During the first parent-teacher meeting, while talking to parents about the new semester's curriculum, I inadvertently glanced towards the classroom door. A tiny girl with a dirty face, wearing traditional Hmong clothing, was there. She was barefoot. Upon asking, I learned that her name was Lu, a third-grade orphan, waiting for her aunt. Her knee was bandaged with a small white cloth, the red blood staining the dark brown. She said she had fallen that morning while walking down the Phieng Da slope, and it was the third time she had fallen this month.
The frost in the highlands arrived earlier than usual that year, the biting cold seeping into our skin and cracking our chubby cheeks. I often observed the children, asking each student how they were and carefully recording attendance. One day, when Lu didn't come to class, I asked her classmates and learned that she had fallen again. After school, I rushed straight to her house on the other side of the stream. When I visited, I found her lying on an old wooden bed, this time seemingly heavier than before, her legs numb and aching, unable to walk. Her aunt said she had almost fallen into the ravine, luckily a tree branch caught her.
***
Throughout my time in Ta Leng, I never had a good night's sleep. Everything around me weighed heavily on my mind, and I didn't know what to do to improve my life and the lives of my students. Ahead lay the landscape, the highland winter was just beginning, and more rains were coming soon. The Phieng Da slope was incredibly slippery and dangerous. My students were directly affected, having to climb the Phieng Da slope every day. If Lu nearly lost her life this time, who would it be next time?
I suddenly remembered Mr. Thao, the only stone carver in the village. Everyone in the village said he was the best craftsman in the area; when he was young, he carved stones and used them as pillars for the whole village. But since losing his wife and children in the flood a few years ago, he had become withdrawn and rarely went out to carve stones. The following afternoon, on a weekend, I visited Mr. Thao's house. His house was at the end of the village, the yard covered with碎石 (crunching stones), and a cold, rhythmic clacking sound echoed from inside. Oh, so he was still carving stones. I was surprised to see him meticulously working with each stone slab and the rhythmic clacking of his chisel echoing through the air.
- Mr. Thào, I'm a new teacher at Bản Mây school, and I'd like to ask for your help in rebuilding the Phiêng Đá slope leading up to the school.
- What do you want with me? I'm not a road repairman.
His voice was dry and seemingly indifferent as he slowly spoke, making me feel awkward and embarrassed. Before coming here, I had anticipated that he would refuse, but I didn't expect him to refuse so quickly and bluntly.
I stood there, frozen, my heart aching as I unconsciously gazed at the stones he was carving in his hands. Something compelled me to persuade him, to express my heartfelt wish, from the bottom of my heart.
- Every month, some of the children fall while going to school up the Phieng Da slope, their bodies soaked with blood. Yesterday, little Lu fell and almost plunged into the ravine, sir.
Teacher, please go home. I can't help you.
I slowly turned my motorbike around and returned to my small room. I was still worried about how to make it easier for the students to climb the Phieng Da slope. I had mentioned the issue to the principal and the local authorities, but no concrete solution had yet been found.
The next day, the cold frost still lingered, enveloping everything. Suddenly, a small figure appeared on Phieng Da slope, his gait slightly hunched, holding a hammer. It was Mr. Thao! It was Mr. Thao! I exclaimed with joy. I rushed to the slope, asked him questions, and watched him patiently chisel away at each rock. The clattering sound echoed in the freezing cold of Ban May highland, and sometimes his thin shoulders trembled slightly.
After class, I brought my hammer and joined him in hammering. Then the villagers each lent a hand. Some chiseled stones, others carried soil to fill in the uneven areas. Then he carved the steps. The sharp stones were smoothed down millimeter by millimeter, creating sturdy steps.
I don't know how Mr. Thao accepted the offer and how he became an inspiration for others to follow his example…
***
By November, the Phieng Da slope was no longer steep with sharp, jagged rocks. On both sides of the slope, in the rocky crevices where he and others had placed soil, Mr. Thao managed to sow some mustard greens, and by late winter, bright yellow flowers bloomed on both sides of the path. He also planted primroses, a small but resilient flower that can grow even in the crevices of rocks.
And in Bản Mây, there will be no shortage of wild peach blossoms, a type of tree that the Hmong people often plant around their houses, its roots clinging deep to the rocks, blooming pink amidst the cold.
Winter quickly faded, giving way to spring. The golden morning sun poured down on the peak of Ta Leng Mountain. I walked up to the school, standing still at the top of the slope. The once gray path had now transformed into a miracle. Smooth, winding stone steps ascended the slope, and on either side, from the sharp rocks, flowers bloomed brilliantly. Yellow mustard flowers displayed their beauty, pinkish-purple primroses twinkled like tiny stars, and delicate pink wildflowers swayed in the breeze. Everything was so wonderful.
The chatter of the schoolchildren echoed from afar. The little ones ran up the slope, their mouths agape and their eyes wide with surprise.
The spring flowers are so beautiful!
The slope is truly blooming with flowers!
I stood motionless halfway up the slope, letting the spring sun pour its golden rays upon my shoulders. The Phiêng Đá slope, once a silent, gray mass of rock, now sang with its smooth steps and vibrant blossoms. Behind the chattering figures of the children, Mr. Thào slowly ascended, his rough, calloused hands gently brushing against a sprig of primrose still glistening with morning dew. His eyes no longer held the indifference of the harsh winter, but were clear and expansive like a lake after a storm. Perhaps, in carving these steps into the rock to guide the children, he had also carved a path to light for himself, closing the chapter on years of living in isolation amidst old, lingering pain.
She ran to him, her small feet, now healed of the scars of time, gliding swiftly across the rocks like a little deer. She took his rough hand, her voice clear as a bird's song in the wilderness:
- Mr. Thao, do even stones know how to bloom to wait for us to go to school?
He said nothing, only offered a gentle smile—a radiant smile like a wild peach blossom awakening from its winter slumber. In that moment, I suddenly realized a simple yet wondrous truth: “These stone sprouts” were not just primroses or wild mustard clinging to the cliff face, but the very souls of the people of Bản Mây. They were as resilient and tenacious as the jagged rocks, yet deep within lay a vibrant life force, waiting only for a bridge of love to surge forth and crystallize into their fragrance and beauty.
The sound of the Bản Mây school drum echoed through the air, blending with the rustling wind and the cheerful laughter of children. I entered the classroom, carrying the vibrant spirit of spring on my dress. The Phiêng Đá slope has now become a legend of rebirth. Under the clear blue sky of Tà Lèng, the rocky sprouts continue to silently bloom, writing a love song of perseverance and compassion, transforming arduous paths into journeys of hope and bright dreams.
Source: https://baophapluat.vn/nhung-mam-da-no-hoa.html
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