by Kien Nguyen
For reasons of security, only the missionaries and the captain were allowed to enter the city. The other foreigners had to remain beyond the city limits. The priests walked within a protective ring of Annamite soldiers, who hauled boxes of offerings and five cannons on wheels. From far off came the cries of a child. The streets were crowded with the ragged citizens of Quinion, mostly women and children. Other than the soldiers, there seemed to be a general absence of men.
They weaved their way through the town until they were led to the mandarin’s property. Settled on a hilltop, the dwelling was built in the round and gave off a golden-orange glow in the sunlight. Lanterns hung from the curving tips of its red-tiled roofs. At the main entrance, a large burnished-copper cauldron served as an incense burner, puffing balmy smoke and giving the place the air of a Buddhist temple. Pierre covered his nose with his sleeve.
They didn’t wait long to be received. The news of their arrival must have preceded them, because he could hear the shuffling sound of footsteps behind the thick wooden gates. An old man pulled open the gate. Behind him stretched a large courtyard, with red and orange orchids everywhere. Servants and maids in blue uniforms scurried about, paused to stare at the foreigners, and quickly fell into rank on both sides of a pathway. The light reflected off the marble walls; the glossy flowers seemed transparent. All was bright and lavish. Brother João instinctively made the sign of the cross.
The Annamite guard stepped forward. Pierre stood behind him. He did not want to announce his own arrival, so he waited with impatience, staring at the guard.
“The white men from the sea request an audience with Mandarin TuyBn, governor of Quinion City,” the guard announced.
The old man repeated the call to a servant, who then called out the same message to another standing close to him. It was echoed several times, until it disappeared into the main house.
The scarlet sun gleamed through a curtain of mango trees. They waited in silence.
Captain Petijean’s face grew slick with sweat. He took two steps forward and abruptly marched back. Then he scratched his mane of white hair, pulling at his collar as if struggling with an invisible foe—a force that was suffocating him.
The echo returned from within the grand house, passing from one servant to another until it reached the missionaries.
The old man said to Pierre, “Master has agreed to grant you an audience. You may enter.”
At the far end of the main hall, Mandarin TuyBn sat in an official chair, acting out his role as the governor of Quinion Province. Surrounding him were twenty bodyguards. Each was equipped with a weapon, from spears to sabers. In front of the mandarin, incense smoke curled around a large, veined desk cut from a single piece of ironwood.
The old servant removed his shoes, seated himself on the floor, and bowed before his master. Pierre entered. The yellow-faced, black-whiskered man on the armchair looked familiar to him. His jaundiced appearance and sluggish movements seemed to be an older representation of someone he had once known. He searched his mind in vain.
With a snarl, the governor blinked and jolted forward. Recognition filled his face.
“Cha Ca’!” he exclaimed.
The acid in Pierre’s stomach churned to his throat. It was his Annamite name many years ago, used largely among his followers. It meant “First Father.” A flash of memory entered his mind—the burning of his seminary in Hatien City in 1769. After this catastrophe, he was forced to escape to Pondicherry. The voice brought him back to the memory of a face. He shuddered, remembering this man—a government official who had converted to Christianity. The thought sent a flow of warmth throughout his body.
“Do you remember me, First Father?” the governor asked in Annamese. “I am the one who pardoned you from prison.”
“Yes, I will never forget,” replied Pierre, nodding. “You and the sea captain saved my life. I also remember when I baptized both of you.” He looked up, pleased that he was still able to speak this language with such fluency, his eyes searching the great hall. “Never did I imagine you would abandon our God and surrender yourself to false cults and idols.”
TuyBn laughed. “I no longer believe in the religion of the white man. I returned to my Buddhist roots. I can’t imagine you alive and preaching the Gospel again. When did the king of Cochin China grant you permission?”
Pierre quoted an Annamite proverb: “‘A king’s orders are not as vital as the laws of a village.’ I am here to ask you as the governor of Quinion to allow us to spread the words of our God to your people. You could see this as a business proposal, if you like. We’ll bring you Western firearms and goods and anything else you request.”
He stepped aside to present to the governor the five cannons and boxes of gifts. “These are but a few examples of what Captain Petijean can give your army. You need to protect your city and the large population of women and children I just saw on the streets.”
He could hear the whispered exchanges between the guards—murmurs of awe and incredulity. Above them came the cracked voice of the novice Henri. “I can’t follow their conversation. My Annamese is useless. Can you understand anything, Father François?”
Pierre glared at them. “Be silent!” he hissed.
Governor TuyBn fingered a corner of his embroidered robe. “I have no use for your glass beads.”
Confidence gained on Pierre with rapid steps. “Of course you don’t,” he coaxed. “Your position deserves much more. These boxes contain gunpowder, clocks, and rare books.”
His words seemed to satisfy the governor, but still, there was uncertainty in those small, dark eyes. Pierre waited, holding his breath.
“If I agree to admit your priests, when will the next shipment arrive?” the governor asked.
Pierre gave a discreet nod in the direction of Captain Petijean, who moved forward. Beads of sweat glistened on his forehead. “It would take at least one year, sire.” Slowly the captain added, “Provided that it would be a smooth journey.”
TuyBn smiled. “Very well. I shall expect to collect what is due to me in a year.” He stared at Sister Lucía as he added, “I hope for your priests’ sake it is a smooth sailing.” To the rest of the missionaries, he said, “Welcome to Quinion. Make this land your home.”
With a wave, he dismissed them.
“Your novice is unruly,” Pierre complained to François when they returned to Kim Lai Village.
The two men were walking across an empty field. The ground, under the severe temperature, cracked like the scaly skin of a crocodile. In the distance, Pierre could see the village, hidden behind a tall bamboo fence, where the sea captain and the others had settled in. He lagged in order to have a private talk with Father François.
The priest had a confused look, which irritated Pierre all the more. “He should know better than to speak while I am negotiating for our survival,” he grumbled.
“Your Excellency, he is young. In due time, he’ll learn.”
A hundred paces away, Pierre could see Henri perching on a tree branch and waiting for them. He knew that the novice avoided him, yet was unwilling to stay too far from his teacher.
“Look at him,” he said. “He is probably wishing me ill at this moment.”
The priest replied, “You threw away his only possession, Bishop de Béhaine. He is hurt, and probably furious every time he sees you. But sir, I assure you my student harbors no malice in his heart toward you. I will vouch for him before God if necessary. His purity is genuine.”
“How can you vouch for what is in another person’s mind?” asked Pierre with sarcasm. “Besides, as I explained to him, a cleric should not grow too attached to material possessions. You, of all people, should understand that concept. Henri needs discipline.”
The priest stared at Pierre. “Are you accusing me of poor judgment in choosing my novice?”
“To put it bluntly,” replied Pierre, “yes, I am. I have been watching you. I know you, Father, in more ways than you think. You are young and i
nexperienced, and adamant in your opinions. By questioning me, you doubt my authority as your leader. I sometimes wonder if you believe that you know more than I do about missionary work.”
His mind conjured the image of the fire that had consumed his mission in Hatien. He had been overconfident. As a result, all was destroyed, and he himself had been given a death sentence. His students and other catechists he had trained, all young men, had been flogged, their heads shorn, and one finger removed. Could this agony have been avoided? If only he had tried harder to understand the heathens’ thinking.
François looked away. “I would not dare to entertain such thoughts, sir. I am just eager to begin my work here in this village after you all depart.”
Pierre made a sweeping gesture with his hands. “Father, I think you are making a lot of assumptions about your role in this mission. I do not condemn you for thinking favorably about your strength and ability. After all, it is your ambition that brought you here, is it not? But I am unsure whether I should allow you to establish your own congregation or continue to keep you under my supervision. I don’t think you are ready to be on your own.”
“You cannot go back on your word!” François cried. “It was our agreement in Avignon that I would be free to carry out God’s work in any way I saw fit.” He drew a breath and added, “Why don’t you let me prove what I can do?”
“Ah, Pride! I know thy name well,” said Pierre. A faint smile passed over his face. The priest’s reaction was exactly what he had expected. “You are confident that you will not regret this decision, Father François?”
“I cannot answer that. But I shall try my best not to disappoint you. I pray that I will make you proud someday.”
“Very well, Father. Kim Lai Village is yours. I shall leave with my troops early tomorrow morning. We will accompany the Dominican monks to another community. They will begin their work some twenty kilometers deeper into the forest. I will assign ten men bearing arms to stay behind for your protection. And besides young Henri, I also want you to watch over the three nuns.”
“I favor peace,” François replied, struggling to keep a look of triumph from his face. “God will be my savior and my defense, the only army I ever need. For my missionary purpose, the soldiers’ muskets are ugly, intimidating, and useless. Please take all your men with you, Bishop. The nuns can stay, as long as they respect my authority.”
Pierre nodded. “Remember, I have warned you about the dangers and difficulties of this land. Many French missionaries have been cruelly massacred at the hands of the peasants that they themselves had converted. These men died alone and in frustration, because their work was left undone. It’s now up to you to understand the natives and their culture in order to survive. The rules for success are constantly changing, but our primary goal remains the same. Be wary always!”
It was all that he could say. Like himself, François must make his own mistakes in order to find redemption. Pierre swallowed and said no more.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Kim Lai Village, 1774-1775
François built his first church out of bamboo stalks, palm branches, sugarcane leaves, and planks of wild pine. It was located at the far end of the village, surrounded by rice paddies on three sides and the BCch LIEn River on the other. First he and Henri cut down trees, planing them, twisting vines to hold the beams in place. Slowly, a crowd of curious villagers formed to watch them. François kept his plans a secret, answering their questions only with a smile. His reticence increased their interest, just as he planned, and each day more people came.
One morning, the chief’s youngest son approached them, carrying a large basket full of animal excrement. His name was LGc, and he was a buffalo tender. Gesturing broadly, he showed them how to soak their timber in it, to preserve the wood’s texture and to ward off termites. Soon other villagers joined in, plastering every wall of the structure with a mixture of mud and cow dung. François and Henri communicated with them mainly through gestures and pantomime.
The village chieftain, Mr. SL, helped the priest create a traditional roofing pattern, which would maintain a balance between function and aesthetic expression. They first built an outdoor kiln to bake black terra-cotta tiles. The roof was then formed using an ancient yin-yang pattern—a convex tile interlocking with a concave tile. With difficulty, the old man explained to François the purpose for its design, to denote the three happinesses: good fortune, wealth, and longevity. As with all their dialogues, this one was slow and cumbersome. But when the concept was at last conveyed, both men shared a hearty laugh.
Next, a deeply curved eave was created, pointing up at the four corners. It was believed that if the devil were on the roof, he would slip and fall and be speared by this motif. François was delighted to learn that the primitive locals also feared a hell. That belief would help him to introduce the concepts of God and a Christian heaven.
With his limited vocabulary, François needed another means to teach his message of faith, so he turned to his skill as an artist. In the village and its rural area, Western-style art supplies were nonexistent. After he used up the items he had brought from France, he had to invent new ones. Through trial and error he learned to use a China ink block; to grind and purify rocks, earth, wood, and animal bones for pigments; to gather hog’s hair for brushes; and, on a glorious afternoon, to combine fabric with rice flour to create a kind of paper superbly suited for painting. Like a research chemist, he experimented with every available substance to achieve his goals.
After numerous frustrating failures, François discovered a way to mass-reproduce his images. First he engraved religious figures on blocks of wood: Christ on the cross, with his head drooping on his naked chest and blood trickling from his wounds; the Garden of Eden, with Adam and Eve; Noah and his ark; angels standing by heaven’s gate.
He chose Palm Sunday, four months after his arrival in Kim Lai, for the first Mass in his church. The reason for it was simple. Palm Sunday closely followed a day when the natives honored their dead by hanging palm branches outside the doors of their huts. The greenery served as a spiritual key to allow their ancestors to reenter their home.
Early that morning, François dressed in a silk ceremonial robe that he borrowed from Mr. SL. He even donned a new pair of wooden clogs, which thumped merrily on the terra-cotta brick path they had built in front of the church. Henri and the nuns gathered a pile of palm leaves as a growing crowd looked on, anticipating that something new was about to happen.
“Just like your deceased ancestors, all those who receive these palm leaves may enter my temple,” he said, while Henri distributed the fronds.
With a flourish, he parted the thatched door of the church and entered, beckoning them to follow. The children were the first to come in, then Mr. SL with his family. Henri held the hand of a village elder, guiding her. Before long, most of the peasants had ventured in.
Inside, the church’s simplicity was almost monastic. At its front, a wooden table draped with a crimson cloth served as the altar. Above it hung a tapestry depicting Christ’s crucifixion. Mass was celebrated with a chalice brought from France, but the communion wafers were made of rice. Instead of sitting in pews, the congregants rested cross-legged on the dirt floor.
As a house of worship, it was crude and malodorous. But its unpleasant smell and humble appearance seemed to reassure the citizens of Kim Lai, making them feel at home. To François, the chapel was beautiful beyond his wildest imagination.
He began his ceremony by distributing sheets of paper on which he had printed religious scenes using his woodcuts. Without a word, he stepped back and watched as dismay spread through the audience. Everyone recognized the image of hell. Still silent, he handed out a new set of woodcut prints, this time showing Christ’s martyrdom.
“This is Jesus Christ, the Son of God, and He has died for your sins,” he enunciated carefully.
Before the shock could leave the audience, he placed his hands on a few foreheads for emphasis. Those
who were touched gasped.
In the following weeks, François saw familiar faces among the Annamese who came to listen to him and to watch him depict the Bible in ingenious sketches. He chose the five men who seemed most interested to become his disciples, for he perceived a need to recruit and train native priests to help him with the daily routine. The first among his acolytes was the young buffalo keeper, LGc. The slender, wide-eyed youth could sing the Ave Maria and the Paternoster with reasonable skill, yet without understanding what they meant. However, the simple melody conveyed a genuine feeling that moved those who listened.
Within the year, the mission compound expanded to include a dwelling for François and Henri, another for the three nuns, and a kitchen area consisting of an outdoor stove, a table, and chairs. In the long evenings, as François sat sketching, he felt at home. More important, he reveled in the certainty that God had led him to this strange place to carry out a divine plan. He no longer missed France.
Everywhere François looked, he saw green fields and thatched huts that stretched in endless repetition toward a shimmering horizon. Under every roof, well within his reach, were ignorant souls that had yet to awaken to the power of prayer. They were waiting to be rescued, and he was God’s messenger. He preached with increased confidence, knowing that Bishop de Béhaine would return someday to inspect his mission. When that happened, he hoped to reveal to his mentor neither his talents nor his accomplishments, but the miracles of God’s endless wisdom expressed through him.
The Portuguese nuns, too, grew accustomed to the harsh climate, the strange culture, and the savage nature. Diseases attacked them, heat weakened them, yet they remained devout. Prayers were their strength. Still, François sometimes noticed a sense of emptiness among the women. Sister Lucía, the youngest, let her hair grow long. Before dawn each day, she sat on the levee overlooking the watery fields. The dawning sun danced on her blond curls and brightened them to a richer shade of gold. Sadness glistened in her eyes, and she would burst out in tears if anyone mentioned Brother João or Brother Tiago. There was no correspondence among the missionaries.