The Mountains Sing(38)

The ancient legend couldn’t be truer. If both Americans and Vietnamese had laid down their weapons, no one would have had to die.

Grandma’s eyes were dreamy. “Mrs. Uyên, the tea seller, once saw a Great-Grandparent Turtle emerging from this lake. When she got home, her daughter-in-law gave birth to a son.”

Grandma and everyone I knew had such respect for the Hoàn Ki?m turtles that they called them C? Rùa—Great-Grandparent Turtle.

I took a bite of my ice cream. “It’s true then, whoever sees a Great-Grandparent Turtle in this lake will be blessed. But how many Great-Grandparent Turtles still live here, Grandma?”

“Nobody knows. We only know they’re rare.”

I shifted my gaze to the Ng?c S?n Temple. Grandma and I had been there many times, praying to Heaven and admiring the remains of a Great-Grandfather Turtle. He weighed 250 kilograms and was more than two meters long. According to experts, he was 900 years old.

Resting my head on Grandma’s shoulder, I wished I could tell her how sorry I was for the fight we’d had. From now on, I had to be kinder to her.

Twilight sprinkled its golden rays onto us as I cycled home with Grandma. As we turned onto our lane, I saw that a crowd had gathered in front of our house.

Grandma jumped down before her bike stopped completely. She pushed herself into the crowd, disappearing from my view.

“Can’t believe he made it back,” a woman said.

“He’s lucky to be alive,” said a man.

My bike crashed to the ground.

“Please, let me through.” I squeezed myself between bodies, my arms opening the way. Someone shoved me to the left, another to the right. I struggled to breathe, my head spinning. I inched forward and eventually found myself closer to a small clearing in the middle of the circle.

Squashed behind some people, I stood on my toes, looking over their shoulders. My eyes found Grandma. She was kneeling in front of a metal chair that sat on two large wheels, holding hands with someone whose body was obscured by the wheelchair’s back.

“Grandma,” I called. The people in front turned. They mumbled, giving way. Someone pulled me down, and I knelt next to Grandma. I blinked and saw a blurred but familiar face.

“H??ng, Little H??ng.” A voice I knew called my name.

“Papa!” Flashes of light flared up around me. Light that faded into a dark tunnel, pulling me into its depth.

I FLOATED ON a bed of clouds. An immense blue sea surrounded me, waves bobbing under a layer of mist. A black dot appeared, grew larger, then turned into a Great-Grandfather Turtle. The turtle was swimming next to me now, his head held high, his mouth opening. I tried to speak, but only muffled sounds came. “H??ng,” the turtle said, his eyes glowing, water glistening on his head. Breathing noisily through his nose, he flicked his tongue; something cool lapped against my forehead.

“H??ng, H??ng ?i!” Someone called my name from a faraway distance. I tried to move and the mist started to evaporate. The turtle disappeared and I was inside our home. The clouds became our wooden ph?n, and the turtle’s tongue, a wet cloth on my forehead.

“Guava, do you feel better?” my grandmother said.

“What happened, Grandma?”

“You fainted, my darling.” She nursed sugary water into my mouth.

Memory rushed back. “Papa!”

I looked around. There he was. The hollowed eyes, the gaunt face, the beard and rough skin. Wearing an army shirt, he was sitting in the wheelchair. Two scar-ridden stumps—the remains of his legs—protruded out from a pair of army pants that had been cut short.

The man grinned, and I heard myself cry.

He was not my father, but Uncle ??t.

“H??ng,” said my uncle. “I frightened you, didn’t I? Sorry.”

I shook my head, tears rolling down my cheeks.

Grandma caressed my face. “You scared me so, Guava.”

“Uncle ??t, I’m so glad you’re back,” I managed to say.

“Me, too. My Guava. My Little H??ng. But you’re not little anymore. You’ve grown so much.”

“Sorry about your legs.” I glanced toward the stumps. “Do they hurt?”

“Not anymore.” My uncle pushed himself closer to the ph?n. He reached for my hand, held it up, whacking it against his stumps. “See? I don’t feel any pain.”

“What happened, Son?” asked Grandma.

“I stepped on a land mine, Mama. Not such a big deal.” My uncle shrugged.

“We’re lucky you made it home.” Grandma squeezed his hand.

Uncle ??t smiled at me. “I have something for you, young lady. I’m glad . . . so glad to finally deliver my promise.” Unbuttoning his breast pocket, my uncle pulled out a tiny bundle, kissed it, brought it to his chest, and looked up to Heaven. He closed his eyes for a long while before turning to me, the bundle in the nest of his palms.

I picked it up, staring at the blackish outer layers of plastic and paper. “Who is it from, Uncle?”

“Your father.” My uncle beamed.

“You saw him?” I sat right up.

“Oh, many years ago. Let me see . . . seven years and two months, to be exact. It was in August 1968, when we were both heading south.”

“Have you seen him again? You know where he is?”