pok slowly asked.

  My Ling pointed to a far wall, “Look.”

  Mr. Pok turned around to see a dead man slumped against a wall. He had been riddled with bullets throughout his torso.

  “That could have been us. I don’t want to be captured again. We need to find a fuel station,” she said.

  As Mr. Pok picked up the cans to leave, he looked at her with a new respect. As they were leaving, she wondered how he could leave the gun behind. She slung the gun around her body, grabbed the rest of the ammunition magazines off the gunmen, picked up her two fuel cans, and followed him into the street.

  “I’ve been in this part of Phnom Penh before. I just remembered a few blocks from here is a gas station,” Mr. Pok said. “We need to move fast.”

  They stayed in the shadows and looked around every corner to make sure the coast was clear. They found the gas station which was deserted. When My. Ling grabbed a pump hose to fill up her cans, Mr. Pok stopped her.

  “That’s gasoline; we need diesel,” he said.

  After they filled up the cans, My Ling could barely pick up one of them. She motioned to Mr. Pok, who looked around the station for a cart or motor scooter. All he could find was a bicycle. While Mr. Pok was checking the bike, My Ling pocketed a roll of string. He fashioned discarded rope, cord, and planks together and both got on the bike. With My Ling on the back, they rode off, wobbling through the city’s empty streets. They encountered no one on their way back to the boat.

  When they arrived, the boatman was animated,” I was just getting ready to leave. What took you so long?” The boat man asked.

  “I’ll tell you when we’re underway,” Mr. Pok answered.

  The boat sputtered to life, they pushed off the dock, and motored out to the main channel heading north. My Ling sat down with the girls and pulled out the roll of string. She measured out a length of approximately two feet and broke it off. She then tied the ends into a knot, creating a loop.

  My Ling asked the girls, “Have you ever done this?”

  She brought her hands together, looped her thumbs and pinkies through the string and pulled her hands apart creating geometric shapes. This brought a tiny squeal from Di.u, who reached into the lengthened triangles and worked her fingers through their center. She plucked the string out of My Ling’s hands, flipped her fingers up, and created new triangles. They alternated back and forth, creating new cat’s cradles.

  The three were absorbed in the game when Huyen eventually reached in and created a new shape. My Ling backed away and watched the three taking turns stretching the string and making designs. When the loop went flat they started again. Huyen took a string design from Di.u and after working it intricately, made a complex of triangles delighting
Di.u who clapped. Her reaction brought the first full smile to Huyen’s face since My Ling had met her in the hold of the Thai pirate’s ship. Di.u was even happier when Huyen took the outer edges of a Di.u string shape and stretched them into the form of a star. Di.u was so moved she, hugged Huyen.

  The boat motored on into the night with the lights off as the girls played with the string.

  For a few hours they were little girls again, completely absorbed in a game that children across the globe had been playing for generations. My Ling smiled watching their intent expressions as they pulled strings, trying to outdo each other as they picked their way into different forms. She was proud of herself for taking the string from the filling station and providing a distraction for the girls. She had no idea that Huyen would be so involved and good at the game. She leaned back thinking she acted as her parents would have done. This is what her mother would have suggested to keep them as busy as possible. My Ling thought if her father was present, he would have given praise. To herself, My Ling whispered, “Fellow girl.”

  She watched the three girls absorbed in making new string shapes and fell asleep to the hum of the engine and the vibration of the ship.

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  CHAPTER IV

  When My Ling awoke, Mr. Pok was at the wheel. The boatman was asleep near the van and the girls were huddled together, Di.u with the string loop still wrapped around her fingers. My Ling stretched and went to the wheelhouse.

  “What are you doing in here,” Mr. Pok rebuked.

  “I thought you might want something,” My Ling offered.

  Mr. Pok softened and said, “Yes…get me some noodles.”

  She came back with noodles in water and handed it to him. He took the bowl and pushed her to the wheel.

  “Have you ever steered a boat this big?” Mr. Pok asked. She shook her head.

  “All you have to do is keep us in the middle of the channel. Don’t turn the wheel too much or too fast. Can you do that?” he asked.

  She nodded, except she could not see the river because she was too short. After she told him, he pulled a box over for her to stand on.

  “Where are we?” My Ling wondered.

  “We are headed east up the Tonle San River,” Mr. Pok said in between bites. “I encountered a small boat while you slept. Don’t tell anybody, but there are a lot of problems up river. I don’t want the guy to know because he may want to turn around.”

  “What kind of trouble,” My Ling asked.

  “What do you think? The Khmer Rouge are making life miserable for everybody. The people on the fishing boat said they’re mostly after Cham.”

  “Why?” My Ling asked.

  “ ‘Cause they’re Cham. Why are you asking me? Khmer Rouge are just a murdering bunch of assholes. Plus Colonel Cin and his renegades have come back into Cambodia to avoid the North Vietnamese,” Mr. Pok harrumphed.

  “You ever kill anybody before?” Mr. Pok inquired.

  My Ling was surprised by the question and surprised by her reaction to the killing; she was not bothered by it. When she saw the dead man on the other side of the room, she did not want to take any chances.

  “No,” My Ling answered. She briefly remembered kicking the man out of the helicopter, but did not think the fall would have killed him. As she thought of the gunman now, she realized she was not trying to kill him so much as keep him from getting up.

  “If I had had the bar, I would have done the same thing,” Mr. Pok postured.

  She kept her eye on the river without adding to the conversation, because she did not believe Mr. Pok could be relied upon to do anything. He was frozen in place, shaking. If her father had been there, he would have handled it, but not Mr. Pok. She wondered if she was supposed to feel something bad about her action.

  Mr. Pok ate his noodles as My Ling steered the boat and stole glances of the violin case. She was itching to get her hands on the musical instrument and feel it tucked under her chin. She watched the wide open expanse of river and with her left hand on the steering wheel played Beethoven’s Sonata Number Five, Opus Twenty-four “Spring.” She giggled to herself that her accompaniment was the hum of the engine and Mr. Pok slurping his noodles. But in her mind she was giving a recital to the Tonle San. She smiled as the “string” wheel made a sound only she could hear.

  “What are you smiling about?” Mr. Pok asked.

  “Nothing…the river is beautiful,” My Ling replied.

  “I’ll steer, you go back with the girls,” Mr. Pok ordered.

  My Ling went back to the sleeping girls and sat watching them. She prepared noodles for them and herself and ate until they awakened. She surveyed the banks for any people, but saw no one through the thick vegetation. It had become so commonplace to see animal bodies or humans floating in the river, that it was only the occasional sight of a dead child that made My Ling sad. She wondered from where the bodies had come and into what danger she and the others were headed.

  Mr. Pok came down to the girls once the boatman took the helm.

  “I want you girls to fish,” Mr. Pok commanded.

  My Ling wanted to ask him if she could play the violin for the girls, but remembered that he did not respond well to questions. Instead, she pulled the fishing tackle out and gave each of the girls a line. They put their baited hooks in the water and waited for a catch. She turned to see the men in a heated exchange and once again saw Mr. Pok nodding vigorously. She could not hear the discussion over the engine noise.

  By the end of the day, Mr. Pok and the boatman were exhausted and decided to anchor in an alcove of the river and sleep. My Ling was ordered to stay up and stand watch. In the foliage of the bank, forty yards from the boat, she thought she detected movement. She saw monkeys in the bushes swinging in the trees. While watching a bush, it seemed to change shape, or did it? Was it a monkey? As her view of the bank widened, she saw people walking, not a few but scores. She tried to count, but gave up when she had seen over a hundred. Mr. Pok talked about the many groups, Khmer Rouge, Cham, Degar, villagers, North Vietnamese regulars, and Cambodian military. While she wondered to which groups this accumulation of people belonged, she spotted in an opening through the vegetation a startling sight, a man on a horse. She leaned down into the railing to hide herself and get a better look.

  The horse was gray or white and the man sat tall in the saddle. He had bandoleers of ammunition crossing his chest, guns strapped to his waist, an M16 slung from a shoulder, and he wore a black beret. Her father wore a black beret because he was in an elite unit of South Vietnamese Army Rangers. Her father told her that the American soldiers that wore black berets were mountain-trained. His unit had been companioned to the 173rd Airborne and trained in the Central Highlands of South Vietnam. After they trained with the American Mountain Rangers and passed rigorous tests, they were awarded a Ranger’s Ribbon and black beret.

  She watched the man on horseback ride up and down the line of people stopping periodically to help one of them or to give a command. Then he rode toward an opening, slowly walking his steed into the separation of foliage and stopped. He looked at the boat and My Ling felt he was staring directly at her.

  As a chill ran through her, she whispered to herself, “Colonel Cin.”

  She wanted to wake Mr. Pok, but was too afraid to move. The rider gazed at My Ling for so long, she was convinced he was going to ride out into the water and kill her. She had lived in fear since boarding the helicopter two months ago, but now she thought she was looking into the face of pure evil. He stared for what seemed a very long time, then turned his horse and galloped way. She collapsed below the railing and inhaled deeply as she caught sight of her trembling hands. She realized that the entire time she had been held by the stare of Colonel Cin, she had not taken a breath.

  Fear had so overwhelmed her that she was brought to tears. In her heart, she had lost any hope of living through this. If Colonel Cin and his army were riding through the area, My Ling concluded that she and the girls were doomed. Acc
ording to Mr. Pok, he was Degar and he hated everyone who was not.

  She looked at the sleeping girls, and realized their chances of surviving this ordeal were marginal. She had kept the secret of their mother’s death from them for their own good. She had thought there would be a better time to inform them once they arrived at Mr. Pok’s farm. Now she felt their days were numbered, and they had the right to know the fate of their mothers before they died. She decided to wake them up and tell them. They stretched and yawned and she told them to sit close to her, because she had to tell them something. It was hard for her to speak.

  “What happened? Why are you crying?” Di.u asked while picking up My Ling’s hand and holding it.

  “I have something very bad to tell you. I have been keeping it a secret, because I thought it was best for you,” My Ling said through her hiccupping of sobs and tears. “Your mothers are not going to meet us at Mr. Pok’s farm.”

  Di.u asked, “Where are they going to meet us?”

  “They’re not, because they are-,” My Ling hesitated, grappling with the difficulty of having to actually utter the words. “They’re not alive. They were…killed on the boat.”

  Dao and Di.u started crying immediately. She pulled the sisters to her and they wept into her shirt as she cried with them. Di.u shook with each sob while Dao covered her face. Di.u stopped crying only to begin again when she thought of her mother being gone. After thirty minutes, Di.u stopped crying and rested against My Ling. She picked her head up, looked at My Ling, and with red eyes brimming tears and a raw maturity in her voice, lamented, “Nothing will ever be the same.”