The song of the blue bird

Finally, old Thêm had to sell the garden inherited from his ancestors, a garden that had existed for three generations, witnessing the ups and downs of the Giang family, a family whose origins stemmed from the deep blue river that flowed through the village like a silken ribbon, a special blessing bestowed by heaven upon the village for generations of prosperity. That garden was not just land, but the very soul of an entire family and lineage. He had vowed never to leave or sell the land that his ancestors had staked their way onto for generations. But now, he was forced to turn his back, leaving behind years of attachment, with only a small, makeshift house on the remaining plot of land, just enough to shelter him from the sun and rain.

Everything was due to the failed business of Hai and his wife, forcing them to gradually sell off their assets until there was nothing left to sell. He had to witness debt collectors standing in line outside the yard, threatening him. The newly planted vegetable patches and the chili plants he had carefully tended were trampled on mercilessly, seemingly accidentally but actually intentionally. Even Mè, the dog, was kicked by the debt collectors for barking at strangers.

Hai and his wife didn't dare ask their father to sell the garden to pay off their debts, because from the very beginning, witnessing their son borrowing money beyond his means, their father had sternly warned him, along with a vow, "Even if I die before I fail, I will never sell the land of our ancestors!" Yet now, seeing his children and grandchildren scrambling to borrow money, their home ruined, he had to break his promise. In three days, he would receive the entire proceeds from the sale of the garden. The day he received the deposit, his eyes stung as if chili peppers had been thrown into them; the next day, his vision blurred as if he were blind, and all he could see was a silent, white screen.

The sun was setting. By the window, he sat silently, his eyes half-closed like an owl perched on a thorny bush on a late winter evening. As the last rays of the setting sun cast a purple glow over a corner of the garden, he suddenly felt utterly exhausted. His soul drifted aimlessly. Then night fell. Thick and silent. The darkness contracted into a dense mass, as if before him there were no longer any concepts of space or time.

The embers in the stove flickered suddenly, as if someone had just added more firewood. Since he decided to sell the garden, knowing he was upset, Hai and his wife tried to minimize their presence and avoid him as much as possible. But he could still feel their silent care. Unable to fall asleep, he lay listening to the rustling sounds in the empty house, then got up and turned on the light. The light shone through the thatched wall, creating a pool of light on the brick courtyard where he, and later his children, had run and played from childhood to adulthood.

The fire went out. The embers by the hearth still lingered, the faint glow of burning charcoal carrying a strangely fragrant scent of wood smoke. That familiar smell was here, all around him, yet it stirred a deep longing within him. It was this same wood smoke, along with the clicking sound of the loom, that had lulled him through a distant childhood. His mother sat by the loom, her hands swiftly moving the shuttle, occasionally pausing to rock the cradle for the sleeping baby. In that woven cradle, the child had grown up lulled by his mother's loom and his father's hoe. That alone was enough to instill in the child a sense of pride in being human. Pride and confidence in any work in the world that involved earning a living with one's own hands. The more he thought about it, the more a thick, unspoken sadness welled up in his heart. Until the surrounding light faded completely.

At dawn, the plants and grass in the garden were still a dark, drowsy color. At the end of the village, a few roosters crowed faintly. Mr. Them sat up, and, as usual, grabbed his hoe and went out into the garden.

At dawn, a light mist hung over the garden. Suddenly, he heard the strange song of a bird outside, its clear, high-pitched melody seemingly reaching the clouds, yet so gentle it was soothing. He propped himself up and cautiously stepped outside. On the branches of the crape myrtle, a small blue bird chirped and flitted from branch to branch, occasionally stopping to crane its neck and sing. His heart tightened with joy at this discovery. The bird perched on a crape myrtle branch, the only crape myrtle tree remaining on his land. He thought the bird was singing for him, as if it knew of his suffering, like an old friend visiting him. This thought lifted his spirits. He looked up to admire the bird chirping and flitting from branch to branch, occasionally stopping to look around.

"Uh... uh... Sing some more, little bird! I'm listening!" he said, his beard, like a thread, trembling with the bird's melodious chirping.

The rooster crowed, heralding dawn. He strolled around the garden, soon to be handed over to a new owner, his hand caressing each gnarled tree trunk, patting it gently. A tear welled up in his eye; he felt guilty towards each tree, like a father in dire straits forced to sell his young children. Every corner of the garden was filled with memories of his ancestors and his late wife. No matter what, under the new owner, the garden would live as it had lived in his presence! He reassured himself with the thought that someday the trees would grow tall, casting their shade over the remaining plot of land, providing him with shelter, and that he would sit by the doorway each day, gazing at them, listening to the rustling wind and the flocks of kingfishers returning in season.

He believed that the land also had a soul, and that the soul of the land would remain there to keep him company. He believed that after his painful fall, his son would rebuild from scratch on the small plot of land he had painstakingly preserved. Hai would plant a few more jackfruit and mango trees, dig another well, and build a new, spacious house. His grandchildren would come here to lie and sway in the hemp hammock he had set up over there, listening to the garden whispering stories—stories he had known by heart for generations, stories he had told his grandchildren. His descendants would understand that this was where their grandparents had once lived, built a life together, and found happiness, where they had given birth to a brood of children, who had grown up, gone far away, and faced hardships, but always had a garden to return to. His grandchildren would run and play in the garden, listening to the birds singing. The children will grow up, study diligently, and… who knows, perhaps one day they will break down these barriers so that this piece of land can once again be a pristine garden as it was in its original state.

Early in the morning, before the dawn light had even tinged the garden, the bluebird circled and perched on the crape myrtle branch, its clear, melodious song awakening the entire garden. Old Thêm lay there, his eyes closed as if in a peaceful sleep, a sleep free from worries and anxieties. The wrinkles on his face remained, but now they were serene, as if he had just finished plowing a field. On the crape myrtle branch, the bluebird chirped and flitted from branch to branch, occasionally pausing to listen before tilting its head back and releasing a dazzling song into the sky. Its song was like Old Thêm's heartfelt message to his grandchildren, to the lives and beloved trees on this last remaining patch of land.

A gentle breeze blew through, bringing the breath of the earth and sky into old Thêm's heart like a farewell. In the pristine morning sunlight, amidst the birdsong and the fragrant scent of the earth, old Thêm peacefully fell asleep…

Short story by Vu Ngoc Giao

Source: https://baocantho.com.vn/tieng-hot-cua-con-chim-xanh-a205335.html