The Mountains Sing(53)

“Go to a big city. Find somewhere to hide,” the woman whispered. “I wish you luck.”

“Sister . . . how do we get to the national highway?”

She pointed ahead. “But don’t go near the village over there. There’re lots of vicious dogs.”

Ng?c and ??t bowed their thanks to the woman, who cupped their faces with her palms. “Take care of yourselves.” She pushed them away and stood there, watching us. When we had gone a short distance, I looked back and saw her standing in the same spot, her nón lá a gleaming white flower in a vast green.

“MAMA, I’M SCARED.” H?nh clutched my hand as we curled up onto a patch of grass. Above our heads, clusters of stars and an orange wedge of a moon lit up the sky. But Heaven’s light was too far away to reach us. Where we lay, darkness trapped us in its cocoon.

“Don’t be, my love. I’m here.” I kissed H?nh’s wet cheeks.

“I’m hungry, Mama,” Thu?n said.

“We’ll find something to eat tomorrow. Try to get some sleep.” We’d been running for three days. There was no more food. I’d found some mud crabs and snails but couldn’t give them raw to the children anymore. ??t and H?nh had been hit by bouts of diarrhea. Ng?c had some kind of fever.

“Your tummy hurts?” I reached for ??t.

“It’s better now, Mama.” His voice was as tired as an old man’s. He curled like a shrimp, Sáng between us. My baby had cried for a long time before falling asleep. I could no longer produce enough milk for him.

It pained me to think about the long way ahead. We’d found the national highway and been walking on a path parallel to it, but hunger and exhaustion were slowing us down.

“Mama, I’m hungry.” Again Thu?n’s voice rose into the dark.

“Shut up, I’m trying to sleep,” H?nh scolded him.

“Shhh. Let me sing. Let me sing you a lullaby. . . .”

“The one about the crane, Mama.”

“à à ?i . . . con cò mà ?i ?n ?êm, ??u ph?i cành m?m l?n c? xu?ng ao. . . .” Oh ah, the crane seeking food at night, it perches on too weak of a branch and plunges headfirst into the pond. . . .

You know this song, too? Yes, of course. Your mother used to sing it to you.

That night, I sang softly until the children’s breathing became regular. It was quiet, perhaps Heaven could hear me. Bringing my hands to my chest, I prayed for Minh to be safe, for C?ng’s soul to reach Heaven, for Auntie Tú to suffer no harm, for Mr. H?i and his family to face no risk. I prayed for the woman we’d met on the road; her shirt was warm against my skin, giving me comfort and strength.

I wondered if I could ever find Minh. In his message, Mr. H?i didn’t say where Minh was heading or how to find him. I wished I could go back to our village and ask.

Ng?c’s fever hadn’t gone down. Her body was burning like a hot coal. I fumbled my way to the ditch between our path and the rice paddies. It was filled with rainwater, water that I drew into my mouth and fed Ng?c, water that I used to cool her body.

LATER, ??T’S SOBS woke me.

I kissed his face, tasting the saltiness of his sorrow.

“I dreamed about Brother Minh, Mama, that they caught him.”

“Your brother is as quick as a cat. He’s fine, trust me.”

“I miss him, Mama.”

“We’ll find him, I promise.”

“I miss Uncle C?ng and Papa.” ??t’s tears burnt my face. “Why does bad stuff keep happening to our family?”

“I don’t know, but we’re not the only ones who’ve suffered. Tr?i có m?t—Heaven has eyes, Darling. Heaven will punish people who do bad things.”

“Are you sure we’ll be safe in Hà N?i, Mama?”

“I hope so.” I caressed ??t’s hair. “Remember when you and Minh found a bird nest in the eave of our house? Together you watched the eggs hatch.”

“We fed the baby birds with insects, until they were big enough to fly away.”

“One day we’ll be back to our home, Son. We’ll be back and birds from all over the world can come and nest with us. . . .”

After ??t had fallen back to sleep, I tossed and turned. Darkness was thinning, the shadows of villages that bordered the horizon looked like women whose backs were bent with the burdens of life. My mother had had to bear hers, and it was now my turn.

As the sky became a rosy glow, I washed my face by the ditch. The water only made my stomach feel emptier. I searched but found nothing to eat. Squatting down next to a paddy field, I ran my hands over the rice plants, hoping to find a rice flower. But the plants here were much too young.

It was my father who’d carried me out to the rice field when I was a child. He’d picked a thick rice stalk, peeled it, and given me a milky rice flower. I remembered the fragrant sweetness in my mouth, and how long I’d laughed as he carried me on his back, galloping like a horse on the rice field’s bank.

I cast my eyes at the national highway. On this road my father had been beheaded, his blood trampled on by people and animals, rolled over by vehicles, washed away by storms and rain. He had been the one who let me drive the buffalo cart, as a way of telling me that women could be in charge. He had believed in me so that I had faith: I could save myself as well as my children. I heard his voice urging me on.