Duong Huong - The Zenith

Immediately, his heart seems lighter, like that of someone who for a long time has felt his way through the darkness to finally discover the light.

“How splendid! This death will bring both escape and rescue. Why do I think of it just now? Well, my useless brain, you are really to be blamed…”

He pushes the blanket aside and sits right up. For a long while he has known his horoscope as well as the palm of his hand; he knows that the day to return to dust is the Mui day of the Hoi month in the Tan Hoi year (1969). He turns on the light and removes from the cupboard his old torn horoscope, the one that he’s had for more than sixty years. Opening the chart, he reflects on the unfavorable alignment of the stars on that day when Death will come to shear off his life with a sickle. There is nothing out of place; his memory is totally accurate.

“Well, why live another two years in this imprisoned and absolutely hopeless life? Why go on playing the role of a wooden puppet inciting innocent children to join a miserable and stupid war, only to be sentenced later by history as an old king who was a coward and had no conscience? Departing in such a way will offer the best chance to be redeemed; it will give me calm when facing the soul’s highest court of judgment.”

He folds the chart, puts it back in the cupboard, and then goes to the desk, looking in the drawer for the last testament he had partially drafted the year before. He will finish it tonight because he has decided to die on the coming September 2. According to the old customs, anyone who dies on the anniversary of the founding of a dynasty, religion, or sect of martial artists demonstrates a fated rendezvous with death that cannot be denied by its followers.

The next morning, the chubby soldier comes to begin the new shift at 7:30 as usual.

The president says, “Let’s go up the mountain and then have tea when we return.”

“But…Mr. President…”

“I want to climb the mountain to stretch my legs. I am not hungry yet.”

“Mr. President, I have to get the doctor’s approval…I dare not…”

“Don’t worry. I take full responsibility. The doctor is still sleeping.”

Then, without waiting for a reply, he steps forward. All the chubby soldier can do is quickly follow him and take his arm.

“Mr. Chairman, let me lead you. At this hour the road is very slippery and dangerous.”

“No.” He turns around and says, smiling, “The old man in Woodcutter’s Hamlet fell on a dry day, with the sun just past noon, right? Then, there was not a drop of dew on the grass.”

“Yes, that is correct, but…”

“Don’t be so cautious. Just walk behind me. The mountain road is so narrow, if we cling to each other it will be more difficult.”

The soldier is obliged to follow him. The president takes off so quickly that all the soldier can do is hold the hem of his shirt. The farther he walks, the deeper he begins to pant because of his heavy body and the brisk pace. The flaps of the president’s quilted coat slap hard on his legs and the tail of his striped scarf flies behind him like a kite being blown by the wind. He walks straight to the top of Lan Vu, to the highest point, where he has never before set foot. There, he stands on a big rock and looks out. Floating clouds glide around the top of the mountain, then swim down to the lower peaks. Farther beyond are hills and fields stretching out to the horizon.

Well! His mountains and rivers…there is only one reality: it is his land; it is tied to him, and he to it, forever. Everything he had had, everything he had lost, all that he had ever done, and all that remains as a debt…all this had started from, and would end because of, this land. A suffering homeland, a people enslaved. A history without the sound of flutes — only the rattles of daggers and swords.

“Well! This is my last battle. And this is my last prayer for my people!”

He tells the chubby soldier, “I want to stand here a little while. I have never before set foot on the top of this sacred mountain. And that is sad.”

“Yes. We, too, have never climbed up here either. I heard that kings in the past came up here every three years to pray and make offerings.”

“Who told you that?”

“People in Woodcutters’ Hamlet.”

“That’s true. The top of Lan Vu is a place where the cosmic energies of rivers and mountains unite. The ancients openly recorded this fact in the histories. Trouble yourself a bit to read them and learn.”

“Yes.”

“Go down there and wait for me where the pine trees grow in the crack between those two rocks. I will call you when it is time to return.”

“But, Mr. President…”

“Go down there and wait for me. No need to worry.”

His voice is firm and somewhat cold, and the chubby soldier has no choice but to go where he had been directed.

Left alone, the president turns his back to the Eastern Sea and faces west. Standing as still as a statue for a few moments, he then closes his eyes, opening his entire mind to hear the voice of his heart loudly, to let the most secret sounds of his chest spread wide and resonate up to all the deities:

“Hail to all the sacred saints of the nation; to all the great spirits of brave heroes and kings who have explored and protected these mountains and rivers. Though your bodies may have decayed, if your spirits still walk abroad and permanently watch over the nation, please come here to assist me.

“Hail to the Buddha: I have not followed your way but I am lucky to know your devoted disciples here and I understand your strong influence over humanity. If your spirit always watches over the western skies, please add your strength to that of my country’s deities to help me achieve my last wish:

“I, who gave birth to Communist Vietnam in the fall of the year At Dau, 1945, on the second of September in the Christian calendar, request to leave this earth on that day of that month this year, the autumn of Ky Dau. My passing will announce the end of a cruel and traitorous regime and provide its death certificate.

“My death will be my last gift to my people.

“My death will be the last victory, to compensate for all the failures and mistakes I made during my whole life.

“My death will be my most sincere apology before the highest judiciary of all existence as well as of conscience itself.

“Thus, I passionately beg all of you: help me attain my wish!”

Ah…ah…ah…

Ah…ah…ah…

Ah…ah…ah…ah…

He hears thousands of dreamy sounds, like a choir from the Eastern Sea that resonates, overflows, and rolls with the waves. Then it sounds like the whispered chattering of thousands of years being restored. He sees shadows of people clear like water in crevices, delicate like foam on the waves, dressed in old-fashioned clothes, from the Ly to the Tran dynasties, from the founder of the Truc Lam Buddhist meditation sect to General Dinh Bo Linh to General Quang Trung; also there is the Le king along with his general Tran Nguyen Han; General Nguyen Xao in the shape of a ghost without a hand; and Nguyen Trai as a headless ghostly shadow. It is a gathering of those who loved Vietnam the most; among them so many had been friends but then became enemies as time passed.

Behind this group of people, at the bright yellow horizon to the west, there is a tall person with a calm face and a perpetual relaxed smile. He knows it is the reverend Buddha.

Thus his prayer has been witnessed.

He stands there for a long time, feeling a happiness he has never experienced; one that is totally different from that obtained by a victory or cigar smoke; a happiness beyond words.