A Tree by the River

by James Dunn

  A face came closer and closer to my face, and I thought the man was going to kiss me, he came so close. Something was said in a language I didn't understand. I nearly gagged at the smell of his breath. When I remained silent, it was said louder. I said in Vietnamese that I did not understand, and was struck on the side of my head, probably by a rifle butt.

  The blow nearly knocked me unconscious, but it sure knocked me over on my side. Soon a kick landed in my midsection. I exhaled in pain, curled up in a ball, and covered my head.

  I heard the clack of a rifle chambering a round, and heard also a voice give an order. It must have been the Cambodian word for "Stop!"

  My eyes were adjusted to the darkness, or else dawn was approaching, because I could dimly make out the features of six men. The one who had ordered the beating to end now said in Vietnamese, "You are a very stupid monk, monk!"

  I could see that he held an ancient Enfield carbine, a weapon from the first world-war era. The others had backed away, and he was holding the weapon pointed not so much at me, as the entire group.

  "What is your name, monk?" said the man with the rifle.

  Now I knew that my Abbott had stressed the need to tell the truth, but I made a command decision that if I mentioned I was an American, my life span would be milliseconds, not years. So I lied.

  "I am known as Brother Truong, I am on my way to the village of Quin Loi."

  The rifleman laughed without any humor. "You are very lost then, this island is claimed by both Cambodia and Viet Nam. Quin Loi is over that mountain."

  I didn't have to turn and look to know it was the same mountain I had descended earlier.

  "I am sorry for intruding. May I offer you food? I have food to share."

  "You have nothing!" he said. "We now have the pack and we now have the food. We have no intention of sharing it with a foolish Buddhist! We have the power to end your life right now. We shoot all trespassers into Cambodia."

  "But you said yourself that this island is disputed, is the life of a confused monk necessary to protect your country?" There was enough light that I could see his face, and he actually smiled briefly.

  "Go now!" he said. "They can't understand Vietnamese, and I will keep them from killing you. A monk once saved my life, and so I am sparing yours. Climb that stream bank and make sure you never come near the Mekong again."

  I scrambled to my feet. The others jumped and one produced a huge machete. The man with the rifle barked an order and pointed the gun at the machete man. A surly response I couldn't understand followed, but he lowered the machete. In Vietnamese the man said again "Go now!"

  I didn't need any more encouragement, so I just waded into the river and retraced my steps to the mouth of the smaller stream. I scrambled up the bank and began pulling myself hand over hand up the steep watercourse. I looked back to see all six of them standing and watching my progress. I was tempted to bow, but thought better of it.

  I kept moving until the sun was up, and I was up at a much higher elevation. I finally rested where I could see the river far below. I was cold and hungry. Even in the tropics, there is a time just after sunrise when the temperature drops rapidly. My robe was wet from wading, and I was exhausted. But I was still within sight of Cambodia, and had no desire to encounter any marauding bands. I forced myself to stand and continue to climb.

  I still had the problem of being lost, and wasn't sure how I was going to find the path or the trail to Qin Loi. But I decided that right now I had better put some distance between me and that river.

  I walked all morning, and near the noon hour I crested the summit. Just briefly, I thought I saw someone or something following me, so I rounded a bend and quickly hid myself behind a gnarled and misshapen tree. I had no weapon, no food, and no clue what I would do if someone was following me. The best I could do was to just stay hidden and let whoever it was pass.

  Within minutes I saw him. It was the guy with the rifle. He was busy studying the trail and he followed it right up to the point where I stepped off to hide behind the tree. He stood and looked at the tree. "Monk! You can come out. I am not going to hurt you!"

  I hesitated, and he put the rifle on the ground and stepped back about six or seven paces. "I wish to become a monk! I have tired of the killings. Please help me."

  I stepped around to the front of the tree. "Where are your comrades?" He bowed and motioned toward the old rifle. "Please take it. I have renounced violence. I shall never touch a weapon again."

  I asked again, "And where are your comrades?"

  "They are not my comrades,' he said. “In Cambodia all men are organized into cadres of seven, and ordered to search out and kill the enemies of the state."

  I looked at the weapon, and looked down the trail the way we had both come. He shook his head, "They remain in Cambodia, or on that island. Enough people make the mistake you made, and they kill them for their food or clothes. I cannot continue."

  "Won't they come after you, or us?" I asked.

  Again he shook his head. "They are lazy and have no desire to intrude too deeply into Viet Nam. There is talk of Viet Nam sending soldiers to stop the Cambodians from raiding."

  I studied the old rifle. "I don't want it, but you may."

  He followed my gaze, and shook his head. "I have killed my last man. I have no use for it either. Shall I put it in the river?"

  I nodded, and he emptied the shells and flung each in a different direction, and then removed the bolt action and flung it deeply into the trees, away from the river. The remaining part of the gun he took to the nearby stream. I watched as he knelt and scooped the mud deep enough to bury the weapon. He then found two boulders and placed them on the spot. Satisfied, he smiled and returned to the path. "Now I am a Buddhist," he proclaimed.

  "You still look like a Cambodian raider," I said with a smile, "And you smell like one too."

  A smile spread across his face, and he bowed. "I am to assume that my teacher uses sarcasm as one of his teaching devices. Please wait while I bathe." With that he strode to the stream and stripped his clothes. He had no soap, and the stream must have been cold, but he managed to scrub with the sand. He used his shirt to towel with.

  I smiled and said, "The hair is still a dead give-away."

  “Ah!" he said. "The hair. Well, yes." He produced a knife that he carefully sharpened by honing it on a boulder. When it finally met his approval he grabbed his long hair and hacked it off in huge chunks. After several minutes he looked like a half-skinned skunk.

  "Let me have that blade," I said. I took it and carefully shaved the clumps of missed hair. It was surprisingly sharp, although it left his scalp mottled and blotchy. The lack of hair also revealed a snow-white scalp.

  "That will have to do. We must find a monastery, and get you a saffron robe." I returned the knife and motioned for him to begin walking, and we proceeded to a clearing, with a fork in the path.

  "That road," he said, pointing to a barely discernible path, "leads right back to Cambodia. And this one, is the road to Quin Loi."

  "I don't suppose you brought any of my food, did you?"

  He shook his head. "They were insistent that if I left, I leave the food. I didn't feel like killing any of them, so I left it for them. Buddhists refrain from killing, right?"

  I nodded, trying not to show my disappointment. And that lead right into the lecture of the Four Noble Truths, the first of which dealt with suffering. We walked and talked, or rather he talked and I listened.

  "My mother was Cambodian, but my father was Vietnamese. He insisted I learn both languages. He tried to talk to me about the eight-fold path, and the middle way of the Buddha, but I was young and impertinent."

  "He will be proud of you for your decision to return to your roots."

  He shook his head. Tears welled up in his eyes and he stopped walking. I waited in silence.

  "I was present when both of my parents were killed." His voice wavered, "Roving squads were pointing out anyone who could read or
write. I might have been able to save them, but I feared disapproval of the cadre commander. He later told me that my duty to the Khymer Rouge led me to choose rightly to denounce them.”

  I didn't know what to say. So I just nodded. He looked at me with such bleakness and pain and I had no words to comfort him. I took a deep breath, and the voice of my Abbot spoke.

  "Tell him of your adventure in the tunnel, and the being of light. Tell him what the being said about your commandment."

  And so I told him that although all intelligent humans eventually forsake violence, that I had died, and visited a being of light. He asked me how I died, and why I was still here, and I had to relay the whole story.

  The day passed, and he foraged for food and found wild vegetables to feed us. We talked late into the night, and he took great comfort from my story. In the morning he asked, "How can I undo the horrible karma I have taken on?"

  Since I had asked the Abbot the exact same question, I was able to recall almost word for word the answer I was given.

  "We are ruled by the laws of karma as long as we believe in the concept of "self and other." The law of Grace transcends the law of karma, and is easily understood when we cease to see the world as "self and other" and begin to see it as "self as other."

  That concept elicited many more questions, but at some deep level I was able to convince him that the essence of us is eternal, unchanging, and incapable of being killed. I was impressed by his thirst for answers, and delighted to share the things I had learned.

  We rounded a bend and saw black smoke and plumes of flames. Several huts were perched on poles around a barren hill that served as the common ground of a village. Three of the huts were badly damaged and two were smoldering.

  An old woman sat in the middle of the path, crying and tearing at her hair.

  She sobbed and rocked back and forth. When she saw us she stopped, mid sob, and jumped to her feet. She pointed a bony and misshapen hand at us and screamed "Murderers! Murderers! You killed them all!"

  I stood there in front of her until she finally stopped screaming. "Are you hurt?" I asked.

  "Dead!" she screamed. "They're all dead! You and your filthy soldiers killed them all!"

  "I am a monk," I said. "I didn't kill them. I just arrived and heard your cries." She spit right in my eyes. "Murderer!" My compatriot just stood there. I guess he was sure that this happened all the time to me, and I knew exactly how to handle it. The old woman noticed him standing there, and included him in her wrath. "Filthy bastards! You are all murderers! My whole family is dead! Have you no heart?"

  She lunged suddenly at my throat, her arms outstretched to choke me. I stepped backwards, and tripped, and she landed fully on top of me. I managed to trap her hands and keep her from my neck, but she was writhing and struggling.

  My companion grabbed her and easily pulled her off me. I let go and he deposited her back on her feet. I got to my feet and dusted off my robe and my dignity. "Who did this?" I asked, waiving at the carnage.

  "Soldiers," she said in a surprisingly calm voice. "Cambodians?" I asked.

  She looked hard at me. I was almost sure she saw me as a long-nose, an intruding American invader.

  "What does it matter? Everyone who comes here comes only to murder. Now I am old and alone. My husband is dead. My sons are gone to war or dead. My daughters have fled to Saigon, and become whores!"

  I didn't know what to tell her to comfort her. I waited, hoping the voice of the Abbot would help me, but there was only silence. I glanced around and saw several bodies.

  "The dead must be buried. Can you find me some digging tools?" I went to the nearest hut. A young boy lay face down in the doorway. I saw at least four bullet holes in his small body. He was maybe eight or ten years old. I picked up the body and carried it to the old woman. "Do you have a burial site?"

  She studied the body for a moment and then marched around to the back of one of the huts. My new student appeared carrying the body of an old man, probably the woman's husband. We carefully laid the bodies down on the damp earth.

  The old woman watched us for an instant before turning and walking away. I knelt down on my hands and knees and started scooping the dirt away with my hands. The Cambodian did the same.

  The old woman reappeared with two U.S Army issue folding foxhole shovels. She handed one to each of us. I thanked her and dug a decent grave for the boy, placed him in it and then helped with the digging for the old man. The woman stood and watched.

  We found four more bodies, and the entire day was spent digging graves. I conducted a simple Buddhist ceremony, asking that the souls went quickly to heaven and only their good karma was recorded.

  The old woman went inside one of the huts. I turned to my new friend and said, "I never asked you your name, nor told you mine. I am Brother Toby."

  He bowed. "I am honored to have you as a teacher, Brother Toby. I am known as Lam."

  The woman reappeared with two cups of tea, handing one to each of us.

  "Do you have any for yourself?" I asked. She shook her head. "You dug the graves. You drink the tea."

  I shook my head, and offered the tea back to her. "You lost your entire family. Could we perhaps share it?"

  She drew in a deep breath. "You are a strange monk." She pointed at the Cambodian, "And he does not even wear a robe. Who is he?"

  Again I pushed the cup closer to her. "He is a new acolyte. And you are a strong and brave woman who has suffered much. Please drink the tea."

  She took the cup and sipped. She closed her eyes and allowed the liquid to warm her. Then she opened her eyes and handed the cup back to me. "I have had all I want. I have something I must do." She bowed and said, "Goodnight, strange monk and stranger acolyte."

  I watched her enter a nearby hut and close the door.

  Lam and I sat down on the rough ground, and I taught him the method of observing his breath. Darkness came, and I ended the lesson. He stood and yawned, then stretched and lay down. "Goodnight, Brother Toby, who introduced himself yesterday as Brother Truong." He smiled and closed his eyes.

  I sat the entire night. I slowed my mind to the place where no thoughts arose. A deep sense of peace engulfed me. Sometime during the night I must have dozed.

  I was awakened by the crackle of flames and the acrid odor of burning straw. The old woman was systematically torching each of the huts. When she finished, she came to me and bowed. "I now have nothing and am a follower of the Buddha. I sit at your feet and await your instruction."

  Lam smiled and produced his trusty knife, "All Buddhists shave their heads," he said. She nodded and began hacking her hair away. He watched in silence until she handed back the knife and stood silently as he finished the shaving.

  I closed my eyes in order to become a silent observer of my sinking emotions. Desperation engulfed me as I called on the spirit of the Abbot. "Help!" I prayed silently.

  Immediately, I heard his cosmic chuckle. "When the teacher is ready, the students will appear."