The Mountains Sing(11)

“Hey, watch out.” C?ng snatched my arms, pulling me to safety.

“You okay?” Trinh looked up from the sack she was cradling.

“I’m drunk from sleeping too much,” I said in embarrassment.

“Come on, Di?u Lan, you were up late last night breast-feeding ??t.” Mrs. Tú handed a sack to my father, who stood inside the cart.

“It’s good you’re weaning ??t by going on this trip.” My mother bent to pick up a sack. “He’s already thirteen months.”

The thought of feeding ??t sent a painful sensation to my chest. My breasts started to well up with milk. “He doesn’t want to wean,” I blurted.

“I know where he got his genes from.” My father chuckled. “I was still drinking from my mother at four years old. She tried different ways to wean me. Nothing worked. Until one day . . .”

“What happened?” C?ng asked.

“She ate a couple of bird’s eye chilies. Picked from our garden, they were ripe red, hot as fire. Her milk was so spicy, I spit it out and never went near it again.”

Our laughter filled the veranda, mingling with the fragrance of fresh earth stirred up by the rain.

“Shhh. The neighbors will think we’re crazy, laughing at this hour of the morning.” Mrs. Tú tried to suppress her giggles between her black teeth.

“I bet they wish they had some of our craziness.” Trinh swept the floor with a large broom.

I couldn’t agree more.

The rain had eased into a light drizzle. With all the sacks safely stored inside the cart, my father and C?ng secured additional palm-leaf sheets around the frame, turning it into a cozy carriage. The ride to Hà N?i would take five days and nights, and we had to be prepared for worse weather. If these potatoes were to sell to the best restaurants there, they had to be top quality. As clever as he was, when my father imported new seedlings from Europe many years earlier, he didn’t know they’d help make our family fortune.

My father and C?ng placed a wooden board above the sacks. Trinh and I lowered a thick palm-leaf sheet, which became the cart’s back door. We pushed the cart out to the yard, tethering it to the buffaloes with a yoke.

Mrs. Tú lugged large hampers of food and water into the cart. My mother pushed a fat envelope into my pocket. “For Master Th?nh’s medicine.”

Drumbeats from the village temple cut through darkness, their echoes rippling like waves. Time to depart.

Guava, when I turned to get my bag, someone was holding it. Guess who it was? Your Grandpa Hùng.

“Shouldn’t you be in bed, anh?” I laughed.

“Have to see you off,” he whispered into my ear.

My mother helped my father put on his raincoat, an imported product he’d purchased in Hà N?i. She secured a nón lá on his head.

“Let’s go.” My father hopped onto the cart’s front.

My mother clutched my hands. “Take care on the road, won’t you?”

“I’ll cook ??t many types of porridge. He’ll eat plenty,” Mrs. Tú said.

“I’ll send the kids to sleep with fairy tales,” Trinh added.

As the buffaloes heaved us away, I poked my head out, my words woven into the rain. “I’ll bring home exciting stories about Hà N?i.”

Soon, we were riding on the bumpy village road. The cart’s wheels clicked noisily against thick mud.

“Try to get some sleep, children.” My father’s voice boomed through the palm-leaf sheets.

“Papa, call me when you want to swap places.” C?ng’s voice turned toward me, “Sleep, Sister.”

I lay down. As the cart rocked and swayed, I found myself wide awake with thoughts about my father out there in the cold.

I fumbled for a raincoat. Lifting the layers of sheets, I faced the solid backs of the moving buffaloes. A glow of light in front of the animals’ heads let me know the cart had turned onto a larger road.

I made out my father’s hand holding two small ropes that ran parallel to the buffaloes’ bodies and connected to their noses. His other hand was clutching a torch that he’d also gotten from Hà N?i. I admired its stable light as I settled down next to him.

“Can I hold that torch for you, Papa?” I asked as the drizzle slapped its chill onto my face.

“Want to hold these ropes instead?”

Surprise bloomed inside my chest. I’d never dared dreaming about driving our buffalo cart. Back then women were considered dirty because we menstruated. Once I saw a man beat his daughter because she’d crossed the driver’s seat of his cart. He believed she’d bring bad luck and cause the cart to tumble.

“It’s not difficult.” My father thrust the ropes into my hands. “Pull them backward hard if you want the buffaloes to stop. Pull to the left to go left, and vice versa. Relax your hands otherwise.”

I clutched the ropes tight and gave them a tug. My whole body tingled at the excitement of being in control.

“Doing great.” My father cast a halo onto the road. “See the puddle there? Pull to one side. Here you go. Good, good.”

Leaning over, he put his nón lá on my head.

“No, you wear it, Papa!”

“If you fall sick, who’ll take care of us on this trip, huh?” He secured the hat’s silk strap under my chin.