head though no one else hears it, not even the heart itself.
By mid-afternoon they reached the Song Cai. It wasnât as glorious as the Serepok, but it would take them to where they were going. They could feel the earth beginning to descend. Three times Qui took the cleaver to the brush before giving up. They were less than thirty miles from the coast. The forests this side of the mountains hadnât been sprayed with defoliant, but the landscape was rapidly changing, the greenness giving way to aridness. When the wind was right, you could smell the salt. Sometimes Qui thought she could hear the sound of voices carrying on the windâthe sound high and raw like lamentation.
For the past few years they had been working their way down the coast. Shortly after Rabbitâs birth, the Americans began withdrawing from the country. Even with the Americans leaving, the war dragged on, the rice harvests left rotting in the paddies or never planted in the first place. In Cong Heo the people ate rats and frogs, whatever the countryside had to offer. When the rats and frogs ran out, BÃ with her turbid eyes led the four of them down to Lak Lake in the central highlands, the highlands once the stronghold of the ethnic tribes who had sided with the Americans. They lived beside the lake for two years while the Americans slowly exited. Now that the tribes had been abandoned, everyone was left to fight for themselves, the mountains steeped in blood. It was all a mystery no one could explain. Why a foreign power would come all this way and then just disappear.
Overhead the scavengers were circling on the currents. Despite her cloudy eyes, BÃ could feel the vulturesâ cold gaze.The birds were in their season. For them it was a time of plenty. All outcomes were possible. How many hours had BÃ spent trying to calculate what might happen? Tuâs years working the Ho Chi Minh Trail as a foot soldier for the VC should be enough. Theirs was a family of heroesâBÃ with a burn between her breasts where the Frenchman had stubbed out his cigarette. But she couldnât be sure their years of service would save them in the eyes of the new government. There was talk of an impending bloodbath. Some said if your family hadnât left for the north during the Great Partitioning of â54, you were an enemy of the people. BÃ didnât know what to believe. Only one thing was certain. A great unknown was bearing down on them. Overhead the scavengers circling like a storm.
Baby, sleep well, so Mother can go to the market to buy you a spoonful of honey. If she goes to the east, she will bring you the lychee soft as an eye. If she goes to the western market on the edge of everything, she will buy you the sleep from which one never awakens, fingers sticky sweet. Baby, sleep well, so Mother can go to the market
.
T HERE WAS AN HOURâS WORTH OF DAYLIGHT LEFT. THE EMPTY sky was washed of color. The scavengers had landed somewhere long ago to clean some poor creature of its flesh. Finally it was time. There was no moon, the sky overcast. Huyen took out an old flashlight. She hit it a few times before the weak light winked on. In the darkness BÃ took charge despite her crookedness, her unblinking scar guiding her through the shadows. With her one good hand she took out their mats and the iron kettle with the remaining rice in it. They had just enough left for two more days. They had cooked the rest of it the day before, figuring it would keep until the end. They were all too tired to look for stray brush to build a fire. They lay down right in the middle of the trail. Qui took Rabbit up in her arms and sat down on a mat, opened her shirt. BÃ handed her a rice bowl. It was the bowl from the grave of Little Mother, the bowl light blue and chipped along the edge. Sometimes when Rabbit held it, she would move her lips and prattle on as if talking to someone.
Qui jostled Rabbit on her thigh, but the child kept
By mid-afternoon they reached the Song Cai. It wasnât as glorious as the Serepok, but it would take them to where they were going. They could feel the earth beginning to descend. Three times Qui took the cleaver to the brush before giving up. They were less than thirty miles from the coast. The forests this side of the mountains hadnât been sprayed with defoliant, but the landscape was rapidly changing, the greenness giving way to aridness. When the wind was right, you could smell the salt. Sometimes Qui thought she could hear the sound of voices carrying on the windâthe sound high and raw like lamentation.
For the past few years they had been working their way down the coast. Shortly after Rabbitâs birth, the Americans began withdrawing from the country. Even with the Americans leaving, the war dragged on, the rice harvests left rotting in the paddies or never planted in the first place. In Cong Heo the people ate rats and frogs, whatever the countryside had to offer. When the rats and frogs ran out, BÃ with her turbid eyes led the four of them down to Lak Lake in the central highlands, the highlands once the stronghold of the ethnic tribes who had sided with the Americans. They lived beside the lake for two years while the Americans slowly exited. Now that the tribes had been abandoned, everyone was left to fight for themselves, the mountains steeped in blood. It was all a mystery no one could explain. Why a foreign power would come all this way and then just disappear.
Overhead the scavengers were circling on the currents. Despite her cloudy eyes, BÃ could feel the vulturesâ cold gaze.The birds were in their season. For them it was a time of plenty. All outcomes were possible. How many hours had BÃ spent trying to calculate what might happen? Tuâs years working the Ho Chi Minh Trail as a foot soldier for the VC should be enough. Theirs was a family of heroesâBÃ with a burn between her breasts where the Frenchman had stubbed out his cigarette. But she couldnât be sure their years of service would save them in the eyes of the new government. There was talk of an impending bloodbath. Some said if your family hadnât left for the north during the Great Partitioning of â54, you were an enemy of the people. BÃ didnât know what to believe. Only one thing was certain. A great unknown was bearing down on them. Overhead the scavengers circling like a storm.
Baby, sleep well, so Mother can go to the market to buy you a spoonful of honey. If she goes to the east, she will bring you the lychee soft as an eye. If she goes to the western market on the edge of everything, she will buy you the sleep from which one never awakens, fingers sticky sweet. Baby, sleep well, so Mother can go to the market
.
T HERE WAS AN HOURâS WORTH OF DAYLIGHT LEFT. THE EMPTY sky was washed of color. The scavengers had landed somewhere long ago to clean some poor creature of its flesh. Finally it was time. There was no moon, the sky overcast. Huyen took out an old flashlight. She hit it a few times before the weak light winked on. In the darkness BÃ took charge despite her crookedness, her unblinking scar guiding her through the shadows. With her one good hand she took out their mats and the iron kettle with the remaining rice in it. They had just enough left for two more days. They had cooked the rest of it the day before, figuring it would keep until the end. They were all too tired to look for stray brush to build a fire. They lay down right in the middle of the trail. Qui took Rabbit up in her arms and sat down on a mat, opened her shirt. BÃ handed her a rice bowl. It was the bowl from the grave of Little Mother, the bowl light blue and chipped along the edge. Sometimes when Rabbit held it, she would move her lips and prattle on as if talking to someone.
Qui jostled Rabbit on her thigh, but the child kept
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