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| Illustration: Phan Nhan |
In the spring of nearly 70 years ago, my grandmother was born to my great-grandmother on the way to the South. At that time, traveling by train, boat, and boat was still difficult, and flying for the poor was probably as difficult as picking stars in the sky. Ngoc could hardly imagine that her great-grandparents could walk thousands of kilometers away from home, not to mention that her great-grandmother was carrying a 7-8 month pregnant belly, joining the crowd of strangers more than acquaintances to reach a promised land that had never existed in their minds. Everyone thought that her great-grandmother could not overcome the pain of giving birth so early, especially after the days of having more hungry meals than full meals along the arduous journey. Even her great-grandmother did not think she could overcome it. But she said that a flock of Lac birds from the distant mountains flew across the sky that day to save her. The deep cries of the flock of birds were like a song that awakened her strong instincts...
- The call of the Lac birds, as if 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 desire to fly high and far together can have that magical sound. - Many times, my grandmother told me about the Lac birds with passion.
- Did you hear that cry? - Ngoc asked suspiciously.
The boy was right to be suspicious. He had seen pictures of the Lac bird and heard teachers talk about the Lac bird, but no one had told him clearly about the bird's call, which seemed to only exist in legends and fairy tales, as his grandmother had always enthusiastically told him.
- You haven't heard, but surely your ancestors have heard. Our homeland is where Lac birds used to live. And sometimes, just like my great-grandmother said, on the day I was born, a flock of Lac birds flew back...
- So why in your books, no one talks about the birds' calls?
- Because those who saw and heard it, like our ancestors, were illiterate, no one could draw sounds like birds, and no one could meet writers or teachers to tell them.
Grandma said slowly. Ngoc laughed. Maybe she was right, in the past, few people knew how to read and write.
* * *
The belongings that my great-grandparents brought from the North to the South included a small peach tree full of buds, and a bronze drum engraved with a flock of Lac birds. The peach tree bloomed along the way, and when they reached Phan Rang, partly because of the hot weather and partly because the family had more members, the peach tree gradually withered, and my great-grandfather had to ask to replant it in a garden of a local by the roadside. When he chose a place to settle down, he single-handedly built a house with doors and windows made of wood, bamboo, and corrugated iron roofs... He reserved the right wing of the house, in the center, as a memorial site for King Hung. The only "capital" he had was a bronze drum passed down from many generations that he carried from the North to the South. The journey was much more difficult and longer than expected. Along the way, the rice and food ran out, and instead of agreeing to exchange the drum for food to relieve hunger, he stayed behind to plow and hoe for hire, not afraid of hard and dangerous work in exchange for food for the whole family. The bronze drum was a family heirloom, there was no way he would accept exchanging it for food.
The neighbors around my great-grandfather’s house were also friends from the countryside, working together in the carpentry trade, so they joined hands to carve statues of King Hung, Tien Dung, Chu Dong Tu, Thanh Giong… to place in the shrine. The characters from the Hung King era that Ngoc thought only existed in books and lessons, actually existed for a long time, in her family. Every year, near Tet, the Ancestor’s Death Anniversary, Ngoc still cleaned the wooden statues with her grandmother. Ngoc often looked at their faces, many times they seemed familiar.
* * *
Ngoc had heard her grandmother tell over and over again the story of building the Hung King temple, the story of the flock of Lac birds flying from the distant mountains carrying a song of awakening so that she could be born into this world many years ago. Sometimes her father would remind her: "Just tell it once, the boy will remember it." She would tell it over and over again. That was such a deep part of her memory that when she got old, her memory gradually left her, but those stories remained. Every time she told it, Ngoc eagerly listened. Even though sometimes, because of dementia, she would stop and ask Ngoc in confusion: "Oh, what's your name? Whose son are you?" The first time she asked, the boy was even more confused than she was. He burst into tears because he couldn't accept the fact that the person he loved most didn't recognize who he was. When he grew a little older, Ngoc was no longer angry with her and loved her even more.
- Both my history teacher and my art teacher said that the Lac bird only exists in legends, it doesn't exist in reality, grandma. - Ngoc said, after the lesson of drawing the Lac bird on the surface of a bronze drum.
- No, in my hometown, Lac birds once appeared. Look here, all the decorations on the bronze drum surface were drawn from reality. And there is an undeniable fact that it was a flock of Lac birds that saved my great-grandmother through labor, that's why there was my grandfather, father and son, and me.
Ngoc softly said “yes”. If we consider it from science and history, that legendary bird might not exist. But judging from the stories and evidence passed down from generation to generation among the descendants of the Ancestral Land like her grandmother, Ngoc still believes that that bird has existed since ancient times. Who knows, maybe after a thousand years scientists will find fossilized bones of Lac birds and confirm that they once existed on this earth? The teacher also said that science and history always have unexpected changes, right?
* * *
Grandma is truly Ngoc's best friend. Her parents are busy working, and she takes care of Ngoc by herself, so she understands Ngoc better than anyone else in the world. She has a treasure trove of fairy tales and interesting stories in her head to always tell Ngoc when she is free or has trouble sleeping. In this garden and temple area of only a few dozen square meters, countless stories have accumulated over the years. The story of the canal far behind her house, which used to be a large river, flowing from the Saigon River. The population grew more and more, the land was filled in, the river gradually moved away. The story of the wooden statues that were offered at exorbitant prices during the famine years, but no one agreed to sell them when they were public property. Not to mention, after the years of flowers and incense, sending the wishes and beliefs of her grandchildren into them, the eyes and smiles of King Hung, Tien Dung, Chu Dong Tu... were also warm as if they carried their souls in every piece of wood. And the story of the peach tree replanted on the side of the royal road, which must have turned into clouds long ago, but she still talks about it over and over again. Every year when Tet comes, my father finds a beautiful peach blossom branch to display on the Hung King's altar, both to worship the ancestors and to help my grandmother feel less homesick when she keeps remembering the peach blossom branch from years ago.
The weather was so hot recently that my grandmother’s “best friend” fell ill. Ngoc sat by her side when she was awake, often reminiscing about the past to cheer her up. She remained silent, occasionally her eyes filled with glistening tears.
The doctor told Dad that Grandma's illness could only be counted by months and days. Dad and Mom put everything aside and took care of her with spoonfuls of porridge and pills, even though everyone understood that medicine at this time was only to hold her back, and that only the elixir could save her when she didn't even have the strength to sit up and eat. Sometimes, Grandma suddenly woke up, missed her hometown, and wanted to go home. In her dreams last night - or this morning - the time of an old person lying in a hospital bed was mixed up like all her thoughts, she dreamed of a Lac bird carrying her back in a hammock. She also saw her grandparents on the Lac bird's wings in front, flying towards the splendid colorful clouds. Back home, she didn't need any medicine to get well. Dad encouraged Grandma to eat small spoonfuls of porridge to gain strength, and he would take her and her grandchild back to visit her hometown. Mom felt sorry for Grandma, thinking that the dream was a bad omen, and secretly turned away to hide her tears. Mom knew that the trip back to her hometown was as far away as an oil lamp that was about to go out month by month, day by day.
* * *
The drawings of the Lac bird that were exactly the same as the ones in class made Ngoc want to draw something different. Unconsciously, she drew a small hammock hanging from the Lac bird's wings, drew her grandmother sitting happily on it, and Ngoc, tiny and smiling, sitting next to her...
But strangely enough, the two Lac birds seemed to be smiling with the grandmother and grandchild. Below was a mountainous area blooming with pink peach blossoms. She was pleased to see the painting. Surely Ngoc's strict painter father could not criticize this product, let alone the teacher. And just a few seconds before the bell rang, she was really shocked when she realized that she had drawn the wrong request: Drawing Lac birds on the bronze drum. The image of Lac birds on the bronze drum that she and her grandmother had cleaned every year until they were used to the scratches and marks, yet somehow she could still draw the wrong subject.
Ngoc's drawing of a Lac bird unexpectedly received a high score and was introduced at the flag-raising ceremony at the beginning of the week. The teacher said that although it did not exactly resemble the shape of the Lac bird on the bronze drum, this was still a special Lac bird that deserved full marks because it carried so much love on its wings. The artist father knew what happened, and looked at his son with tears in his eyes: "Thank you." It had been a long time since he had said "thank you" to his son to learn from him, but it seemed like Ngoc had just heard him say it again.
That very evening, after work, Dad bought some paints and painted on the wall opposite the porch, where the morning sun still came every morning. He stayed up all night, redrawing the picture of the boy whom he thought was just a playful child and had never hoped for him to learn to draw.
This morning, Mom and Ngoc helped her sit up to eat porridge like every morning. Mom showed her Dad and Ngoc’s drawing. For the first time in months, she asked to sit in her wheelchair in the yard to sunbathe and look at the painting. A rare smile appeared on the corner of her trembling lips since she was in the hospital bed. She looked at Ngoc: “This is my hometown. I can go back to my hometown. Only my best friend understands me like this.”
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