Deep green forest

(Baonghean) - In December, the drizzle lingers and the northeast monsoon blows. Nang Huong Pagoda is located on the slope of Tuong Son mountain, separated from the village by the Lam River and a narrow, dry, clear field. Plumeria flowers fall, turning several rows of mossy brick courtyards white.

The temple was deserted, only Hoai and I were there. It had been nearly ten years since we had been together. She stared at me, her gaze strange and intense. Suddenly she sighed, bent down quickly, and began to sift the fallen frangipani flowers into a dark brown bamboo basket. She said, every day a full basket. I asked, why do I pick them up and put them away? She smiled sadly, and said there was no use for anything, but she had been picking them up for so long, for so many years, that she had gotten used to it. I didn’t ask any more questions. The rustling sound of the bamboo basket on the brick yard added to the mysterious silence all around.

The day she went to the temple, I was still at the battlefield. After the war, I returned, my mother said, her voice unbearably sad, Hoai had become a nun. I couldn't believe my ears. My mother secretly wiped away her tears, her voice almost whispering: Bombs fell on the house, no one was waiting for her to come back. Anh Ninh (my twin brother, like me like two drops of water) also stayed in the forest and didn't come back. He was alone, he was so lonely. Poor thing, going east, going west, bombs and bullets spared, and this was his fate? That day, I slowly climbed Tuong Son mountain. Seeing her wearing a loose-fitting monk's outfit, my heart ached, suddenly remembering her appearance in the past. How slim, beautiful, and agile she used to be. I poured out all the words in my heart and soul for her to return to secular life. She looked at her fingers resting lightly on the wooden gong and said, "Please let me be at peace... There are so many paths in this world." Then, leaving me standing alone, she went into the shrine...

This time when I met her, I did not mention the past, did not say anything about Ninh. She silently looked into my eyes, after a long time asked, when will you bring Ninh back? I was confused, looking into the deep green forest, not knowing how to answer, when the ironwood door was heavily closed behind her yellow shirt. I shivered, tiptoed between the white frangipani flowers to the gate, down the bumpy stone path to the Lam River. During the high tide, the river was immense. The flowers of the Banyan tree scattered their pistils like blood-red sewing needles flying everywhere. The ferry dock had three stone steps, surrounded by moss, the mossy tips floating in the green water, looking sad. The ferryman was Ngoc, who joined the Youth Volunteer Force at the same time, fighting in the same unit as Hoai. It was said that Hoai had left the village to go to the pagoda for a year when Ngoc left home and went to the river to replace her mother as a ferryman. There was one compartment of the three-compartment boat that was covered up discreetly as a place for her to eat and sleep. Once, Ngoc told me, so many people came to beg me to cross the river, but until now, no man has stayed on the boat. After a moment of silence, she continued, your sister Hoai is a nun but her mind and heart are all in Ninh. Eventually, she will take off her monk's clothes and leave. And that's the way it should be. She laughed, her laughter sounding bitter.

I stood on the second stone step. Ngoc was on the other side, turning the boat. Her full, heaving chest pressed against the oars. The bow of the boat reached the third stone step and stopped. She put the oars on the side of the boat, stuck the bamboo pole, then stood with her legs spread on the wooden platform, puffed out her big belly, and happily told me that there was a man who had stayed on the boat for several days and nights. I asked, who was so lucky? She blinked and said that he had left, gone forever. I looked at her, unable to hide my surprise. What did he mean, gone forever? They had wives and children, living a happy life. How could we keep them? I understood, and felt sad. She said, before Tet, she would go to the pagoda to ask monk Hoai to pray for peace. I said, the ceremony would be on the 5th day of Tet. She said, she knew that, but she went first so she could have time with Hoai to talk about old times. She took a deep breath, looked up at somewhere in the middle of nowhere, and said, now going to the temple, I don't have to be alone anymore, but the two of us, the two of us... I said, I'm so happy for her. After saying that, I felt sad, missing Hoai so much.

Ngoc looked at me and suddenly said, in a reproachful tone, "You and Mr. Ninh are so similar." After a moment of silence, she said, "The Truong Son forest is so vast, how could I know where Mr. Ninh is?"

I suddenly felt sad and felt the vastness all around. The boat reached the middle of the river, the wind was light, there were no waves but for some reason it kept rocking and rocking...

...It was almost Tet when the sun was shining. At dawn on the second and third day, I returned home. My mother was sitting on a bamboo bed on the porch, chewing betel leaves. When she saw me, she asked, "Are you coming back to worship the Kitchen God?" I replied, "Yes." She pondered for a moment and then suddenly said, "After Tet, please take leave to go inside and search for Ninh to bring him back." My mother's voice was heavy. I bit my lip, hugging her thin shoulders. She said, "Go to the temple and ask monk Hoai if you can find out anything about Ninh?" I was silent, my eyes stinging. After changing my clothes, I went to the ferry. I didn't see Ngoc's boat. I sat down on the dewy grass and looked at the three stone steps covered in moss under the thin mist like smoke. Behind me was the village, in front of me was Tuong Son mountain and Nang Huong pagoda, further away was the forest, deep and vast green forest. Everything was lost in silence. There was something mute, hot, spreading. A vague excitement haunted me. I sank my ten fingers into the grass and heard somewhere a girl's voice floating, floating...

The villagers, mostly men and women, poured out to the ferry. They jostled on the three stone steps, on the bruised grass, waiting for the boat to cross the river to go to the pagoda. There was loud laughter, the sound of waves splashing in the wild pineapple grove, and in the sky, the scattered sound of night herons returning late at night. A moment later, from behind the bend in the river, Ms. Ngoc's boat appeared, bobbing up to the dock. The villagers clung to each other's shirts to get on the boat. It was my turn, Ms. Ngoc said, waiting for the next boat. After all the passengers had boarded the other side, she turned back to me. Her face was radiant. She said, in a cheerful voice like the time she had boasted to me that she was pregnant, that monk Hoai had left Nang Huong pagoda. I asked, where are you going? She did not answer, one hand rowing the oar, the other pointing to the green Truong Son forest to the west.

I looked at the boat crossing the river.

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