Duong Huong - The Zenith

Down below, the tiger was tearing up Nong Tai’s clothes and beginning its feast. An couldn’t look.

“Oh, Nong Tai: we ran away from one death but another was waiting here. Just when you thought you had walked through the door of life, it turned into a door of death. Please forgive me because I did not have enough strength to protect you. Please forgive me because I did not do my duty as your guide. I should have gone first, not you. But your fate or just bad luck has taken you to death. From now on, your death will burden my shoulders as well as your loved ones.”

It had been a short friendship, one that had lasted no longer than two days and one night. Still, it had been a real friendship because it had led them to cross the porous boundary separating the fields of life from the shores of death; such a bond will last forever.

Through the forest’s leaves, the sun’s rays were no longer yellow, but the lighter color of a ripe lime. Night would come in no time. He had to escape this forest before then. An began to rub his hands vigorously to make the blood flow. When he put them to his cheeks, he felt them as warm as usual. Then he pulled the revolver from behind his back and cocked it. The target was close at hand but difficult to pinpoint because the tiger was busy eating, so its neck and head moved around constantly. Only its back and hips pointed toward An, but those were not the parts where a bullet could put the animal in mortal danger.

Suddenly an idea flashed in his mind: “Why do I have to kill it? If the border defense guards find the tiger’s carcass, they will chase me all the way to Laos. The best thing is to let the animal escape, and to pretend that I, myself, have also been chewed up by the tiger’s jaws. That would be the most certain escape under the circumstances.”

An aimed at the hip closest to the gun barrel and squeezed. With a terrifying roar, the animal turned in his direction. Its eyes shone straight at his with rays of mad anger. It let go of its prey, turned around, and jumped up. As An had calculated, the animal couldn’t reach where he sat. Not able to grab its prey and wounded, the tiger walked unsteadily around the tree for a few steps, then backed up, roared a second time, then jumped again. The gun in An’s hand fell to the ground, bounced, and fired another bullet. The animal turned sharply, and leaped toward its small, strangely shaped enemy, biting with all its strength and flowing fury. Then it roared weakly from the pain of biting on the steel. Looking up at the tiny prey in the tree with a surprised gaze, it darted into the bush and disappeared. Waiting for a long while to make sure that the tiger did not return, An untied the parachute cord and climbed down. Something was sticking to his butt. Then he realized that he not only had wet his pants but had pooped in them, too.

“Yes, people say that you shit from fear, and that’s true all right.”

An took off his shirt and tore it into many pieces to dab the smeared blood under Nong Tai’s head, then he placed the head in a thick and thorny bush so that no hunting dog, wild fox, or boar could go in after it. Then he threw his blood-soaked, tattered shirt over Nong Tai’s headless body and threw his gun close to that of his companion. Looking at this terrifying sight one last time, he turned around and ran straight ahead, toward the sound of a running stream. Kneeling down by it, he wanted to clean up but a strong urge to vomit overcame him, and a green liquid residue mixed with yellow came up, followed by black bile as from a fish. It felt like his gut had been cut with an invisible knife; pain curved his body as if it were a shrimp cooking in boiling water. He put his face on the grass, then lay down on his side. At that moment, a stream of feces came out unexpectedly. He had no control at all over his body. He waited for the terrifying illness to pass. When there was nothing left in his bowels, he began to shake from cold.

Reaching to open his pack, he pulled out a blanket that Nang Dong had meticulously sewn stitch by stitch for him from a parachute taken as a trophy during the battle for Dien Bien. He covered himself with it. Closing his eyes, he took long breaths and waited for his body to warm up.

“I must escape. I must live at all costs,” he told himself. That resolve kept repeating without pause, like a breeze blowing gusts into a charcoal stove. Repeating this mantra over and over, his frigid body finally began to warm up; after almost twenty minutes, he could feel his heartbeat return to normal. Pulling the blanket aside, he sat up and went to the stream to clean up. He washed his soiled clothes and wrapped them in a raincoat, which he tucked carefully back inside the duffel bag. Then, after crossing over to the other side of the stream in his clean clothes, he resumed running. It was getting late; in another ten minutes he had to take out his flashlight. From then on, his life had only the forest trees for protection. He had to be frugal with each flash of light. He also had to be frugal with each piece of dry cake still left until he could find shelter. Dizziness forced him to stop. Reaching inside his pack, he pulled out a piece of cane sugar and put it in his mouth. The sweetness penetrated his tongue and made him less shaky on his feet. Later the sugar melted down and even revived his empty and damaged stomach, and he was able to move with more confidence. He continued along the dark path, but an hour later, he suddenly heard the rushing galloping of horses mixed with screams. “Why do the galloping horses sound so close? Have I ended up getting lost or turned around? Is this worn path taking me back to where Nong Tai was eaten by the tiger?”

He turned off the flashlight and crawled into a thick bush, knowing that when one is not sure of an escape route, it is best to sit tight in the dark. It was less dangerous than making squishing noises and revealing his location with the flashlight. Indeed, the sounds were getting closer and the wind brought the cursing of the soldiers to his ears:

“Slow down! Your mare bumped into my horse.”

“I can’t help it — it’s so dark.”

“We have to wait for them to cross the road before we can move forward. Don’t push your horse.”

“I did not. It just jumped on its own.”

A voice intervened, surely from the fort’s captain: “Enough, you guys. Don’t fight with each other. When we return, there will be a pot of chicken soup to fill us up.”

The soldiers kept quiet.

The captain again said, “Let’s speed up a little. Don’t forget that these hill people know the forest ways a thousand times better than us. They are born with the forest trees.”

“Reporting, Captain: we are really trying but there are too many vines. This stretch of road is a bitch.”

“Because it’s a bitch, we need your professional skill with a knife. Try hard. I think we are almost there. No matter what they do, they cannot be faster than the horses.”

The sounds of their movements mixing with the hissing of the horses became even clearer. Soldiers in the front slashed at the vines, preparing a way for the horses to advance. Since the sun had set they had been under orders to chase down An and Nong Tai, but their horses had been blocked from entering the forest. If the worn trail had not been covered tightly by the hanging green vines, the soldiers would have already caught him when he was lying under the blanket next to the stream, in the most compromising situation imaginable.

“Now I have regained my composure, and if we do clash I can still take out some guys before I die.”

That thought was a consolation to An. An insect bit his neck; the pain was so excruciating he almost cried out. Reaching back with his hand, he seized a toxic ant the size of a black bean. He squeezed it to death but the ant still managed to bite the tip of his forefinger, which started to burn from the acid pain. At the same moment, a scream was heard: