Le Colonial

by Kien Nguyen

  “Help!” he screamed to François.

  The priest wrapped his arms around Henri’s legs to anchor him as he searched for the Annamite pair. The woman’s long hair clung to the tree as her husband struggled to untangle her. The river beneath them continued to swell.

  Henri gritted his teeth. His strength was dwindling, and he could no longer hold on to the branch when it retreated in the water. Something indomitable was sucking it downward. With a quick jerk, it slipped through his fingers, and the tree vanished into the deep. Like a fish caught in the tentacles of a sea monster, the woman was submerged with it, her husband clinging to her. All that was left in Henri’s hands was a cluster of leaves as the raft was swept away.

  The river churned. A surge from its belly propelled the tree upward again, with its captives entwined in its branches, rising some twenty feet in the air. The woman looked at him with the sad acceptance of a saintly martyr. The twins shrieked, reaching for their mother. François held them back. With a crashing sound, their parents disappeared for the last time.

  Henri fell back, exhausted. The river raged on, and the rain pummeled him with its ice-cold beads until at last the sky was drained.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Throughout the morning, the flood continued to rise, washing away all life in its path. Only with ceaseless effort could Henri and his team maintain their grip on the tossing rooftop that had become their sanctuary. Sometimes lying on their stomachs, then crouching on hands and knees, the castaways laced their fingers and toes through the roof’s rough timbers until they bled, while under them the waves hammered the bottom of the raft like a thousand angry fists.

  Seizing a branch from the rolling waters, Henri used it as a crude paddle, doing his best to guide the craft. Toward midday, as they floated toward drier ground, the river slowed its pace. Above, the clouds shrank to mere balls of unthreatening cotton. The refugees lay sprawled on the battered rooftop, while a few rays of sun beat down on them.

  Gliding through blankets of thick reeds and tall grass, Henri at last was able to catch his breath. Trailing his fingers in the water, he examined his surroundings. A floating graveyard of debris surrounded his vessel, with furniture, mats, clothing, and rags entwined in its planks. His hand brushed across a fleshy mass beneath the water’s surface. The face of an infant, frozen into a grimace, floated a few inches away. He stared until the baby disappeared among the dark oak logs that bobbed next to him.

  Part of his mind told him he should feel repugnance at touching the corpse, but he was numb. Dimly, he regretted how callous he must seem to the twins crouching a few feet away. Even their suffering no longer stirred him.

  The wind and current drove the raft forward. More corpses passed by, some with long tendrils of hair that drifted in the water. One of the twins leaned over the edge to turn over the cadavers in search of her parents. Her shirt was as muddy as the water. Large patches over her shoulders and elbows showed her mother’s attempts to mend the torn fabric. The sunlight glinted in her eyes, exposing her sadness.

  Inside François’s embrace, the other twin swayed to the water’s rhythm. Unlike her sister’s, her blouse was pink. It hugged her torso in a way that gave her a more mature appearance. To Henri, the little girl’s bright top only underscored the dismal situation they were all in. But it helped him to make a distinction between the two girls—the one in gray carrying out her grim task while her sister, in pink, watched.

  They were entering a sunken plain surrounded by jutting mountains. The current flowed between steep banks, forking into smaller streams. To their right they could see the roofs and parapets of the citadel of Hue City. The fortress’s high walls had so far acted as a dam, shielding the inner city from the flood. But even from this distance, Henri could see the waves crash against the structure, and he wondered how long it could withstand the mounting pressure. Squinting, he could make out the forms of sentries, armed with bows and arrows and naked swords, poised atop the fortress’s walls as if they were ready to battle the flood. Their voices echoed along the water’s surface as they called and relayed orders.

  Henri looked for a place to dock their raft. After floating for some eight hours, they were back where he and his teacher had rested briefly the night before. The flood had erased their entire journey, as if it were nothing but a bad dream. Now he and the others were weak from hunger, thirst, and exhaustion.

  Grasping his oar, Henri paddled with all the strength that was left in him, steering the raft out of the main current. After forty brisk strokes, his lungs were burning, but the river’s edge was too steep to permit a landing. The raft made slow progress along the inhospitable shoreline, following a sparrow that skimmed a short distance ahead. Its dark wings fluttered against the sky like a lost punctuation mark and blended into the haze of the afternoon.

  A short distance downstream, the landmass closed in around them, and a thick fog blurred the inlets between the crags. As they rounded a rocky outcropping, the little girl in gray crawled toward Henri. She raised her head and stared up at the dark shape of the approaching mountain.

  “What’s your name?” he asked.

  “I am Xuan,” she muttered. “My sister is Y Lan.”

  “Do you know where we are?” he asked.

  “My father called it NgK Bình Mountain,” she said. “We came here often to gather mushrooms.”

  The mention of happier days seized her, and she let out a sob, using her sleeves to cover her face. The force of her tears made her dwindle back to the little girl he had encountered the night before.

  Henri turned away, unable to think of an appropriate way to act. The memory of his mother came to his mind, and his eyes welled up. He waited for that grievous moment to pass with the same will that he had drawn on to weather the storm. Although he sympathized with the girl’s misery, he was reluctant to reach over and comfort her. The twins were now parentless; but unlike him, they still had each other.

  He leaned forward, grabbed the nearest rock, and pulled the raft to shore. Ngu.’ Bình, he understood, meant, “the king’s screens.” The name was now infected with a touch of irony, as its sole purpose was believed to be to shield the citadel from catastrophes. The mountain pushed its indifferent, slanted chest forward, oblivious to those who suffered. He helped the others disembark from their tipsy craft, climbed a few paces up the slope, and looked back to make sure they were following him.

  The mountain was a mass of granite and shale, with a coating of soil that nurtured only a few thin pine trees and scattered underbrush. Beyond a succession of rock formations, Henri came to a narrow trail.

  The sun hid behind the folds of the mountain. The sparrows returned, circling the sky in search of their nests. Once again, stillness mesmerized the land, and everything seemed to sink into a stupor as the light of the sunset faded on the rocky walls.

  Henri looked back at his companions. A few feet behind him at the side of the trail, Xuan stood on a steep bank, leaning against a large stone. Her shadow lay motionless on the ground.

  “I can hear a horse,” she whispered.

  Henri listened. At first he heard nothing, then something that sounded like heavy rain reverberated across the cliffs. Images of the guards on the citadel’s ramparts flashed in his mind.

  He stared ahead on the trail but saw only scattered rocks and stunted grass before the road made a sharp turn to the right, preventing him from seeing beyond. He knelt and offered his hand to Xuan. She ignored it and, instead, threw her arms around him. He lifted her until her head was even with his own, and when he saw the fear in her eyes, he felt as though he were gazing at his reflection in a mirror.

  “Hurry, Father François.”

  Y Lan and François caught up with them. The priest walked hand in hand with his young companion, their faces sharing the same absent gaze. Their calm infuriated Henri.

  “Father François,” he said, “have you taken a vow of silence? Or have you gone completely mad? Answer me if you’ve heard anything
I’ve said. I am sick of having to take charge because you decided to forgo your responsibilities. I ask you, sir, where is your courage? Where is your faith?”

  The priest lowered his eyebrows. He flinched but did not reply. The little girl in pink shook his hand to get his attention. He turned to face her.

  “I know your fears,” Henri went on. “So, your God has abandoned you. And now your faith is in doubt. But look around you, look at the devastation! This is life and we are still living it. These things happen because they happen, and not for any other reason —”

  He could not finish his sentence. An explosion shook the very ground they stood on. From above them, a deep rumbling filled the sky. The air smelled of gunpowder, the mountain groaned, and thousands of boulders and rocks came tumbling down toward the water’s edge. As Henri and his companions stared in dismay, the avalanche thundered down the hillside in front of them.

  The children screamed. A wall of dirt and debris knocked him to the ground and darkness engulfed him, stealing his breath.

  When the bombardment ceased, he found himself flat on his back on the narrow trail, with his hand caught under a large stone. A numbness spread from the tips of his fingers to his elbow. The boulder that had kept him from being swept into the river was crushing his hand.

  Xuan and François lay facedown beside him on the cold, damp ground, surrounded by the rocks that had been dislodged from above. Y Lan, the twin in the pink blouse, was nowhere in sight.

  Henri threw his shoulder against the rock that pinned his hand. When he was able to pull his hand free, he saw that it was covered in blood, and the last two fingers were twisted backward. Pain shot to his shoulder like a dart. Struggling to his feet, he found that he could not raise his arm. He was weary, chilled, and unable to stop shaking.

  “Y Lan, where are you?” he cried, searching the dim landscape for her colorful garment.

  A moan came from below the trail. He bent over the bank. At first he saw nothing. The moaning came again, scarcely audible over the stirring of the waves. At the water’s edge he saw a thin, bare arm, frozen in motionless calm, reaching up from a ravine. The pink sleeve was hidden from view. While he watched, her fingers stirred as if to beckon him.

  “Y Lan! Y Lan!”

  He scrambled to the rocky ground below, holding his injured arm. The footsteps behind him were a reassuring indication of his teacher’s presence. He heard the little girl’s muffled cries.

  More explosions resounded. The flooded land glittered in streaks of orange as if it were being struck by lightning. This time, Henri was able to look beyond the shadow of the hilltops, and dread seized him when he recognized what he was seeing. On the other side of the citadel, warships emerged from the fog. He counted more than fifteen vessels, gliding on top of the water like dragons, their sharp keels splitting the air. The emerging moon lit them from behind with wisps of silver light.

  High amid the ramparts of the tall fortress, the people of Hue’s inner city shouted at the incredible sight with a sense of doom. Henri realized that he was witnessing the capital of Cochin China under attack. But who were the attackers?

  The first boat advanced toward the northeast entrance of the citadel. Out of the openings in its wooded gunwales bristled a line of heavy artillery guns, each attended by a unit of soldiers clad in bamboo armor. From within these dark, cavernous mouths the weapons spat their cannonballs, bombarding the city’s fortifications.

  The air filled with fire and ash. The harmony of the fortress’s walls was marred by black columns of smoke that rose above the conflagrations within. As the cannons continued to fire, some of their balls overshot the target and landed in the river. Others traveled farther, to jar the mountainside where Henri was standing. He realized that an earlier cannonball must have caused the avalanche that had swept them off their feet, and that another could occur at any moment.

  He ran down the slope toward Y Lan, stepping carefully across the wet ground. Her head was trapped under a rock. Her chest heaved, specked with dark blood. He shut his eyes and used his uninjured hand to roll the stone off her. A gurgling sound escaped from her throat.

  In the flickering dimness of the ravine, Henri saw a hole where her nose and mouth once had been. It was as if a red carnation were blooming on her face. The sharp edges of broken facial bones protruded from the wound. Upon seeing him, the girl closed her eyes. The muscles of her cheeks moved slightly in an attempt to readjust her face.

  Around Y Lan, the dusk of evening glowed lighter as the moon climbed into a clear sky. Henri saw her face more clearly, and a new agony gnawed at him. Her lower lip moved. From within the bloody wound, a piteous, faltering voice whimpered. Behind him, he heard François weeping.

  “Help me, Father!” he called to his teacher.

  His voice was lost in the clamor of a new cannon blast. The mountain trembled, and stones rained down on them. Henri set his shoulder against the wall of the ravine and hovered over Y Lan to shield her.

  With surprising alacrity, François jumped between Henri and the wounded girl and scooped her up in his arms. A burst of light glinted off the priest’s shaven head and gave his metal collar an eerie glow. Henri turned. In the water’s surface he caught the reflection of the citadel burning. A portion of the wall had collapsed, and through this newly made fissure the flood was pouring in. The tide swept through a horde of people, hurling them this way and that, and pinning them against the walls. Across the dark sky, flaming arrows arced toward the ships like shooting stars. One struck a boat’s mizzen sail on the right side and set it on fire.

  With a cry, François sprang forward. The girl slumped in his arms, her head back, her hair cascading away from her forehead and dripping blood. On the trail above, Xuan saw her sister for the first time since the avalanche had swept her off the slope. She stared at the unrecognizable face, and then screamed. But her cry was drowned by a greater sound of clomping and chanting that seemed to come from inside the mountain. The ground quivered with the echoes of hoarse laughter.

  Henri looked up. Under the fire from the citadel, he saw the dark forms of men spread down the mountainside like termites flushed from their nests. Their deep, unintelligible voices churned the night, a solemn counterpoint to the clash of steel weapons.

  As they grew nearer, he saw that these men wore no bamboo armor, and the clothes on their backs were tattered. Still, the sense of menace was overwhelming as the black figures swarmed, weapons lifted above their heads.

  He took Father François’s arm and urged him across the rugged riverbank. The descending men were getting closer with each second. Leading the troops was a herd of elephants, ten or fifteen of the enormous beasts lumbering in the perfect formation of an arrowhead. A flag that swept over a length of four yards billowed above their heads, red as blood in the firelight.

  In the northeast, the warships were now riding over the damaged ramparts to enter the citadel. Behind him, the chanting grew louder as shadows bearing torches raced closer. Within minutes, Henri was swallowed in a sea of men.

  King Nha.c! King Nha.c! King Nha.c!

  Their voices rolled into the night, accompanied by wild drumbeats and horns that maintained their cacophony even when the troops reached the edge of the water.

  He felt a blazing light on his face and saw the flames lick the darkness away. Among the strange countenances that surrounded him and his teacher, one pushed forward, grinning. He recognized at once the swollen upper lip and missing front teeth of the young Kim Lai convert—LGc.

  “Teacher Henri, Father François,” the boy said. “We meet again.”

  Henri knelt on the ground and wept, whether from relief or despair he did not know. Around him, the chanting penetrated the night.

  King Nha.c! King Nha.c! King Nha.c!

  But the novice had stopped listening. Before darkness claimed him, he caught a glimpse of Xuan, hurrying to the side of Father François and the limp figure of her twin.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  It
was past midnight. The peasant army that had teemed along the steep mountainside was settling down to rest. Clusters of men sought comfort around low-flamed campfires on the damp, uneven ground. Near a tropical almond tree, five soldiers stood guard over François and Henri. A rope, wrapped around the tree trunk, bound their ankles together; their wrists were tied in front of them. Two other peasants placed the orphaned twins in a rope hammock and carried them out of sight.

  Among the guards was the familiar, bruised face of the buffalo keeper. “Come, Teacher Henri,” said LGc. He raised his sword toward the citadel and licked his puffy lips. “Join our army. Bring your god along to help us crush those who have wronged you and your religion.”

  A group of peasants huddling nearby mumbled and nodded in agreement. Henri trembled. The moon had moved beyond its pinnacle and was sailing westward, casting its shadow on the ravaged landscape. He could see the flood ripple over clumps of rocks a few feet below the campsite; fog hovered above the water’s surface.

  In the distance, the sounds of battle were dwindling, and the fires inside the fortress were waning. Black smoke rose like tall pillars and mingled with the clouds. Even with a fire nearby, Henri could not stop shivering. He was feverish and weak.

  Visions of his mother, triggered by the horror of witnessing the two young girls lose their parents, refused to leave his mind. Even when LGc was talking to him in his high-pitched, excited voice, her face flickered. He saw the deep creases of her suffering. He remembered the redolence of her unwashed clothes, like decomposing leaves after a rain. And her eyes, drenched in agony the last time he had looked into them. He wished he could again walk through the door of his apartment on rue de Lappe and see his mother sitting on the windowsill, wrapped in her thick cloak. The campfire before him spat.

  Drops of moisture fell on his cheeks, but they were too cold to be tears. Henri touched his skin and felt the dew. He examined the two broken digits, bent atop the back of his hand, but he lacked the courage to reset his bones. Blood from the wound had coagulated, and the swelling intensified. He could no longer feel his fingers. The lack of sensation shocked him; he would have preferred pain.