Chapter 3
Wagering and harlots
The weather has always been erratic: mild and touched by the wind in the morning, yet it has suddenly poured rain by noon. Rain and shine have always been natural phenomena, but all living creatures in Lang Chau have cursed God for "bestowing" this bizarre condition — at the end of sixth moon, the days have been searing with heat while the nights have been as cold as winter.
For half a month now, the weather has been repeating its madness. Every time noon has arrived, Lang Chau has been scorched by a fiery crimson orb, the oppressive heat pressing down on all living beings. Neither humans nor animals have dared to show themselves on the roads. The people have hidden indoors, while the animals have crept into caves to escape the burning air.
The animals on the ground suffer terribly in the heat, and the black-and-white langurs living on the limestone mountains are particularly miserable. Restlessly, they leap around, clinging to the jagged rocks, until they are forced to climb down to the ground. The heat sears their brains, leaving them unable to pay attention to the sluggish, spiritless people walking below.
People are gasping for breath—some wipe the sweat from their flushed cheeks with cloths, others drink hastily, and some even drenched themselves. Many have to stop to rest, only resuming their journey after regaining some strength.
People from all directions gathered here to partake in the martial contest. This was the first time the august court had ordained such a trial to select men of prowess. At first, the Emperor had purposed to hold it in Thang Long, yet Tran Thu Do counseled that it be removed unto Mau Son, within the bounds of Lang Chau. This unusual decree left both officials and commoners bewildered.
This remote region was ill-famed for its inconveniences in every regard. Its waterways twisted and turned through a tangled maze of canals, while the mountain paths wound like serpents—slithering precariously along the edges of bottomless abysses and threading through jagged limestone peaks.
Surrounded on all sides by ominous, mist-veiled primeval forests, this desolate land of perilous terrain could never compare to the majesty of the imperial capital. Of late, the air has once more turned strange.
Regardless of the harsh weather, all have overcome countless obstacles, each pursuing his own purpose. The common folk wish to behold the heroes display their prowess; the men of letters seek inspiration for poetry; the merchants hope to broaden their realms of trade.
In recent days, rumors had spread that the emperor himself would preside over the examinations, strengthening the resolve of the multitude to journey unto Lang Chau. Along the treacherous paths, some hapless travelers fell into deep ravines—their bodies swallowed by the abyss, lost to the world forever.
Undeterred, the crowds pressed ever forward, crossing rivers, scaling mountains, and forcing their way through dense forests to converge upon Lang Chau. Horses and carriages journeyed tirelessly along every road, while boats and rafts glided across the rivers—each traveler choosing his own means of passage.
As for Thiet Nam, he owned nothing. In the past, he had saved some money by selling medicinal herbs. Part of it was spent on food and drink for the journey, while the rest was used to help the poor. He had originally planned to use the remaining amount to buy a horse, but during one unfortunate stumble on a slippery, muddy road, the money slipped from his grasp and plunged into the abyss.
He lamented, clicking his tongue in regret over the loss of the horse he had once ridden while rescuing Ngan Ha. That night, just as he was about to ride home with Ban Lan, the beast suddenly turned wild without warning—turning wild and bolting into the distance, disappearing without a trace.
Now penniless, Thiet Nam is forced to wander, requesting leave to accompany a wagon. After struggling for half a day, a merchant caravan finally agrees to take him along—on the condition that he help carry their goods. The caravan master says:
- We're heading to the Bac Son Valley, not Mau Son.
Mau Son lay to the Northeast, while Bac Son sat in the Western reaches of Lang Chau.
Since the wagon bears bears no room to offer, Thiet Nam is left to squeeze in with the livestock, lying among them in the wagon. The stench torments his nose, forcing him to swallow the breakfast he has just eaten, which is threatening to rise up from his throat.
After nearly a week of misery[1], they are finally arriving at the base of Bac Son Valley—a bow-shaped land.
Here, mist enfolds the vast mountains and forests on every side. Beside the range that stretches endlessly beyond sight, towering like pillars that uphold the sky, lie winding paths leading the wild creatures back into the boundless green woods.
The creatures creep forth, seeking a path, yet startle at the sound of men. They deem it the drunken rogues come to hunt and feast upon them, and thus flee into the shadows. But the travelers pay them no heed, intent only on finding a way out of the forest.
The merchant caravan's leader lets out a long sigh.
- Damn it all, I had only myself to blame! Old as I was, yet still a fool.
The elder merchant sighs in sorrow, his face contorted as though every coin had been stolen from him.
- Accursed fate! To spare a few coins, I thought it not too late to hire a pathfinder once I reached Lang Chau. Who would have thought it turned out worse than being barred at midnight by that she-devil, not allowed to enter the house. Curse it all! Those vile curs devoured every fine prey like starving dogs fighting over bones, seizing all the pathfinders!
He strikes his forehead with a resounding smack, dazed, like a starving hound that watches its sole bone snatched away.
- These merchants—brothers in word, yet traitors at heart! I should have perceived their deceit the moment they staged that feast of meat and wine. Greed for small gain brings grievous loss—the ancients spake true!
Muttering curses beneath his breath, he rummages through his coarse cloth pouch and draws forth a withered wineskin. After shaking it a few times, he lets out a long, hollow sigh:
- Even the wine is spent… as are men's hearts.
Just as he is lost in regret and has no clue what to do next, Thiet Nam speaks up:
- I have spent time here before. I shall help everyone find the way.
The merchant boss is as happy as if he has just seized a stolen bone:
- I shall give you your rightful wage.
After thanking him, Thiet Nam leads the group onward. The path ahead is strewn with rocks and pebbles of all shapes and sizes. The forest stretches endlessly, where crooked trees have toppled over, and twisted trunks tangle with wildflowers and weeds and block their way.
They push through creeping vines and dense underbrush, struggling forward step by step. Thiet Nam warns everyone to watch out for snakes and centipedes, then veers the group leftward.
After a long march behind their guide, the torches in their hands begin to catch the light—reflections of sunlight filter through a line of casuarinas ahead. With renewed spirit, the merchant caravan quickens their pace and soon reaches their destination.
After struggling through the forest for two watches of the day[2], their bodies drenched in damp and musty smells, the entire group welcomes the bright sunlight with joy. The merchant boss instructs that the goods be taken to the ethnic market near the forest. He pays Thiet Nam for his reward for leading the way and also warns everyone to be cautious of thieves and highwaymen.
- I heard that last year, this place was crowded with people, and the ruffians stirred disorder, plundering boldly without fear.
Thiet Nam furrows his brow and asks:
- Have the soldiers been able to capture them?
The boss shakes his head dejectedly:
- If they caught one group, another would emerge, swarming like pests everywhere.
The merchant master commands his servants to swiftly bear the goods unto the gathering point. Thiet Nam lifts the bundles upon his shoulder and trails behind the buyers, stepping into each merchant's stall.
In former days, the deeper they ventured into the ethnic market, the thicker grew the throng, and the livelier rang the din. Yet on this day, the ethnic market lies strangely hushed, its customary bustle vanished, supplanted only by the clamor rising from the wagering hall of bamboo.
He recalled that in former days, the place had been but a vast stretch of bare earth, with not a single house ever raised upon it. The poor had gathered there to trade, laying carpets upon the ground to display their wares. Though the earth was laid with brocade rugs, Thiet Nam had found it wearisome to behold the merchants tending to buyers whilst swatting away clouds of insects. He knew the custom well, yet could not grasp its meaning.
In those days, he had warned that should they remain conservative, the ethnic market would in time fall into desolation. He had hoped the people might forsake the practice, or at the very least grow more inclined to change.
Now, the villagers have constructed proper market stalls, yet many still cling to the old appearance. He feels a quiet relief for those who grasp the need to keep pace with the times and embrace change.
Those nostalgic for the past do not step into the stalls veiled beneath tents. Within those clean and stately spaces, one licks the rim of his plate with a coarse laugh; another scatters leftover food without care; yet another curses the fare, deeming it spoiled to shirk payment. These quarrelsome freeloaders raise their voices at the vendors, while other patrons shake their heads and withdraw to escape the din.
The clamor of dispute continues unabated, as beastly words spill from human mouths, staining the ears of passersby. A mother swiftly lifts her child and walks away. The little girl, bewildered, inquires about the cause of the quarrel. The mother smiles and gestures toward a pile of toys in the distance, seeking to divert her child's attention. The little girl runs forth, gathering toys from the ground and marveling at them. Soon she begins to ask for this and that. The mother indulges her daughter, as though fearing this familiar place shall vanish forever with the morrow.
That simple joy awakens memories long buried within Thiet Nam's heart. On that day, the children cling to their mother, trailing after her to the market to play. They are mischievous, stirring trouble and begging for gifts. When naught remains to be meddled with, they begin to complain of the filth. These hazy recollections return, bringing forth the image of Thiet Nam as a boy, frowning at his mother:
- Why did Mother buy food off the ground, covered in flies?
- Van, how many times must I tell you before you understand? This is a tradition handed down by our forebears!
Van muttered beneath his breath:
- It was as grimy as the haunt of a restless ghost. What kind of "tradition" is that?
Mother cast him a sharp glance:
- If you were insolent again, I swore I would make you stay home the next time!
Van replied stubbornly:
- But Mother still bought that filthy food for Thi to eat. If her stomach aches, she'll just have to bear it.
The mother offered an apology to the vendor and led her two children away. The boy, still defiant after being scolded, pulled a ghostly face to frighten his sister. The little girl shrieked in terror. Enraged, the mother lifted her child and gave chase after Van, intent on striking him. He laughed aloud and slipped into the crowd to behold the musicians singing and dancing. Enchanted by the melodies of the H'mong Pen Pipe and flutes, he danced along, losing sight of his mother amidst the tumult.
The final vision Thiet Nam beheld was of his mother crying out, her voice torn with despair as she searches for her child, while the child wept, calling for her:
- Van, where are you?
- Mother… oh, Mother…
The calls of his loved ones have echoed in Thiet Nam's mind. The sorrowful sound has transformed into a ghost, clawing at his heart. Clinging to the remnants of his mind, the ghost has curled up and wept, and has suddenly morphed into a filthy, naked body. It has bared its yellowed teeth, grinning wide as it has fixed its gaze upon him.
- Oh? The bastard has dared to return home? No, no—better call it his second homeland, huh? Hahahaha…
Just as Thiet Nam is lost in the illusion of the past, a shout from inside the wagering hall of bamboo jolts him back to reality:
- Place the money and withdraw your hand!
- You there, touch not the bowl!
- Curse it! I have surely crossed paths with a woman on the way here—ill fate has befallen me, and I have forfeited everything this day!
- Pfft! You were bathed in sweat with two courtesans but now and rushed straight into the wager. No marvel you forfeited everything!
Thiet Nam openeth his eyes wide, beholding the wagering hall of bamboo that stands in the open ground. It is a place wherein folk earn their sustenance. In the ethnic market, each parcel of earth hath its master, and the poor find but scant comfort upon this bare ground. Now, even this final shred of hope is seized. The folk of humble voice and narrow throat, heavy with grievance, behold as the world turns their place of toil into a pit where coin is burned.
Thiet Nam cannot believe that any would dare flout the law of the land. Wrathful, he strides toward the wagering hall of bamboo. The guards, mistaking him for a man who hath lost a heap of coin in wager, open the door and bid him enter to recover it. Within, the gamblers contend with fury over every stake. The losers curse and strike tables and chairs in wrath, while the winners grin slyly, groping the bosoms and haunches of the courtesans writhing beside them.
The wives of the night smile with narrowed eyes, kissing and caressing the husbands who are theirs but for a single eve. Wandering men grin with lust, slipping stacks of silver deep into the overflowing bosoms of the roadside courtesans.
Wagering is punishable by the severing of hands, banishment, or death. Yet these brazen men not only transgress the law, but shamelessly revel in debauchery with harlots. Thiet Nam's eyes burn with wrath at such open depravity. He waits for the soldiers to come and seize them, yet none appears.
It should be noted that:
[1] In ancient Vietnam, a week consisteth of ten days.
[2] Two watches of the day in ancient Vietnam are equal to four modern hours.
[3] The precursor of the Chinese lusheng (H'Mong Pen Pipe) doth exist long ere the Shang Dynasty.