The Mountains Sing(54)

I leaned over and uprooted a couple of rice plants. Stripping away their roots and leaves, I stuffed the skinny stems into my mouth. It didn’t taste as bad as I thought. My hands worked furiously.

When I woke the children, giving them the stems, Ng?c refused to eat. Her fever had gone up even higher. Her eyes were swollen, her face bright red.

“We need help.” I eyed the village closest to us. We couldn’t run away from humans anymore.

“Isn’t it dangerous?” ??t glanced toward the clusters of trees where shouts and drumrolls were rising into the first sunrays.

“We need food and clean water, Son.”

“There’ll be angry people.” Ng?c’s lips quivered.

“They’ll tie you up again,” H?nh said.

“They’ll shout at us.” Thu?n’s face twisted.

“We’ll be careful.” I studied our clothes, which looked like rags since we’d ripped them. Under my brown outer shirt, though, my silk blouse was still intact. I needed to hold on to my brother’s gift—my last memory of him.

“I have an idea,” said ??t. “Why don’t you all wait here? Let me go alone. It’s safer. I can—”

“No! I can’t let another child out of my sight.”

“I’ll be careful, Mama.”

I shook my head. “Let’s stay together. We’re a team.”

We made our way toward the village, like a group of beaten animals. My legs weakened at the sounds of violent shouts and drumrolls that rang louder as we approached.

“Mama, I’m scared.” Ng?c clutched my arm.

WE WENT DOWN a dirt path. Thick clusters of bamboo soared over us, leaves rustling in the wind. A pair of brick towers covered by green moss framed the village gate.

My eyes caught sight of the first house, roofed and walled by rice straw. I put my finger to my lips. The children were silent as clams. Thankfully, Sáng was sleeping on my back. We tiptoed closer to the house fence. Behind it stood a papaya tree laden with green and golden fruit.

My mouth watered, ready to welcome a piece of soft, sweet papaya. I saw myself climbing over the fence, dashing across the garden.

Violent barks. A dog darted out of the house. In a flash, it leaped up, launching itself at my face. The fence shook. We jumped back.

“Bad dog, bad dog.” A shout sprang up from a neighboring house. An elderly lady emerged, waving her broom toward the dog. Time had carved deep lines onto her face and bleached her hair silver white. She looked kind. She must be kind.

Leading the children, I approached her. “Thank you, Auntie.” I smiled. “Would you spare us some leftover rice? My kids are sick. Please, Auntie . . .”

She looked us up and down then grimaced. “You beggars bring bad luck. I haven’t even started my day. Go away.” She hurried inside, through her gate.

Instead of being miserable, I was laughing. “That’s good, isn’t it? No one can recognize us now.”

“To hell with wicked landowners!” The shouts, echoing from a close distance, made me shut my mouth.

“Is she going to the market, Mama?” H?nh pointed ahead. A woman had just appeared from a lane that cut into our path, walking swiftly forward with a bamboo pole braced across her shoulder. At each end of the pole dangled a bamboo basket piled with green vegetables.

“Market, lots of food. Market,” ??t whispered. “Let’s follow her.”

We passed lush gardens but didn’t dare get closer to any of them. Without being told, the children bent their heads, hiding their faces.

The woman disappeared into a lane. We caught up and found ourselves in an open area, bursting with noise and colors. The village’s morning market.

Rows of sellers sat behind baskets filled with all types of uncooked food: vegetables, rice, beans, fish, and meat. The air no longer smelled of fear, but of happiness and excitement.

??t pulled my arm, and I looked to my left. Wisps of smoke twirled from a huge pot mounted on a coal-lit stove. Behind the pot stood a woman, stirring the contents. The appetizing aroma of ph? floated up to me. “Beef noodle soup, freshly-cooked beef noodle soup,” the woman sang.

We inched closer. The children licked their lips, staring at large bowls placed on tables set in an open area where men, women, and children sat, their faces submerged in rising curtains of steam, their slurping irresistible.

“Beggars,” the seller suddenly shouted. “Go away.” She flicked her chopsticks at us. “It’s too early. Don’t you dare bring me bad luck.”

I pulled the children back.

“Lazy beggars, go work to earn your living. Go work like us!”

We dragged ourselves away.

We passed a rubbish dump where clouds of flies scattered. We searched for something edible, but the stench told me anything there would harbor sickness. The children found something useful, though: a tattered nón lá, which I put onto my head to conceal my face.

We reached the market entrance where people streamed through. We needed food.

There was only one thing left for us to do.

I asked the children to kneel down.

They objected but I was on my knees, stretching out my palms. “Sir, Madam, we beg you. Have pity on us. We’re hungry,” I said, fearing my own voice.

Sáng woke up. His cries throbbed against my temples.