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| Illustration: Phan Nhan |
Nearly 70 years ago, in the spring, my grandmother was born to my great-grandmother on the road to the South. Back then, travel by train, bus, or boat was still difficult, and air travel for the poor was probably as hard as reaching for the stars. It's hard for Ngoc to imagine her great-grandparents walking thousands of kilometers, carrying their burdens, especially with her great-grandmother pregnant for seven or eight months, amidst a crowd of strangers, to reach a promised land they had never even imagined. Everyone thought my great-grandmother wouldn't survive the sudden, premature labor, especially after days of hunger along the arduous journey. Even my great-grandmother didn't think she could make it. But she said that a flock of Lac birds from the distant mountains flew across the sky that day and saved her. The deep, majestic cry of the birds was like a song that awakened the inherent strength within her…
"The cry of the Lac birds, it's as if it came from thousands of years ago. No other bird has such a deep, warm, and proud voice, and no one can imitate it. Only birds with the aspiration to fly high and far together can produce such a magical sound." My grandmother often spoke of the Lac birds with such fascination.
"Did you hear that scream?" Ngoc asked doubtfully.
To be fair, the boy's skepticism was understandable. He had seen images of the mythical Lac bird, heard his teachers talk about it, but no one had ever told him clearly about the bird's call, a sound that seemed to exist only in legends and fairy tales, like the one his grandmother used to enthusiastically tell him.
- She hasn't heard it herself, but surely our ancestors and great-grandparents have. Our ancestral land was once home to the mythical Lac bird. And perhaps, as my great-grandmother recounted, a flock of Lac birds flew in on the very day she was born…
- So why is it that in the books I study, no one mentions the sounds of birds?
- Because those who witnessed or heard it, like our ancestors long ago, were illiterate, no one could depict the sounds like they could draw a bird's wings, nor could they meet writers or teachers to recount the story.
Grandma said calmly. Ngoc chuckled. Maybe she was right; back then, hardly anyone could read or write.
***
The belongings my great-grandparents brought with them from North to South included a small peach tree covered in buds and a bronze drum engraved with the image of a flock of Lac birds. The peach tree bloomed along the way, but upon reaching Phan Rang, partly due to the intense heat and partly because of the addition of new family members, the tree gradually withered. My great-grandfather had to ask permission to replant it in the garden of a local resident along the road. When they found a place to settle, my great-grandfather single-handedly built a house with wood, bamboo, and a corrugated iron roof. He dedicated the right-hand side of the house, in the center, as a memorial to King Hung. His only "capital" was the bronze drum, passed down through generations, which he carried from North to South. The journey was much more arduous and longer than anticipated. Along the way, their rice and food ran out. Instead of agreeing to trade the drum for food to alleviate hunger, he stayed behind to work as a hired laborer, not shying away from hard and dangerous work, in exchange for food for his family. The bronze drum was a precious family heirloom; he would never accept trading it for a meal.
The neighbors around my great-grandfather's house were also friends from the countryside, and since they worked as carpenters, they joined hands to carve statues of King Hung, Tien Dung, Chu Dong Tu, and Saint Giong... to place in the shrine. These figures from the ancient Hung Dynasty, whom Ngoc thought only existed in books and lessons, had actually been in her family for a very long time. Every year, near Tet (Lunar New Year) and the Ancestor Commemoration Day, Ngoc would still help her grandmother clean the wooden statues. Ngoc often gazed at the faces of the figures, and many times they seemed familiar.
***
Ngoc had heard his grandmother recount the story of building the temple to King Hung, the story of the Lac birds flying from the distant mountains, bringing with them a song that awakened her, allowing her to be born into this world many years ago. Occasionally, his father would remind her, "Grandma, just tell it once, the boy already remembers." But she would continue telling it, repeating it many times. It was such a deeply ingrained part of her memory that, even as she grew older and her memory gradually faded, those stories remained. Every time she told it, Ngoc listened eagerly. Sometimes, due to her senility, she would pause and ask Ngoc, "Oh, what's your name? Whose child are you?" The first time he heard her ask, the boy was even more bewildered than she was. He burst into tears, unable to accept the fact that the person he loved most didn't recognize him. As he grew older, Ngoc no longer resented his grandmother but loved her even more.
"Both my history teacher and my art teacher said that the mythical Lac bird only exists in legends, it's not real," Ngoc recounted after a drawing lesson depicting the Lac bird on a bronze drum.
- That's not right. In our hometown, there used to be mythical birds called Lac. Look here, all the decorative images on the bronze drums are drawn from reality. And there's an undeniable fact: a flock of Lac birds saved my great-grandmother during childbirth, and that's how my grandfather, my father, and I came into existence.
Ngoc softly replied, "Yes." From a scientific and historical perspective, the mythical bird might not have existed. But considering the stories and evidence passed down through generations by those with roots in the ancestral land, like her grandmother, Ngoc still believed that such a bird had existed since ancient times. Who knows, perhaps after another thousand years, scientists will find fossilized Lạc bird bones and confirm that they once existed on this earth? Her teacher also said that science and history are always subject to unexpected changes, didn't she?
***
Grandma was truly Ngoc's best friend. With her parents busy working, Grandma single-handedly took care of Ngoc, so she understood her better than anyone else in the world. She had a treasure trove of fairy tales and fascinating stories in her head, always ready to tell Ngoc whenever she was free or couldn't sleep. In this small garden and temple, just a few dozen square meters, countless stories had accumulated over the years. Stories about the distant stream behind their house, once a large river flowing from the Saigon River. As the population grew, the land was filled in, and the river drifted further away. Stories about the wooden statues that fetched exorbitant prices during the famine years, but no one would sell them since they were communal property. Not to mention, after years of lighting incense and offering prayers, the hopes and beliefs of their descendants were embodied in the eyes and smiles of King Hung, Tien Dung, Chu Dong Tu… all imbued with warmth, as if carrying the very essence of each piece of wood. And the story of the peach tree replanted by the roadside, surely long since turned to clouds, yet Grandma still spoke of it. Every year during Tet, my father would find a beautiful peach blossom branch to place on the altar of King Hung, both to worship the ancestors and to help my grandmother feel less homesick as she kept reminiscing about the peach blossom branch from years ago.
The weather has been so hot lately that my grandmother, my "best friend," has fallen ill. Ngoc sits by her side when she's conscious, often bringing up old memories to cheer her up. She remains silent, occasionally her eyes welling up with glistening tears.
The doctor told Dad that Grandma's illness could only be counted in months and days. Dad and Mom put everything aside, taking care of her spoonfuls of porridge and pills, even though everyone understood that medicine at this point was only to prolong her life; perhaps only a miracle cure could save her, as she didn't even have the strength to sit up and eat. Sometimes, she would suddenly wake up, remember her hometown, and want to go back. In her dreams last night—or this morning—the time of an elderly person lying in a sickbed was all mixed up, just like all her thoughts. She dreamed of a mythical bird carrying her home in a hammock. She also saw her great-grandparents on the bird's wings in front of her, flying towards magnificent multicolored clouds. Back home, she wouldn't need any medicine anymore. Dad encouraged her to eat small spoonfuls of porridge to gain strength, promising to take them back to visit their hometown. Mom felt sorry for her, thinking the dream was an ominous sign, and secretly turned away to hide her tears. Mom knew that the trip back home was so far away for someone like her, like an oil lamp slowly dying out with each passing month and day.
***
The drawings of the mythical Lac bird in class were exactly the same as the originals, making Ngoc want to draw something different. Unconsciously, she added a small hammock hanging from the Lac bird's wings, her grandmother sitting cheerfully on it, and tiny Ngoc herself, smiling brightly, sitting beside her...
Strangely enough, the two mythical birds seemed to be smiling at the grandmother and granddaughter. Below was a mountainous landscape bursting with the pink blossoms of peach trees. She happily admired the painting. Surely, even her picky artist father wouldn't find fault with this work, let alone her teacher. And just seconds before the bell rang signaling the end of the lesson, she panicked when she realized she had drawn the wrong part of the assignment: a mythical bird on a bronze drum. The image of the mythical bird on the bronze drum, which she and her grandmother cleaned year after year until they were familiar with its scratches and blemishes, had somehow gone off track.
Ngoc's drawing of the mythical Lac bird unexpectedly received a high score and was featured in the weekly flag-raising ceremony. Her teacher said that although it didn't accurately depict the Lac bird from the bronze drums, it was still a special Lac bird deserving of a perfect score because it carried so much love on its wings. Her artist father, upon hearing this, looked at his daughter with tears in his eyes: "Thank you, my child." It had been a long time since Ngoc had heard her father say "thank you" to encourage her to do so.
That very evening, after returning from work, my father bought paints and painted on the wall opposite the porch, where the morning sun still shone through every day. He stayed up all night, repainting the picture of the little boy he had always thought of as just a playful child, and never had any hope that he would learn to paint.
This morning, Mom and Ngoc helped Grandma sit up to eat porridge, as usual. Mom showed her the drawing by Dad and Ngoc. For the first time in months, Grandma asked to sit in her wheelchair outside to sunbathe and admire the painting. A rare smile, the kind she hadn't shown since being confined to her hospital bed, suddenly appeared on her trembling lips. She looked at Ngoc and said, "This is my hometown. I'm finally back home. Only my best friend, my son, understands me so well."
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