Le Colonial (21 page)

François searched the scenery around him for traces of familiarity. All he could see was destruction. Floodwaters had reshaped the land, but clearly the main devastation in the city was not caused by nature.

Down a long, narrow road they made their way behind the soldiers. Several times they had to snake around because the main passage was blocked by fallen trees and collapsed houses. There was no echo; the city sank in muted silence. Ashes floated in the wind, and he could feel them choking him. Heaps of corpses rotted under the hot sun. Their stench permeated the air. No one tended the dead. Their only companions were the black crows who picked diligently through the refuse.

The living dared not appear on the streets unless they were members of the Tonquinese military. Frightened survivors lurked behind the half-burned walls of the brick houses like animal scavengers. It was difficult for the priest to remember how teeming and opulent this city had seemed when he was brought here for his execution.

“Don’t be afraid!” said Thom.

It was too late. He was already afraid.

Lady Bui and her husband whispered to each other. Prince Lu and the Chinese fighter, Wang Zicheng, kept a short distance behind, watching and listening.

They entered the inner fortress through a structure of four pillars that made up one main entrance and two side doorways. The air grew cooler, and the foul smell faded away. They dismounted and walked across a long courtyard, hauling the wagons with them. High-beamed ceilings above shielded them from the sunlight. Through a succession of circular doorways forming a long corridor that led them from one gallery to the next, François caught glimpses of mysterious stairs and arches, strange passages and dark tunnels. He let himself be led over the thresholds of many gates, bewildered by the complexity and repetition of the vast structure.

Through court after court they passed, until they reached the central chamber, which was heavily guarded. The doors were ajar. From the inside they heard voices. The official who had brought them to their destination stepped forward and announced their arrival. His proclamation resonated through the halls. As the sound faded, François heard the faint scuffling of bare feet approaching.

The doors grumbled on their hinges and opened wider. A current of incense engulfed them. From the fog peered two androgynous faces, both whitish, frail, and hairless. They spoke simultaneously with a shrill voice.

“Enter!” said the strange creatures, pointing inside with long, slender fingers.

Thom whispered to François, “The vice-king’s eunuchs.”

“Oh?”

It took him a few seconds to realize what those words meant, and he flinched before the look in the creatures’ eyes. They seemed ageless and untouched by the sunlight.

The Mountaineers entered. On the tile floor, remnants of things that once belonged to the royal family were scattered: jewel boxes, embroidered silk clothing, broken furniture, and smashed vases. The once-striking walls, decorated with gold leaf, painted scrolls, and hanging calligraphies in an ancient language, were now cracked with jagged fissures and gaping holes. The trickling sound of water came from an unseen fountain, peaceful in spite of the dreariness.

At the end of the great hall, the gilded throne sat on a dais, still impressive in size even though it was missing its inlaid precious stones and pearls. They had been gouged out, and all that was left was the empty shell of the chair. Sunbeams poured through the openings in the ceiling to illuminate a seated man who looked to be in his early forties. A black silk headdress circled his brow, and at its center sparkled a diamond. His thin, straight beard ran down his chest. Like his guests, he was garbed in the traditional bamboo armor.

Behind his chair and partially hidden by a gauzy screen stood what appeared to be a woman clad in white. At the man’s feet sat a group of warriors with crossed feet and arms, all sharing the same expression of menace.

The man on the throne spoke first. “Thom, the Man of Many Arrows,” he said in a rumbling voice, “we meet again.”

The mountain prince nodded. His voice was sharp. “General Viet, this is the first time we have met outside of a battlefield. We brought you many gifts to celebrate your victory over Hue Citadel in the dawn of the New Year.”

The general chuckled. “Hue City was the first to fall, and many more cities will follow. As part of the campaign of Vice-king Sam, I am making Saygun our next target. I am a man of few words. You have been invited here today to discuss the fate of your kingdom, Cochin China. Your messenger claimed that you have a present for us, something more important than spices and slave girls.”

Thom approached the throne. The Tonquinese guards sprang forward to form a barrier between him and the general. Their hands flew to their weapons. Thom halted. His brother and the other warriors took a warning step forward.

“Let him be,” said the northern general.

Again, Thom bowed with respect.

“Show us what you have brought,” said the general.

Ignoring Viet’s request, Thom said, “Surely you are not planning to invade Saygun with the army you possess. Your soldiers are exhausted and grow wearier by the day. The climate and conditions of the South are far more difficult than what you are accustomed to in the North. Also, on your northern border, China watches like a cobra, ready to strike your kingdom the moment your military is occupied with other matters. Furthermore, you cannot preside over our government. The citizens of Cochin China will never accept the Tonquinese king or any foreign king as our ruler. For these reasons, the war will continue long after our bones are rotting in the ground.”

“Rumors said that you and your brothers have anointed yourselves to sovereignty,” said the general, laughing. “Are you presenting yourself or one of your brothers as the new king of Cochin China?”

“You are a very wise man,” Thom replied. “But no matter how much we imagine ourselves as kings, we are not of royal blood. In the eyes of our people, we are just like any peasants who work the rice field. What I brought to you today is royalty.”

He turned and signaled to Lady Bui and her husband, who pushed forward the cage that contained the mysterious prisoner. The prince unhooked the gate and dragged the captive to his knees.

Standing before the general, Thom announced, “You have executed the vice-king, Truong Loan. Due Tong has fled. This shall be the new king of the South.”

He removed the red sack that bound the prisoner’s head, revealing his face. Behind the strings of dark hair, a blue birthmark the size of a coin dominated the left side of the man’s face. He shivered and swayed, oblivious to all around him. General Viet’s shocked expression was replaced by a gleeful look of recognition.

“Prince Hoàng!” whispered the general. “We have been searching for this man to replace Due Tong. We were told that Hoàng was dead. But look at the birthmark —”

Thom placed a hand under the prisoner’s arm, propping him up. “When we overthrew Quinion Citadel, we discovered the prince’s hiding place. His cousin, King Due Tong, had placed him in the care of the governor of Quinion, Mandarin TuyBn, whom we have since executed. As you can see, he does not talk. He does not care about politics. He doesn’t even know where he is. All he asks is to be fed his daily dose of opium. He is the perfect ruler.”

The general threw his head back and barked a loud laugh. The prisoner opened his eyes with a look of fright.

“There is one major flaw in your great scheme, Thom the Warrior,” said Viet. “Without the royal seal, he cannot be made king.”

“I commit my full service to the security of my nation,” said Thom. “Just tell me who possesses the seal and I shall retrieve it.”

“We searched the entire palace,” said the general. “It is not here. I believe it is in the possession of King Due Tong or a member of his family.”

“When they fled Hue,” Thom said, “the only place they could go was farther south. You have let them slip away. It is not a secret they are now residing in Saygun and will be rebuilding their army to retaliate.”

“Then you must chase after the dragon and sever its head. Do it before it can breathe fire.”

“This is our kingdom and it is our problem,” said Thom. “Let us finish what you could not. But it will take time. Saygun is deep in the south. Before we can get there, we must strengthen our army and restock our supplies. With a new king, what Cochin China needs now is peace, even if it is temporary. Our people cannot endure any more hardship. We urge you to remove your troops from the citadel and return to Tonkin.”

“Do not forget the most important part,” said the general. “What would our reward be if we withdraw?”

Thom’s eyes were keen with defiance. “You in the North always regard us as a poorer extension of your kingdom. You believe that it has been written in heaven’s law that your emperor is the rightful ruler of all the land. Our king should be here only to serve yours. A thousand years ago, Tonkin and Cochin China were born one country. We have since been divided but still share the same language and culture. We have been at war for hundreds of years. It is time for peace. Once we rebuild our cities and lands, we will be able to pay tribute to you. For now, your reward will be that we kill King Due Tong and his family.”

He grabbed the prisoner by the collar. “In the name of all things we the Mountaineers hold sacred, I vow this puppet shall be the new ruler of Cochin China and will carry the royal jade seal.”

General Viet nodded. “So be it,” he said.

PART THREE

Slaying the Dragons

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Saygun,
1778

H
enri hurried through a dense forest that formed the south- west border of Saygun’s citadel. A smell of ripe mushrooms rose from the bed of leaves on the ground. A soprano voice wove its way through the woods.

We stay detached, with folded arms in the realms of glory and notoriety.

How many times have I escaped the unexpected calamity?

In the moonlight gleamed the silver plum blossom;

And rustling in the wind were the silhouettes of the bamboos.

It was high noon in midsummer. The light around him was delicate, like streamers.

It is not that I overlook my patriotism and devotion to the prince,

But in a day, I cower away from all the choices—torn between right and wrong.

I have trekked over several mountains and rivers:

How many perilous places have I been in the world!

Henri reflected on the folk song’s theme. How many perilous places had he been in the world? From the day he was born until he set foot on this shore, his life had been a long journey.

Through the foliage, the watchtower of the king’s fortress followed his movements. The babble of a waterfall rose above the melody. He knew where the singer was, but he enjoyed sensing her from a distance.

From high on the mountain, water cascaded down rocky stairs and emptied into a small lagoon. On its banks grew wild peach trees, their branches covered with tiny pink blossoms. Through the dense leaves, hummingbirds flitted in search of hidden nectars. And on the ground, the roots twisted and tangled, embracing one another like lovers. With every breath of the wind, more petals slipped into the water, turning it a deeper shade of rosé.

Xuan stood knee-deep in the pond, under the waterfall, with her face toward him. Her body blended with the mist.

His eyes could have registered many splendors in the scenery, but all he saw was her. She was a butterfly in a background of bright liquid droplets—silver and gold, black, white, blue, and green. Her face was tan and lovely. The triangular crepe-de-Chine blouse clung to her chest like wet rice paper, and her skin shone in the sun.

But she was not being deluged with water alone. Along with the splashing torrent pouring on her came wave after wave of slick, red carp. They came from the springs above to lay their eggs, and the falls brought them to the lagoon. Xuan held out her hands to scoop the fish as they flew in midair. A sweet and pungent smell rose from the stream. Each time she caught a fish, she would toss it in a bamboo basket that floated nearby. Her hands were pink from the peach blossoms.

He walked into the ray of mist. The washed gravel crunched under his feet.

Xuan’s face lit up when she saw him. The mournful sound of her singing stopped.

“Ông Tây,” she called out.

They had known each other for almost three years, but she still addressed him with the name the Annamite children used for a foreign man, meaning “Mr. French.” Somehow, though, her intonation made it clear that the title no longer bore its original message of respect. Unlike other Annamites, she never made him feel like a foreigner.

“I was afraid you couldn’t come,” she said. “Look at how many fish I caught. Help me carry them home.”

She glided the basket in his direction. Fish flopped inside the wicker container. It took all his strength to avoid staring at her. Beneath the tattered hems of his breeches, he was conscious of his bare feet, which seemed grossly enormous beside hers. To hide his awkwardness, he leaned over the basket and dipped his fingers inside, touching the fish. They felt slippery and cool.

“The song you sang,” he said. “Was it a poem by Scholar Khiêm?”

Xuan lifted both her hands to wring the excess water out of her hair.

“I don’t know,” she said. “Was that what Cha CA taught you?”

First Father.
Henri recalled the classroom where he had sat among the princes, a rare privilege granted him because of his status as a novice. The bishop’s lessons were about the histories of Europe and Annam, their poets, writers, and scientists.

“You were snooping,” he teased her. “You probably were hiding outside the window, taking everything in.”

“I was not.” Her eyes narrowed. “Let’s get the fish back to the kitchen so I can make the prince’s dinner.”

When Henri bent to lift the container, he felt a slight tug at the loose waistband of his trousers. Something cold, wet, large, and slimy slithered inside, squirming frantically. He let out a yelp, jumping up and down and shaking his clothes. It seemed like a long time before a small carp slipped down his pant leg.

Xuan covered her mouth and laughed. She peered over her fingers, and his expression made her laugh even harder. His panic resolved quickly into embarrassment and then a desire for revenge. Picking up the fish, he jumped over the basket and chased her around the lagoon.

“Stop! Stop!” She ran, trying to keep out of his reach.

He reduced his speed, but stamped his feet to magnify his effort. She ran from the forest toward the citadel with exultant cries.

Henri waved the fish like a sword. “You have done a foolish thing, Xuan. First I’ll catch you, and then I’ll punish you.”

“No, no, I am sorry, Ông Tây,” she shouted back, giggling.

A few feet ahead, he could see the rainbow-hued arch of a bamboo bridge that connected the forest to the southwestern part of the citadel. They dashed across its brightly painted floorboards, and she made a sharp turn to the right. A fence of bamboo and bougainvillea vines blocked the path. From beyond the greenery rumbled the voice of the bishop. “The concept of the steam engine—do you understand it now?”

At first Henri wondered if he was supposed to answer the question. Then he realized they had come too close to the edge of Prince Ánh’s quarters, which were off limits to all but a few.

“Well, Your Highness?” the bishop prodded.

“I don’t understand. Tell me again.” It was Prince Ánh.

Henri saw Xuan approach the fence. He was astonished to see her do something so daring. He could hear the murmurs of the prince’s wives. It had been nearly three years since he and Xuan had seen the royals in Quinion City, when they had escaped together from the Tonquinese army. Time had changed the rules. Now, besides the mandarins, only eunuchs and ladies-in-waiting were allowed to see them in their private quarters.

Whenever you believe you must act on your impulse, for heaven’s sake remind yourself twice that you are a man of the cloth.
Henri heard the reprimanding voice of the bishop in his head. He caught Xuan’s wrist and pulled her back.

“Don’t,” he warned her.

She slid into the shadow of the fence.

He looked about uncomfortably. His habitual aversion to the bishop made him want to flee, but the thought of sharing a dangerous moment with Xuan was too exciting to pass up. Besides, he wondered what de Béhaine meant by a steam engine. The anticipated answer lay ten feet away.
It is just a lecture,
his mind said, even though his instinct insisted otherwise.

Henri placed his arm protectively over Xuan’s shoulders and peeked through the leaves. She withdrew from his touch. The scene on the other side opened before them, stirring with activity. On a stone veranda that ran the length of the palace, the bishop and his student stood regarding a strange apparatus—a glass cylinder connected to a boiler, which was placed above a kiln. Inside the cylinder, a sliding brass valve was attached to one end of a seesaw-type armature. A carriage harnessed to two horses was fastened at its other end.

Henri could see the sun’s reflection on the glass—it was too bright to stare at for long. Fifty paces away, the queen of Cochin China, who had been present at the execution site at Hue Citadel, lounged on a settee under a gold-fringed parasol, while her lady-in-waiting waved a fan of peacock feathers. Her companions, the three wives of Prince Ánh, sat at a nearby table, surrounded by a cluster of female servants. They were no longer the same terrified refugees Henri remembered. Something the queen said unleashed a burst of embarrassed laughter from the women. Xuan, like Henri, was too far away to hear the comment. Still, the girl giggled along with them.

With a swift glance at her, he drew a finger to his lips.

“Look at the strands of pearls on their necks,” Xuan whispered. “They were gifts from the prince of Siam. Have you ever seen anything so beautiful?”

One of the princesses got up and went over to her husband and the bishop. A tuft of her hair, glistening with coconut oil, hung at the end of her headdress. With each step she took, her hair bounced like a rooster’s tail. Her body had not yet lost the shapelessness of childhood—she was barely fourteen—but her midsection already swelled with pregnancy. Henri surmised that she was Lady Jade Bình, the infamous third daughter of the Tonquinese king. For months, the news of Ánh’s expected first child had been the topic of gossip all over the citadel.

Prince Ánh smiled at the princess. He reached for her belly and held it in both hands. “What are you all laughing about?” he asked. “Do you find me a poor student?”

Even though he was cheerful, his questions startled his mistresses. The oldest one, twenty years old, holding an embroidery of peonies on a silk cloth, looked up with concern. Her younger companion, his third wife, displayed a grin full of dyed-black teeth.

Princess Jade Bình nodded at the queen. “We would never laugh at Your Highness. Her Majesty told a funny tale about a Chinese man’s experiment with fireworks.”

The bishop, who had been waiting to regain the prince’s attention, seemed to find the topic of fireworks interesting. He turned his stare from the sky to the princess.

“What tale, madam?” he asked.

“A tale of transportation.”

“Oh, what do you mean?” He looked at her.

“There was a rich mandarin from China named Van Tu, who dreamed of flying,” she said, watching the queen’s face for approval. “With the help of his many servants, he assembled a chair under a large kite. Fastened to the back of the chair were fifty firecrackers -”

“Rockets,” the queen corrected, sipping her cup of tea.

Lady Jade Bình swayed toward the bishop and repeated, “Rockets. On the day of the experiment, Van Tu sat in his chair and gave the command to his fifty servants. At the precise moment, they all ignited the rockets with their torches.”

The women, including the ladies-in-waiting, giggled with anticipation.

“Madam, please,” said the bishop, “continue with your story.”

“The flames created a thunderous roar and a billow of thick smoke. When the air cleared, Van Tu and his chair had vanished. All that was left on the ground were his skullcap and a bent finial. He was never heard from again. Most villagers believed that the force from the rockets was so strong it flew him to a mystical land. Except —” The princess embraced her stomach to restrain her laughter.

De Béhaine took a breath, swallowing his impatience. “Except for what?”

“Except that the queen thinks he blew himself to pieces with the fireworks, along with his wicker chair and the kite.”

Forgetting herself, Xuan joined the ladies’ chorus of laughter. Henri sealed her mouth, but it was too late.

The bishop turned in their direction and shouted, “Who’s there? Where are the guards?”

Henri saw him peer through the gaps in the bamboo and into his eyes. He jumped back in fright.

“Hurry! Hurry!” cried Xuan.

He felt her pulling at his shirt. Together they ran back across the arched bridge into the thicket. The women’s screams tore through the palace’s solitude. But to his relief, no guards pursued them.

They returned to the stream where they had left the basket of carp. As she walked alongside him, Xuan crossed her arms over her breasts in an effort to conceal herself. Her thin shoulders drew in as if she were cold, and she didn’t look up from the trail.

To avoid the Rainbow Bridge, they took a path that wound in and out of the forest—a much longer route back to the citadel. Inside the basket strapped to Henri’s back, the fish barely moved. Xuan walked behind him, heavy-footed. She had rolled her thick hair into a knot and put on an extra blouse, which she buttoned all the way to the top. A terrible silence separated them.

Henri turned and waited for her. She walked to the other side of the road. A strand of hair was caught between her lips, and she chewed on it.

“Are you all right?” he asked, scratching his head.

She lifted her eyes no farther than his knees. “No.”

He had to strain to hear her.

They continued to march under the sun. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her wipe perspiration off her forehead, using a sleeve.

“Don’t get upset because of what just happened,” he said. “Thank God that we didn’t get caught.”

“I am not upset,” she said. “I am ashamed of my behavior. It isn’t ladylike, this curiosity of mine. I just wanted to see their pearl necklaces.”

Henri licked his lips and began to sing, swaying his hips to mimic the mincing steps of a soprano. His voice, out of tune, at first was too soft to hear, but then it rose offensively.

It is not that I cower away from the prince’s slimy touch;

But in a day, I was torn between obsession and delusion.

The song, whose lyrics he had deliberately distorted, brought back the laughter that he longed to hear. She poked him playfully.

“Stop! You are destroying my ears.”

He continued to sing off-pitch and to make up words as they walked. His antics kept her in giggles for the rest of the trip.