The Mountains Sing(27)

We put aside our nón lá hats, pressed our stomachs against the ground, and wriggled our way through. On the other side was a tiny path, almost hidden among the trees.

I opened my eyes wide, seeking food. Only tree roots and fallen branches met my gaze. Other people had been there, before us.

“Go deeper, go on.” My mother led me through a maze of passages. Finding nothing to eat still, we walked further and further. My feet trembled under me, but my mother kept forcing the way forward, as if she had gained new strength. We journeyed so deep into the belly of the forest that I no longer knew where we were.

“Will you find the way back, Mama?” I panted, staring at a dense bush we’d just crawled through.

My mother didn’t answer. She walked to a green wall in front of us. It looked thick, woven by intertwining jungle vines.

“There used to be a corn field . . . behind this.” She coughed, pushing the vines away, trying to take a peek, but the wall was too thick.

“Why didn’t you tell us earlier, Mama?”

“I was sure I wouldn’t remember the way.” She clutched her stomach, squatting down. “Perhaps nothing grows there anymore. Perhaps . . . perhaps other people have found it.”

I listened to sounds from the other side. Was that a bird singing? If there were birds, there must be food.

I handed my mother the pipe, telling her to drink. There was only a mouthful of water left, and I wanted her to have it. Holding up the knife, I thrashed at the green wall. The knife sprang back at me, narrowly missing my face.

“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.

“M? ?i!” 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.

“M? ?i!”

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.