Le Colonial (17 page)
He drew a deep breath. “My brothers and I are the only hope that the peasants have. We are fighting for our survival and freedom, and for a fair government. You asked who the West Mountaineers are. They are each and every one of us—the peasants of Cochin China. We have not yet attacked the citadel because we are not strong enough. The northern kingdom of Tonkin is trying to crush the South. It was their war boats and cannons that you saw last night. We are here biding our time.”
Henri asked, “Why are you coming to the battle if you are not going to fight?”
Thom said, “In many ways, the northern army is far better prepared than we are. Like the southern king, they know about us and also consider us rebels. Our goal at this time is to capture the royal family of the southern kingdom as they flee the citadel, and then turn them over to the North. In that way, we can establish an alliance with the northern king and ensure our survival and safety. They need our help because we are the farmers. We are the men who work the land. Without us, their wealth will dwindle to nothing.”
“But, Prince Thom, clearly you are an educated man. How can you be both a prince and a farmer?”
He gave a boisterous laugh. “A prince of the poor is a peasant nonetheless. I wear their clothes and carry their banner. My education came from a few years of schooling. You can address me as Thom.”
“Why are you telling me all this?” Henri asked.
His boldness seemed to exasperate the woman warrior. She glared at him.
The prince replied, “You saved our children even when you were in danger, as any true holy man would. Every year, more and more of the white ghosts enter our country. We have no choice but to learn their ways. In return for the freedom I am about to grant you, I want you to tell them about our plight so that they can understand who we are and what we are fighting for.”
He turned to the female warrior. “This is Lady Bui, one of my chief commanders. She is so skillful with her sword that she can remove an enemy’s eyes during battle without taking his life. She will now release the yoke of denouncement from your neck.”
The woman strode forward and her sword flashed. The blade’s tip snicked into the lock that held the collar together. Then she twisted her wrist, pulling Henri forward. His neck was inches from the blade. After a few such thrusts, the lock broke in half. When the woman withdrew her weapon, the collar slipped to the stony ground with a thud. He clutched his neck, expecting to feel a gush of blood, but instead, his fingers glided across smooth skin, itching from the brisk air. At last, he was able to breathe again.
“Teacher, you are a free man,” Thom said. “Now, you can go.”
In the clearing outside the cave, the missionaries divided their scanty possessions into two bamboo baskets. Most precious among them were the gifts of food and clothing given to them by Thom, the peasant prince. Fresh fruits, cooked rice, and chunks of sun-dried venison wrapped in banana leaves formed tidy packages for their journey. In addition to the clean garments they had on, each man received an extra article of clothing, made from the same heavy plain-woven fabric and dyed in vegetable ink to a muddy, nondescript color.
At Thom’s command, one of the soldiers produced a donkey to carry the goods. Henri attached the baskets to both sides of the saddle, making sure to distribute the weight evenly. He was able to feel his fingers again, thanks to a shaman who had reset and splinted them. Their dull ache reassured him that they were still part of him.
As he prepared the donkey, the peasant prince perched a few feet above him on the branch of a banyan tree. Thom was looking down at the city with steady concentration. His bow and arrows were slung from a branch near his fingertips, within easy reach. His attention was riveted on things that Henri’s untrained eyes would never see.
Through a deep green curtain of leaves, the sun dappled yellow dots of light on the hard soil, and above him the trees tossed their limbs in the wind. When the pack was secured on the donkey’s back, Henri looked up at François, who was staring at the ground with an absent expression.
“We are ready to leave, sir,” he said to Prince Thom. “With your permission.”
Behind him he heard a sniffle. He turned and saw Xuan standing in the shadow of the cave’s entrance, with her arms wrapped around Sister Lucía.
“Where is Sister Natalia?” he asked the nun.
“Dead,” she replied.
“How did she die?”
Lucía rubbed her temples with the palms of her hands.
Prince Thom answered, “We rescued your friend from the house of TuyBn when we invaded Quinion. She was the only one who survived. We are grateful to have her helping us with the sick and wounded.”
Lady Bui added, “The shaman has been teaching her his healing skills.”
The news of Natalia’s death left Henri speechless. The fact that Lucía had survived the brutality of the soldiers amazed him.
“Where are you planning to go?” the prince asked. Pointing to François, he added, “He’s obviously not well.”
Henri frowned, thinking. The speckles of sunlight grew rounder on the ground. It was almost noon. Soon he would be somewhere on the graveled trail, taking François away from Hue City, and these dismal events would become little dots of memory, stored in the darkest places of their minds. He could feel his veins pounding with the desire for motion.
“I want to take my teacher to Quinion Port,” he replied. “There we will find a ship that will take us back to France. Since Father François is unable to make his own decision, I think it is best for him to return home. I have a mother waiting for me in Paris, so I am going with him. It seems a terribly long time since I left.” He gave a low gasp, suddenly aware of the import of his words. “I can’t stay here any longer. I must go home.”
Turning to the nun, he said, “Sister Lucía, come home with us.”
She shook her head. “I prefer to stay here with the rebels. You can see I am no longer a nun; therefore, you have no responsibility toward me.”
“Do you all understand that you are welcome to stay?” said Thom.
“Thank you, but I must take my leave,” replied Henri.
He felt something touch the hollow of his palm. A hand encircled his forefinger. Henri turned reluctantly. Standing beside him was Xuan. Her tears had left little tracks down her dusty cheeks.
“Ông Tây,” she said. A tone of pleading muffled her voice. “Can I go with you?”
Henri looked away, understanding her pain but unwilling to add it to his own. “I can’t take you with me,” he said. “You are safe here among these men. Your sister needs your help, and you must take care of her.”
“But I don’t want to stay,” she said, clutching him with both hands. “I feel safer when I am with you.”
“No!” said Henri. “I can’t.”
He pulled away. François fumbled to untie the donkey. Henri took the rein from his teacher. With a heart full of guilt, the novice led François down the winding road, trying his best not to look back at Xuan. On the slope, he could not help breaking into a run. François struggled to keep up. The rope in Henri’s hand forced the animal into a gallop.
“We can’t stay, we can’t stay!” Henri chanted, almost in a trance. “We’ll be someplace else this time tomorrow.”
His mind was fixed on the image of the
Wanderer
’s large white sails billowing in the wind.
T
hey walked under the hot sun until Henri was no longer sure if he was traveling in the right direction. From Prince Thom he had learned that the Port of Quinion was two hundred miles southeast of Hue Citadel, but the flood had erased the paths. Any landmarks that might have been there a few weeks earlier no longer existed.
He looked around for a familiar rock formation or pagoda, but nothing triggered his memory. All he saw were the ruins of abandoned villages, littered with the corpses of their former occupants. A stillness that was void of life—a flat silence from which even the echoes had vanished—permeated the air. Death wafted over the desolate terrain, stirring the vultures.
Over the barren ground, the scavengers waddled, ripping and tearing the corpses with their talons and hooked beaks. Henri had never seen the large, frightening birds so close before, and he watched in horror as they carried out their ancient role. After they feasted, they flew away, leaving only stains on the dried earth, which eventually grew thick with red ants.
As the earth seemed about to melt under the heat of the sun, Henri and François came upon a clump of tamarind trees surrounded by tall reeds. The novice collapsed in the shade while his teacher stood motionless, holding the rope that tethered the donkey. The animal nudged his hand with its nose, searching for a treat.
Tired and hungry, with no idea which way to go, Henri decided that this would be a good place to rest. The weather became gray and overcast, and a cool wind gusted from the east, but as the afternoon grew into nightfall, the sky became clear. The full moon, encompassed by a white halo, illuminated the landscape. Dogs howled. Black birds of prey circled above their heads. Henri moved about, collecting pieces of wood to start a fire.
François bedded the donkey down. From time to time he stared into the darkness. The ruined towns seemed to harbor deep secrets and lurking dangers. Even nestled next to a fire among the wild reeds, tall hyacinth grass, and bamboo shoots, the two men felt vulnerable. Eyes seemed to peer through the thick night to spy on them. Now and then, the priest stiffened and cocked his head. But when Henri sat up and joined him, he could see nothing.
To ward off the eeriness, Henri opened one of the bamboo baskets and took out a bundle of food. The donkey bumped his elbow, as if hoping for some grain.
“Eat your grass, little friend,” Henri said, petting it behind the ear.
As if it understood, the animal lowered its head to the ground. Henri unwrapped the banana leaves, layer after layer, until a spicy odor of roasted meat burst into the air—the distinct, seductive aroma of wild game. His mouth watered. His teacher wetted his lips and leaned toward the food.
The reeds rustled, and there came a hissing of breath too sharp to have been created by the wind.
Henri stood up, grabbed a burning branch from the fire, and faced the darkness where the sound had come from. There was another hiss and a thump as something hit the ground. He whirled the makeshift torch toward the intruder. His teacher came to his side, holding a long knife that Prince Thom had given to them. The donkey straightened its ears.
“Who is out there?” Henri shouted.
The land replied with a sigh.
Again he thrust his fiery wand forward. “I know you are out there. Reveal yourself.”
A small black figure darted forward and hurled itself at Henri. Its long mane of hair whipped in the wind. Recognizing Xuan, he heaved a sigh of relief before surprise overcame him. He dropped the torch back into the fire, sending an explosion of embers up toward the sky.
The little girl buried her face in his belly. Her voice erupted into rapid speech. “Please don’t send me back. I promise I won’t be any trouble. I won’t get in the way.”
He was too shocked to speak. His teacher reached to pat the child’s hair. A small smile crossed his face. Xuan gathered both men with her arms.
“I couldn’t stay there another minute,” she said. “I want to be with both of you.”
Henri stammered, “B-but y-your sister —”
“My sister is going to die,” she interrupted. “I’ve lost my mother and father. Please don’t make me watch Y Lan die too.”
The image of himself running away from his mother flared in Henri’s mind, choking him.
“Xuan, your very presence might have helped her,” he argued weakly.
She sank to her knees. “The medicine man says the hole in her face may be too large to retain her spirit. I covered it with the pennywort leaves and cloths, but nothing worked. The forest lepers came and took her away. They claimed she is now one of them. There is nothing more I can do.”
Henri was about to speak, but François pressed a forefinger against his own lips. “Feed the child.” The words escaped him in a whisper.
They walked for three more days before signs of life reemerged along their path. The brown muddy soil blossomed slowly into an emerald green. Away from the rotting corpses, the air became fresh. Sweet-voiced songbirds replaced the screeching vultures.
The destruction of the flood was behind them, but its aftermath was still evident. He could see the famine had taken its toll on the survivors. Except for their donkey, they encountered no living animals of any kind. All had been hunted down and eaten; even the rats could not escape the province’s hunger.
The beggars they passed eyed their donkey. Perhaps it was the missionaries’ foreign appearance, or their tall stature—something held these people back from attacking them and stealing their animal. Instead, they merged together, drifting and swaying after Henri’s caravan as if hypnotized.
The gathering behind them did not disturb Henri. His mind was consumed by other predicaments. He was uneasy with the responsibility of caring for his teacher, and he could see that Xuan would become a burden once they returned to Quinion. He would not be able to smuggle a young Annamite girl onto a French ship, nor did he want to. At the same time, he could not bring himself to abandon her. He knew what grim fate would befall a defenseless child. As they passed through the stark villages, he kept hoping some familywould have enough compassion to adopt her. But with each step he took, he saw corpses and hungry faces staring back at him.
The landscape grew hilly. Ahead of them the road narrowed, running like a furrow between rugged rock formations. Boulders and cliffs frowned down on them like the stone dragons that guarded ancient temples. They continued southward for another mile, and Xuan began to slow down and stumble. She clutched the panel of his shirt and would not let go.
He noticed how pale her face had become. The dark hollows under her eyes spread. He had nothing to feed her—they had finished the food in the baskets the night before—and he did not want to stop for rest. He lifted her onto the donkey’s back. Wearily, they pressed on, and the parade of beggars followed like an expanding shadow.
The path twisted until it opened to a clearing. Ahead was the beginning of a dense forest. Already the sun was in the west, and the sky shifted from bright blue to canary yellow. Patches of grass and clumps of wildflowers dotted the road.
Coming toward them out of the forest was a small group of men, pulling a cage on a wheeled platform. At first it appeared to Henri that they had captured a bear. But then he recognized the barred enclosure, and it brought back his own experience as a prisoner.
The structure was about four feet in height and built out of bamboo poles that were latched together by rattan palms. It served to jail a convict. His head protruded through a hole on the top, keeping him in place. Even though the cage appeared primitive, it was efficient and impossible to break.
The men approached. With great effort they wheeled the cart up the uneven road, gaining only a few feet at a time. When they came closer, Henri could see that they were peasants with swords like the Mountaineers he had met, not the trained soldiers of a royal army. Fourteen men made up their group. All wore the same harsh, drained look of starvation.
Henri lowered his head, avoiding their stares, and in his mind he tried to will himself invisible. Their sullen hostility repelled all within their path. A few more steps, he assured himself, and they would be out of sight. From the corner of his eye, he saw a mandarin’s figure in the cage as it went past him, so close he could touch it. Unable to help himself, he looked up and saw the face of Bishop de Béhaine. His eyes, glowing with expectation, burned into Henri.
Inside the enclosure, the bishop sat with his legs crossed like a Buddhist monk in meditation. His silken embroidered robe, once so striking, was shredded and dusty. The wooden panels at the top of the cage held his neck in place. As the structure bounced along, his head bobbed in unison, giving the illusion that it had been severed from his body. The wood’s edges had broken the skin on his neck, drawing blood. Seated on his lap was the boy-prince Ánh—the child who had pardoned Henri and François.
François let out a whimper. He too had recognized the prisoners in the moving cell. Like the bishop, François turned to Henri with a look of expectation. “Save them,” he said.
A plan flashed through Henri’s head. He did not have time to sort out the details. He had to act.
Ten paces on his right was a sloping rock formation that rose up to a broad crag overlooking the road. He grabbed Xuan and lifted her off the donkey, handing her to François. Then he took the rein and led the animal up the rocky path. It became frightened and refused to move. Henri had to pull with all his might to get the creature to the top of the cliff. Panting, he looked down at the crowd. The peasant captors stopped. Their leader took several steps forward in anticipation. Henri waited until all eyes were on him.
He spread his arms toward the heavens. “Listen, Annamites!” he shouted. “Our Lord Jesus Christ has delivered this gift of food to you.”
He reached into the basket and pulled out a knife. Holding it firm with one hand, he plunged it into the donkey. The knife sank all the way to the handle, piercing the base of the animal’s neck.
The creature howled in surprise and agony. Its forelegs folded. The blade had cut through an artery, and jets of blood sprayed Henri. He could taste it, warm and salty. A terror clutched his heart; he shook, unable to control himself. Never in his sixteen desperate years had he taken a life. But it was too late to turn back. All of the peasants, beggars and troops alike, were advancing toward him. The leader of the captors was the first one to crawl up the narrow passage.
He stabbed the animal several more times, until its body spasmed in the throes of death. It seemed to question him. Blood dripped from its mouth, and the last flicker of life was extinguished.
He retreated, the stained knife trembling in his hand. Fierce voices shouted from beneath him: the starving crowd was climbing to the sacrificial altar. Waves of peasants pushed one another up the tapered path. They parted to give Henri enough room to descend. Without delay, he bolted downward.
The sight and smell of the carcass turned each man into a savage. One of them seized the donkey’s hind leg and tried to drag it off the cliff. Others stopped him by gripping the other limbs. In the struggle, the animal was torn apart, its torso ripped open.
Once the meat was separated and the intestines were spilled, more hungry men were able to join the bloody banquet. A man picked up a rock and struck another in the face, knocking his opponent off the cliff so he could claim his booty. Others panicked and bit wildly into the flesh, taking in as much raw meat as they could swallow. The tumult of shouting and cursing echoed through the gorges.
Henri ran toward the abandoned cage. François followed him, pulling Xuan along. Prying with the knife, Henri broke the panels apart. Prince Ánh sprang from inside the bishop’s embrace. His royal tunic was torn at the shoulder, exposing his dark skin.
“Help me out,” the prince ordered François. His voice was as arrogant as ever.
François frowned, and for the first time, the vacant expression left his face.
He asked, “Do you remember me, Your Highness?” His voice was hoarse from disuse, and he had to clear his throat to regain its tone.
“Dear God,” moaned the bishop, white with fear and panic. “This is no time for confrontation, Father François. Hurry, free us before the rebels return.”
François raised an eyebrow. “So you too wish to escape death? Have patience, Bishop! If God intends to have you continue His work, then you shall be saved.” He turned to the boy. “Recognize me?”
“Yes,” came the whisper.
With his right hand, his teacher made the sign of the cross over the boy’s forehead.
“My Christian God, Lord Jesus Christ, has now freed you, Prince Ánh,” he said. “A short week ago, it was He who saved my life in the execution ground so that I can save yours today. At first I did not understand the depth of His wisdom until I saw you again.” To the bishop, he said, “You are wrong, Your Excellency, I do have a purpose in this land. Never forget this miracle!”
He offered his hands to help both prisoners down from the cart. Together they ran down the narrow and pitted road.
Nobody on the cliff saw them running. Nobody cared. The natives’ attention was riveted on the feast. Henri and his group raced away and didn’t slow until they could no longer hear the peasants.
They eventually came to a stop, blinded by the oncoming night. Their exhausted bodies could not move another step. Henri tried to catch his breath, while his legs throbbed with pain. He had tramped on so many unseen stones that his feet were bleeding. In a whisper he gathered them together, calling each by name and waiting for the reply to make certain that everyone was accounted for. They were!
Almost weeping at the priest’s recovery, he asked, “Where should we go now, Teacher?”
“We are not returning to France,” said François, resuming his responsibility. “You’ll join the bishop. I shall go where I am most needed.”
The words stung Henri. “But I came here with you —”
His teacher replied, “There is so much that you have not yet learned in this journey. Your view of God is very limited, and so is mine. I feel that I have failed to educate you. Henri, you have so many questions, which I don’t have answers to. I know the bishop’s experience and knowledge of the divine could be beneficial to you, if he is willing to accept you as a novice.”
