A Tree by the River

by James Dunn

  "All life is suffering. This is the first Noble Truth." I looked around to see how it was going, and remembered what the Abbot had said that first time, "When we teach, we try to give examples that apply to those listening"

  I waived my hand around the room. "Here in this house we see that suffering. This crazy war shows us our suffering." The older man's face went dark, and he scowled.

  "It is not just my suffering," I continued. "Nor is it just your suffering. We all suffer. All sentient beings suffer. It is the way of things. But the Second Noble Truth tells us that suffering can be alleviated." I was really warming up to it now. Trying to imitate the old Abbot in all his mannerisms.

  "Suffering can be alleviated by giving up wanting and not wanting. Because what we desire and what we abhor is what causes our suffering. It is not the event that brings the suffering. No! Not the event, but our thoughts about the event that brings the suffering!"

  I watched their faces, trying in vain to read them. "That," I said dramatically, "is the third Noble Truth."

  Nothing in their faces let me know if I was making any sense to them so I pressed on. "The foreigners, like me, we all want to go home. But we are not at home, and so we suffer! The people of Viet Nam want the foreigners gone, and they are not all gone, and so they suffer."

  "The politicians suffer because they want things that they don't have, or they have things that they don't want." I still had no clue as to whether I was making any sense. I decided that I should just let the Abbot speak through me. It didn't take long before I was listening to myself as if I were sitting in the audience hearing the old Abbot.

  Often as I talked, I noticed the door of the hut came open and another person would enter. The hut was tiny to begin with, and the man on the cot took up a large portion, but through the evening it turned into standing room only.

  I looked up once to see the door open again. This time, two young monks bowed and entered. The crowd parted and they made their way up to the small patch of open floor right in front of me, where they bowed again and sat down, looking directly at me.

  I panicked! I had no idea what I was going to say! I was sure they would expose me as a fraud! My mind went blank.

  I closed my eyes, remembering Truong and his great stalling tactic when I would ask him a question. Immediately I heard his soft voice within myself.

  "Toby," he said. "You are just fine."

  I certainly didn't feel just fine, and I still had no clue what to say next! "Get yourself out of the way, just as you were taught. Let truth speak through you. Remember when you quoted from your small book that beautiful saying? Remember it now, and stand back!"

  I barely remembered that discussion, but I did remember that I thumbed furiously through the book until I found that quote from the Book of Matthew.

  " By myself I can do nothing. It is not I, but the Father within, who doeth the work."

  And so I imagined myself sitting aside, and letting the Father Within continue the lecture. I was a little concerned about whether the Father Within had ever heard of the Buddhist teachings, but by myself I was sure I couldn't come up with any better plan. Somehow, the evening passed.

  There was not a sense of trying to think or remember or put it in any order. I guess I just let it fly, and it must have made some impression. It was only when I heard myself pause and look around to a silent room that I remembered that no one was going to leave unless I excused them.

  I wanted to excuse them, and like so many of them more than once I had sat on my butt on a hard floor and wished the lecture would end and he would excuse us. But he never did. First there had to be a long silent meditation.

  I closed my eyes, thinking tonight I might just make a change, and have a short meditation, but the Truong's voice seemed to whisper conspiratorially inside of me.

  It said, "Show them how to meditate, Toby!"

  So I cleared my mind and began to notice my breathing. It wasn't long before I found the "sweet spot." It is a place in between thoughts, where the room seems to flood with light, even though the eyes remains shut.

  Nearly an hour past before I heard some fidgeting and coughing. I reluctantly left the meditation and opened my eyes. Like the Abbot had taught me, I clapped my hands loudly, bringing everyone's attention back.

  I struggled to my feet and bowed. Every person in the room except the man on the cot stood immediately and bowed back to me as one. Then each person came up to me and bowed and thanked me. I folded my hands and blessed each one.

  The tiny hut began to empty. I had forgotten the two monks until they stood in front of me. Each one clasped his hands and bowed deeply, almost to the waist. I blessed them with a bow, and they filtered out the door, until only the woman, the boy and the old soldier remained. I was very tired, and wondered if and when I could sleep.

  "You are a good teacher," she said, "but a very strange monk. Would you care for some tea?"

  Since it is a huge insult to refuse tea, I bowed and said that I would love some. I sat back down in silence and watched as she began heating the tea water in a white porcelain pot with an old fashioned whistling top.

  "Auntie Mai,'' the boy shouted. "Uncle Bien has opened his eyes!”

  I surprised myself by getting to my feet so quickly, and was nearly the first one to the cot. Auntie Mai placed her hand on Bien's forehead and gently massaged it. "The heat is nearly gone," she said softly.

  I checked the wound, and it all looked okay, and noticed that his breathing was deep and regular. He studied me intently as I checked his pulse and verified that his temperature had receded.

  "You had your chance to go. Why did you not leave me?" His voice was surprisingly strong for someone I thought wouldn't live until morning.

  I pondered the question, since I had asked the very same one to myself. Finally I said, "It didn't seem like the thing to do at the time."

  A brief flicker danced across his face, to be quickly supplanted by his poker face. Then his eyes closed and he slept.

  The whistle of the teapot started to go, and Auntie Mai quickly was at the stove, removing the pot. The boy and I stood by the cot for a moment, watching his rhythmic breathing.

  In Vietnamese the boy said, "He got luck. He had a good doctor."

  When the tea had been seeped and the boy had gone out the door, Auntie Mai brought the steaming cup to me. She bowed and backed away.

  "Aren't you having some too?" I asked. She turned and poured another cup and came and sat on the floor.

  “Those monks were told to report that you are an imposter, but they would not do so. Did you know them?"

  I shook my head. "Will they not be punished for disobeying?"

  She studied me for a moment. "The soldier who sent for them was not so sure you are an imposter either. He respected the judgment of the monks. How long were you in the monastery?"

  "I don't know," I said honestly. "Seven or eight months. Long enough to see parts of both monsoons. I was raised a Christian, and we had many great discussions."

  She nodded intently, and asked," So are you a Christian or a Buddhist?”

  I frowned. It was a good question, and I was not sure I had an answer.

  "My Beloved Abbot," I said, surprised that I would speak of him using the title that Truong always used. "My beloved Abbot used to say that sometimes it’s better to live in the question than find the answer."

  She took that in but didn't ask anything else. I sipped the tea and concentrated on its flavor, and the warming sensation as it made its way down my throat.

  "I see that you are injured too," she said finally. I nodded. "I was near death when the monks found me impaled in a tree. They took me down and nursed me back to health. Without them, I would have died."

  She set down her cup, with most of the tea still in the cup. "Death seems to be everywhere. My husband and two sons are gone. I was sure I had lost my brother until you dragged him home."

  We sat in silence, each sorting out the thoughts. I noticed again
how tired I was. I had no idea if I would be tied up and locked in some hut, or left to sleep outside the door. She must have sensed my thinking.

  "I am so sorry. I must get you a blanket. We can talk more in the morning, but I am tired and I can see you are also."

  She went to a footlocker and produced a woolen blanket. I couldn't help but notice it had lettering on a small white label that said; "Property of the USMC."

  I lay down at the foot of the cot and she covered me with the blanket. "Thank you for your kindness," I said. I was fading fast.

  She was dousing the candles, making the room darker as she moved from candle to candle. But her voice was clear. "And you for yours," she said as the room went dark. I was asleep in less than a minute.

  Chapter 8

  Three young men, probably in their early teens, opened the door carrying their AK-47s in a ready position. Each wore the khaki uniform of the North Vietnamese Army, and each wearing the pith helmet so much favored by Uncle Ho. They quickly surveyed the room, pausing for a moment when they saw me sitting in my orange robe with my legs in the full lotus position.

  One came right up to me and ordered me to stand up, which I did. He patted me down for a weapon and nodded to his comrade. His comrade opened the door and left.

  Within a minute the door opened and the soldier returned with an older man who was tall and muscular and had just a hint of gray in his black hair. He carried himself with an air of command that made everyone take notice. He wore the plain black pajama look of Viet Cong, but his bearing was that of high-ranking officer.

  I remembered a guy in my unit who could spot an officer no matter what he wore. I was told that they are drilled with the idea of a "command presence." This guy had that. His eyes quickly swept the hut. For some reason he reminded me of a panther. He moved with a lot of grace, but an implied power that would not tolerate any insubordination. The young soldiers treated him with utmost respect, and he made a point to acknowledge each person with eye contact and a bow. At last his eyes landed on me.

  I bowed out of instinct, and he returned the bow, but only slightly. In flawless English he said, "May I know your name?"

  Hearing English startled me. I guess maybe that was his tactic so I purposefully took some time before answering. My dad used to tell me that if you always tell the truth you don't need a good memory. That idea seemed to apply to the situation, so I bowed deeply again and said in Vietnamese, "My name is Toby Allman, how may I serve you?"

  He got about halfway through another bow before he caught himself. It was his turn to be surprised, but he quickly masked it. "How long have you been in my country?" He could have said Viet Nam, or our country, but he made it real personal, "My country."

  I took a deep breath, just like the Abbot taught. We were told to ask within before responding to any question. That way we would speak from our highest truth, and be led towards peace and union with our brother.

  "I am not sure," I said formally. "I was near the last week of my tour when I was badly wounded. I was taken to a monastery and nursed back to health. I remained there a very long time and I now have no idea what month or even what year it is."

  He studied me for some time. I had the vague feeling I was in a high stakes poker game, and he was trying to guess my hand.

  "In the western calendar this would be March 13th, 1973." Again it was in perfect English.

  He had nailed me on that one. I probably lost the game, the car and the mortgage. I had no idea so much time had passed. "My last patrol was the 19th of January, 1972." I said. That meant that I had been gone for some fourteen months. Inside my head I heard the old Abbot's gentle voice remind me that the truth is always appropriate.

  "I had no idea how much time had passed," I said softly in English. "May I know your name?"

  He stared at me for a long time. Maybe he was so important that everyone was supposed to know his name. Maybe he didn't want it known. I was reasonably certain that I had caught him off guard, though.

  He bowed and announced, "I am Quang Liem. Did you not also know that most all the American Forces are gone, and the last of the advisors are leaving even as we speak?"

  I nodded. I really didn't know it, but I strongly suspected that it he knew more about American troop movements than I did.

  Auntie Mai bowed politely, apologized for interrupting, and invited us both to sit for tea. It was already made and steaming in two cups. My foot had been paining me ever since I had jumped to my feet when the boy soldiers pointed their weapons at me. I don't know if Auntie Mai had noticed it, but if she did, I was sure grateful.

  Quang Liem bowed and said, "Yes, of course. Please forgive my rudeness. I was summoned here because there was a report of an American soldier in the village. Would you care to tell me which unit you were with?"

  I froze. We were drilled with the idea that we were to give only our name, our rank, and our serial number. We were also warned that any other information we supplied would probably be construed as aiding and abetting the enemy.

  He apparently saw my dilemma. "You may have been part of the 101st Airborne Division. The last of those soldiers left headquarters on the last day January, 1972."

  Since he had correctly guessed my unit, and he knew when I was supposed to leave, I wondered if it still mattered. So I simply nodded.

  As he accepted his tea and sat at the low table he added, "I am the District Provost. I had to see this American soldier for myself."

  I carefully sat on the floor and Auntie Mai placed my teacup and saucer before me. Next she produced tea for the three young soldiers, and a cup for herself. We all sat in silence at the table.

  The Abbot's conspiratorial voice whispered to me to remember to say a blessing. I quickly closed my eyes and waited the appropriate time before asking the spirit of the Lord Buddha's loving-kindness to be the host.

  After the blessing, Quang Liem turned to me. In English he said, "So tell me about your time in the temple."

  I wasn't sure whether he was trying to impress me with his language skills or if he didn't want the others to find out what was being said. But after my encounters on the trail, I had decided it was best to answer in the language that the question is asked. But it felt strange to be speaking English again.

  "The monks said I died and came back. I was really badly wounded, and I found out later that there was speculation about how many days I would live. They told me that it was a good omen that I had died and come back." He nodded and sipped the tea, studying the leaves.

  "How did you pass the time at the monastery?"

  "We talked." I said simply.

  He placed the cup carefully into the saucer and turned and looked directly at me. He smiled, but there was no warmth in the smile. "What, exactly, did you talk about?"

  The change in his voice, and the change in his tone set off an alarm in my brain. This was starting to sound like an interrogation. And I might just accidentally say the wrong thing and end up as the target of a firing squad. Suddenly I was very nervous.

  I cleared my throat, stalling for time, hoping to get some inspiration as to what to say. The silence was deafening.

  I opened my mouth, figuring that somehow something would occur to me, but there was nothing, so I closed it. He continued to look right though me. My mind was racing with various stories that might somehow keep me out of trouble, but each one sounded more dangerous than the last. Finally I heard the Abbot's voice. "Always tell the truth, Brother Toby."

  So I did just that. I told him of the firefight, and the death of my team. I didn't exactly go into detail about the part about the losses for his side.

  But I told him of the monks finding me, and the rainy seasons in the temple, and my learning the language, and the long discussions about Buddha.

  I told him how patient the monks were when I had the fevers and the chills, and how they poured tea down me. I even told him of my desire to sneak away and find my way back to America.

  He smiled when I told him
about the gifts from all the monks and how they "allowed" me to escape.

  But then his eyes turned cold, and he said, "So, you were trying to get back to your unit, or to any U.S. unit?"

  I knew that if I answered that question, I would probably be shot. Even to my mind, it sure sounded like admitting to being an enemy combatant, sneaking around in a country where I didn't belong.

  I thought about Bien, and finding him so badly wounded, and sawing through his ankle-bone. I was so glad I hadn't taken his weapon with me when I dragged him to the village,

  But they might still see me as a spy dressed as a monk. For the life of me I couldn't think of anything to say in answer to that question.

  A weak voice from the darkened part of the hut said, "Why would an American soldier take the time and effort to save his captor, and then drag him all the way to a hostile village?"

  I turned and glanced at the man on the cot. I had completely forgotten that he spoke English. In fact I had nearly forgotten he was in the room. Quang Liem was staring at him too.

  Now he turned back to me. "Why, indeed," he said softly.

  "I really can't answer that question.” I mumbled.

  From somewhere inside my brain, I was sure I could hear the high-pitched giggle of Truong, and a quote from his Beloved Abbot too, Truong's silent voice inside me said, "The path to knowing comes through the land of not-knowing."

  Quang Liem studied me for a long moment. His hands were clasped together on the low table, and I saw his thumbs begin to slowly tap together. For some time those thumbs were the only movement in the room. It was so quiet that I actually heard the soft thud when the two thumbs contacted each other.

  Finally he stood up and approached Bien's cot. He placed his hand on Bien's forehead, and left it there for a while. It reminded me of a father or grandfather taking the temperature of a beloved family member.

  Then he turned to me.

  "Perhaps, sir, you are just finding out who you really are."