The eternal oar

(Baonghean) -The truck passing through the Ben Thuy bridge checkpoint did not bother to honk its horn as usual, probably still sleepy. My grandmother placed the basket of offerings on her chest, pensively looking at the scenery on both sides of the road with reverence. A wind carrying the steam of the Lam River rose for a moment then disappeared into the void, as if a mythical bird had just fluttered up. Quyet Mountain turned over under the new sunlight...

Being woken up early in the morning to take her to the temple made my eyes squint, and the sight of the green on both sides of the road seemed to caress people. “Grandma, tell me a story. The cool breeze means I’m going to Mi market!” She smiled, chewing on a piece of betel:

“Legend has it that one of the ancestors of the Bach Viet, King Shennong, sent 100 phoenixes to this land - formerly known as Ngan Hong. 99 perched on 99 peaks of Hong Linh mountain, while the lone king bird flew to the other side of Quyet mountain and flapped its wings to fly away. The whole flock of birds took off and followed the leader bird to Phong Chau land.

Accordingly, the land at the foot of Quyet Mountain is now called Phuong Hoang. It is the Phuong Hoang in Phuong Hoang Trung Do, my dear. That is the entrance to the temple of King Quang Trung on Quyet Mountain. If the phoenix had perched there in the past, perhaps this place would have become the capital of the army in red flags and cloth?

On this side of the river there are Hong Linh and Thien Nhan mountains, and on the other side there is Lam Thanh mountain. It is said that when the Northerners came to occupy, General Ma Vien stationed his troops and built a citadel on Rum mountain. From then on Rum mountain was named Lam Thanh. Legend has it that Ma Vien had this land enchanted with copper pillars driven into the feng shui points on Lam Thanh mountain. No one knows where or how those copper pillars were buried, but whenever it rained, thunder and lightning would strike this land. Some people said it was because the copper pillars acted as lightning rods, others said it was because the land was rich in minerals. Indeed, people here mined a lot of manganese ore.

You must be wondering why on the right side there are crowded houses and villages, while on the left side there is only the green of grass and sky? The road you are walking on is the Lam River dike, my dear. Standing on that high grassy slope and looking down, you will see the sky opening up and flowing over the water. The Lam River erodes on one side and deposits on the other, the flow forever turns. The sandbanks along the river now grow lemons and beans, but there was once a vast mulberry field. It is a pity that a beautiful and elegant traditional profession gradually faded away, until people raised silkworms not for silk but for... food, and now it has been completely lost. The girls who used to pick mulberries with fingers as soft as silk now also work in the fields, planting and plowing, probably becoming calloused and rough.

Still thinking about the shy girl beside the silkworm tray with her white fingers like silk, whose face I had never seen, before my eyes appeared rows and rows of woven bamboo mats, covered with something black. An old man diligently arranged and arranged the bamboo mats so that the bamboo mats stretched out along the winding dike road. “That’s rice paper, and down on the road lower than the dike, there are also bamboo mats covered with something white, rice paper.” I wrinkled my nose and sniffed, smelling the rice flour, a bit of sour yeast and a lingering sesame scent, and a few drops of sunlight, perhaps not yet crispy. The villages here looked both ancient and borrowed some urban features. The red-tiled houses - red with mossy patches - were low and nestled at the foot of the mountain. Some houses rested their heads on a rock, standing alone, as if they were waiting for someone. There are also large and small rocks clustered together, absorbed in conversation, unintentionally making modern two- and three-story houses look solemn without the need for cement rockeries like we often see in the city.

Suddenly, from somewhere, a smell of molten metal, mixed with the subtle scent of incense smoke, mingled with the wind climbing up the dike from the riverbank. The crowd of people walked in droves. The shadows in blue-gray robes walked quickly to keep up with the chanting. The shadows in brown robes leisurely. It seemed as if they were not walking but gliding on the strong, fragrant smoke that rose and then settled to the ground, lingering, transparent like clouds, like mist.

The entrance to Phuc Thanh Pagoda seems to exist before the eyes of the world, but when you reach out, it seems as far away as the illusion of nirvana. A group of workers with dirty faces, hunched over the kiln. The molds of each part of the bell are heated over a warm but not harsh fire, making a chirping, crackling sound, exuding hot steam. A few boys of about 12, 13 years old wearing robes forgot to talk, absorbed in watching the hazy smoke curling around the group of people, filled with innocent eyes filled with respect, mixed with admiration and fear.

My grandmother slowly walked across the bridge connecting the ground with the hall where the abbot was reciting sutras. The hem of her robe fluttered with each step, blending with the hazy incense smoke. For a moment, I felt like I was on the other side of the river of the mundane world, and she was standing on the bridge connecting form and emptiness, the visible and the invisible, the secular and nirvana. I felt like I was sinking into nothingness. Or was this reality, and I had been in a daze for so long, only now waking up from a dream?

Walking slowly out of the temple gate, I was surprised to see Mi market right next to me. It turned out that Mi market was real? For so long, I thought Mi market only existed in jokes before going to bed. I hit my head hard, it was not a dream! The sound of knives cutting into thick pieces of meat, the sound of ducklings scurrying in cardboard boxes lined with rice husks, the sound of vegetable vendors chatting, the gentle path leading from the dike to the riverside market - everything was so real. I asked a woman who was busy sorting fish: "In the old days, no one knew the faces of the sellers and buyers at Mi market. Only fishing boats of fishermen came here to trade, gathering from dusk until dawn when people left the dock as soon as it was dark. Now Mi market is no longer open at night, but only in the morning, and closes at noon."

Closing my eyes, the scene turned pitch black. Quietly listening to the sound of haggling, adding and subtracting, the sound of mussels being poured into basins, the sound of fish scales being scraped, the sound of boats calling people from the riverbank, I was like a sleepwalker following the pungent smell of mud. Suddenly thinking of the Underworld market in the ancient capital that also opened at night, I heard it was a trading session between the living and the dead. But this Mi market did not have any creepy chill like that, moreover, the riverbank did not seem to connect the two banks of the sun and the moon, the yin and the yang. No, this Mi market looked more like an island. And those unknown people in the market were they mermaids, cutting through the waves and wading through the water to find joy and friends? The smell of mud lingered under my feet, no longer leading the way. I lowered my head to look down, and saw three dark children holding hands, walking as calmly as small crabs. I wonder which aquarium they escaped from to play on the shore, so that in the communal houses and markets where they passed by, the smell of river water, fish and shrimp lingered?

The motorbike ran slowly, normally making a loud noise like a tractor, but now it was drowned out by the rustling wind like someone's net falling into the boat's hold. The roads sloped down from the dike, skirting the foot of the roofs. A buffalo slowly walked until only its horns could be seen looming up and down, then disappeared completely, as if this road led to the bottom of the river. Now the animal appeared again, it walked sullenly towards the green grass, then suddenly knelt down, the grass was submerged all over, leaving only its head, panting heavily! It turned out to be a duck pond, indeed there was a flock of ducks splashing around, some with their necks raised, some with their butts up, diving. The clumps of duckweed glistened in the sunlight, making it look like green grass.

I kept walking, seeing the green mountains. Every now and then, a temple or shrine would appear on the mountainside, whether abandoned or still frequented by visitors. Or were those hazy figures actually the guards of the ancient citadel, who had been guarding Phu Thach and Hoa Vien for hundreds or thousands of years? A deep and long train whistle woke me from my dream. Looking to the left, I saw Yen Xuan bridge, a relic of the French colonial period, quietly carrying trains through the Hung Nguyen - Nam Dan - Ha Tinh intersection. The train whistle gradually faded away, but I was still absent-mindedly watching the water swirling at the foot of the bridge, as if the 30-31 wave was coming back and shaking the entire dike.

After a while, I saw Nguyen Bieu Secondary School on the right. Suddenly I found myself following the white-shirted figures cycling, talking and laughing. Passing the green grass-covered stone steps leading up to the ancient stone gate, a student chattered: "This is Nguyen Bieu temple, do you know? The man our school is named after, the other day they held a ceremony here to celebrate the 6000th anniversary of his death..." Another student looked doubtful: "Thousand years of Thang Long - Hanoi, why is this man so old in our country?" The other student looked dumbfounded and then laughed: "Oh, I forgot, 600, not 6000!". I was still busy looking at the two elephants leaning against the mossy wild tree when the group of students had already cycled away, their teasing each other shaking the bamboo bushes.

I parked my bike and went in to light an incense stick. At the foot of the temple, there was still water in the small well, but it looked abandoned. A drunken fruit fell into the well, floating like a drowned man. I sat against the wall of the well, looking up to see the yellow drunken fruits like small suns. I picked one and put it in my mouth. It tasted a bit like a rose apple but was crunchy and juicy like a pear.

I don't know if it was because of the alcohol, but I fell asleep without realizing it. I found myself accompanying the messenger Nguyen Bieu into the middle of General Truong Phu's camp. The enemy squinted his eyes and ordered someone to bring up a boiled human head. I was so scared that I almost screamed, but the host just calmly used chopsticks to gouge out the eyes and dipped them in salt: "How many times have I had the chance to eat the head of a Northerner?" Truong Phu was terrified and persuaded the people to surrender. But the man who recited the poem "Human Head Dish" in the midst of the enemy's siege was not easily subdued. Truong Phu was angry and ordered the host to be tied up at the foot of Lam Kieu wharf. I screamed in anger, holding my sword ready to risk my life, but suddenly woke up. I looked around in confusion and saw no enemy, only the temple lying silently at the foot of Lam Thanh mountain, looking towards the riverbank. Could the old Lam Kieu wharf still exist?

I waved at the boat of an old man wearing a hat. He slowly rowed, pulled it to the shore for me to get on, then let the boat drift out into the middle of the river. I searched with tired eyes but could not see any trace of Lam Kieu wharf. "Thuy dao Lam Thanh", Lam Thanh - Phu Thach wharf, once bustling with Chinese and Indian merchants, had now sunk to the bottom of the river. My boat glided lightly, the waves of the water shaking several layers of ancient ruins, perhaps so deep that there was no echo.

Nguyen Bieu Temple (small photo)
The girl of Tan Lam fishing village.

The old man rowing the boat pointed to the boats anchored on the sandbank at the foot of the bridge: “That’s Tan Lam fishing village, uncle, there were more than a hundred households before. The state gave them land so they sold their boats and moved them ashore. When I came here, I saw a family of more than ten people, 3 or 4 generations living together on a boat. When the weather was calm and the sea was calm, it was fine, but when it rained and stormed, it was very miserable, uncle! It was normal for children to be born on the boat. When the elderly died, the coffins filled the boat, who could come down to pay their respects? Just stood and sat on the shore and looked out. At Christmas, they only hung lights on the boat, celebrating God on the river.” The old man looked at the sunlight casting the shadow of the pointed bow of the boat on the river, looking like a tail wagging the waves, and muttered: “When will we get to February to go to the Hen Procession Festival... - Where is the Hen Procession Festival, sir? - Where is the Hen Procession on the river? Wait a moment, I’ll row the boat down near Thanh Liet Temple so you can stop by!” A moment later, the boat docked. I said goodbye to the old boatman and asked for directions to Thanh Liet Temple.

Right in front of the temple yard was a screen carved with a unicorn riding on the water. Just as I was about to step inside, an old man stepped out, his knees stained with lime: “You’re really good at choosing, we’re re-roofing. The spirit and altar must be cleaned and covered with a tarp, uncle!”. I felt regretful, but still followed the old man. The temple was almost intact, the details of the unicorn and dragon carvings were somewhat eroded by time but still exuded majesty. In the main hall was an ancient wooden dragon boat, with a carp accompanying it under the dragon’s tail.

The old man carefully cherished the ancient relics and said: “According to the genealogy of the families in Thanh Liet village, the temple is 200 years old. At first, it was just a small shrine, an altar to burn incense, praying to the fish gods to bless their descendants with peace and prosperity. Later, the clan leaders called on their descendants to contribute money and labor to build the temple. Until now, the names of the 7 ancestors of the clan are still recorded, and then passed down to their descendants like me, the head of the Doan clan.

Every year on the 6th of the 2nd lunar month, there is the Hen Festival, the villagers come back to celebrate, then carry the spirit onto the boat, going along the Lam River. Going around to the upper part near Yen Xuan bridge, the lower part near the intersection with La River...". I said goodbye to the old man, jumped on the old motorbike and returned to the dike road. The road was built up by thousands of years of waves since the beginning of time - the road of war, swords and bombs, but now it rests silently on the foot of the sacred mountains, sleeping, waiting for the singing of the festival season. A fake church bell, or a newly cast bell at Phuc Thanh pagoda, but why do I hear the echo of ancient weapons shaking the whole mountain and river area?

My grandmother stood at the temple gate, carrying a basket of offerings, her long robe falling to her heels without a speck of dust. She looked ethereal and vague, as if she had just stepped out of the carved reliefs of Hoang Muoi Temple, King Le Temple, Tuyen Nghia Temple, Nguyen Bieu Temple, Thanh Liet Temple... and yet exuded the charisma of the Virgin Mary. It seemed as if all the sacred and spiritual colors gathered here were manifested in her - a very real, very real person - forming a single entity. I closed my eyes, my memories that seemed to have been lost in the mythical people were now called back by the vi and dam songs of the riverside opera troupes - the eternal songs about the river of loyalty and faith.

Notes: Hai Trieu - Thanh Chung