The Red Silk-Cotton Tree

The land where the young lady once lived was next to a river. Like thousands of other Vietnamese rivers, it had two seasons. When the weather was colder and, the sky turned pale, the water silted up and was covered in an opaque red film. When the sun returned, the ground turned piping hot with pollen in the air, and the river became as lucid and green as ancient translucent jade. The other side of the river was where the young lady attended school. An old bamboo bridge was across the river. The bridge was only big enough for a motorbike to pass through at a time. When the girl was ten, a storm destroyed the bridge into pieces. The villagers had to evacuate to the higher hills and mountain jungles for refuge. Later, three new ferry stations were built along the riverbanks for transportation to the city.

When she was twenty, the ferry dock near the old bridge became a marketplace, bustling with merchant boats. Some were fishing sampan boats full of grass carps, swai fish, snakehead fish, spiny eels, climbing perch, and bullhead fish. Some were wooden barges with fruits like dragonfruits, kumquats, durians, watermelons, and all kinds of other ripe and unripe fruit. Others were wooden tắc ráng (tak rang), selling steamed rice rolls, banh mi with charcoal-grilled pork, sliced unripe fruits shook with shrimp salt, mango salad with squid, and even mangrove apple hot pot. It was a crowded and noisy floating market. Every morning, around six, the young lady would row her merawan dinghy selling fish and eat a pouch of xôi (xoi, sticky sweet rice) for breakfast. The market was filled with the tangy, signature scent of a riverside village.

Nobody knew when, cây gạo (kay gọwn), the red-silk cotton trees sprouted and grew along the two banks. They bloomed red flowers every March. During the cold months, the trees were withered and ragged with crooked branches like the homeless children in her village. But somewhere inside those trees, it was still full of life and ready for the next Tết (Tet) holiday. The red silk-cotton flowers resembled hundreds of fiery lights illuminating the riverbanks. These streaks of fire became even more extensive as if torches planted along the riverbanks, bringing life to the ferry stations and the floating market. After only one night, corpses of flowers reddened half of the village. Dawn came. While sweeping the petals, the old woman knew another spring was coming. And like every year, the young lady would return.

She came back in the late afternoon when the market was quieter. The merchants docked their boats, packed their goods, and headed back to their families. Sunset slanted through the bougainvilleas at the entrance of her neighborhood and passed the bodhi fragrance from her hair to land on the ground. The old woman recognized her. She waited for her at the red silk-cotton tree in front of her house. The old woman put her broom against the wall and rushed to her as fast as she could.

– It’s already this late! You must be very tired from such a long travel. Go inside and take a rest.

She followed the old woman into the house. Everything was the same. A moldy smell. The sandy dust of a riverside village. And the creaking sound from old wooden planks half-eaten by termites. Her house was a block away from the floating market with its back facing towards the river. The iron sliding gate faced the dusty roadside. Even inside the house, she could hear motorbike engines, the music from the pulled candy and ice cream carts, balloon vendors, and the gossiping housewives coming back from the market. Standing at the front of her house, anyone could see all the way to the back.

Behind the santai wood bead curtains separating the living room from the dining room, nothing stood out but a stairway and a small kitchen with a rusty kerosene stove. And behind the ebony staircase leading to the attic, where the study and the bedroom were, was an old oak dining table. A vintage television set was just opposite and inside a mahogany cabinet. A video recorder with stacks of video cassettes were on a shelf below. On the kitchen wall were pots and pans stained in soot. Pieces of wooden furniture were rotten with broken, rusty hinges. Everything was the same as in her memory. But they were covered in a grey-white blanket of dust. It was the same color as the hair of the old woman.

The old woman tidied up the altar. She lit another two incense sticks, put them in the incensory in front of the two funerary portraits on the altar. She prayed and offered a generous tray of white rice, a whole boiled chicken with a pinch of salt on its back, and a dish of cooked water spinach. Together with two small, empty bowls and two pairs of chopsticks next to the tray, everything was set for the annual đám giỗ (dam joˀ, memorial feast). She groaned a Buddhism sutra and prayers to the two deceased for blessings in their afterlife and for her daughter. She then asked them to came home and enjoyed the offerings on the altar. Circles of smoke from the incense spread and vibrated around her head. She turned and looked at the young lady. The old woman’s eyes brimmed with water.

– Are you tired? Was the trip difficult? Why don’t you return earlier in the morning when the weather was cooler instead of waiting until the sunset? It’s already this hot though it’s springtime.

She pulled out a dusty electric fan from the corner behind the altar. The wire was frayed.

– Those rats! We have to wait until your father comes back.

The young lady touched the old woman’s skinny, wrinkled hands and shook her head.

– These mice are a handful. They can chew through anything. Well, come here and sit with your mother. I’ll fan you. This old areca spathe fan is enough. It has helped us through thousands of years. Don’t underestimate it.

She nodded and sat down with her mother at the doorsteps. The sky was clear that evening. She could see green and yellowish hills extended beyond the horizon with undulating conical, leaf hats heading towards the village entrance. The old mother looked over the wound behind her daughter’s left breast.

– You live … over there … and no one was able to treat you?

She stammered and choked her voice as if she was trying to hold down something watery that was about to flow out. The young lady sat silently and listened to her mother. She looked at her, then turned her head to the gate. Every time she came back, her mother wore the same worn-out bà ba (ɓâː ɓaː) shirt. She did not know if it was because of the harsh weather or her mother working endlessly that the shirt was tattered.

– I’ve told you many times. A woman must not wander outside for so long. Yet you keep doing so on the other side. And your mother is alone all day. You’re also by yourself out there. Come back and live with me. Money, food, phones, or houses, anything you want. I’ll try to provide you the best I can. Please come back. I can’t live without you.

She did not want to make her mother sicker. Two or three times before, her mother was begging her so hard. She had to agree. But only a few days later, her mother had a high fever and hallucinations. Her mother’s body turned pale, and she, then, had to invoke a metaphysical doctor. She would taint her mother with sickness every time. She was no longer comfortable staying on this side for too long. She had moved out to live in the little joss house next to a red silk-cotton tree, where the old bridge was. She looked back at her mother. Some age spots were around the corners of her mother’s eyes, next to those crow's feet. Her mother’s face was full of wrinkles. But at a glance, her mother still looked decent and kind. Every time she returned here, she felt like a child in her mother’s lap. She did not have enough time to take care of her parents and repay their hard work in raising her.

All the hustle and bustle of the village she had left in the past. Every year, she went away for several months. She only came back home on important đám giỗ. Before her mother could get used to her presence in the house, she was gone. But the old mother kept staying in her shabby house only to meet her again. She did not know where her mother got the energy to wait for her since the day she moved out. The old woman continued to wait until her eyes were blurred, her legs were slow, and her hair turned grey-white. Her mother’s memories were reminiscent of all her quick visits and goodbyes. Every year, her mother offered two prayings. She cleaned the two yellowed picture frames on the altar every offering and waited for her at the red silk-cotton tree in front of the house.

– I can't understand you, dear. You wandered on the other side for months and came back for just a few days. Your house isn’t safe, either. Find somewhere decent to stay. Although I’m old, I can still keep up the house. Come back and live with me. You’re not that different from your father and me.

The young lady knew her mother could endure those sicknesses. But she knew it was just the aftershock of the pain she inflicted on her mother fifteen years ago. Although it sounded like a long time, it was just the same as a heartbeat to her. It was not enough to ease her injustice and lingering after what happened. Her memory was not as clear as it used to be.

Outside, the evening gradually dissolved. A day that was just like today, around this time at the end of March. On that day, before the storm, a house robbery and burning occurred around the village square. The young lady was just out of the river after a fishing day below the old bridge. She happened to bump into the robber fleeing to her neighborhood. He grabbed her hand, put it over her mouth, and took her hostage. He held her hand with one hand and a self-constructed pistol in the other one. She struggled to escape from him. He was stronger than her. He squeezed her hand. She ached and tried to pull herself away in vain.

– STAND STILL OR I’LL SHOOT.

– LET GO .. LET GO OF ME …

– WOULD YOU SHUT YOUR TRAP? DO YOU THINK I WON’T SHOOT?

– LET ME GO …

– HELP! HELP! … IS THERE ANYONE? HELP!

Her hand was numb. She squirmed. She tried to run away from him. But she could not escape. A horrendous noise pierced through the air, tearing the silence in her neighborhood. She fell to the ground.

– Cha (Chaar) … Mẹ (Mea) … (Father ... Mother ....)

The robber fled the scene. When she woke up, she found herself next to the red silk-cotton tree in front of her house. She felt lighter but heavier inside.

She tried to recall those vague memories. She could not remember them all. She only remembered the images of her mother and father before she fainted.

Pain ... I ... hurt so much ... Mom ... don't worry ... for me ... I’m ... a bad daughter... — Her voice became distant like coming from the dark beyond.

– Never mind that. Forget those bad memories. Seeing you is enough for me. Every time I smell a faint bodhi scent in the air, I knew you returned. But you don't need to come back so many times. Forty-nine days have passed since you left. Your bardo is over. I wish you to depart this side safely to return to a better family.

She would boil some water to shampoo her hair with some bodhi fruits when she still lived with her mother. She always kept her hair short and straight. Now, her hair was at the waist-length, spreading all over the ground when she sat. Ever since the incident, she could not remember the last time she washed her hair. It was still straight, pitch black, and shiny. It was only longer and covered half of her face. She had lived her whole life in this house. Every time she came back, looking at the rows of red silk-cotton trees along the riverbanks, she felt both strange and familiar. Back then, every afternoon, she would sing those virginal love songs while sitting on the doorsteps. She cannot leave for the upper side. She knew she had a filial debt to this land.

The moon had risen above the rows of red silk-cotton trees on both banks of the river. In the village, people lighted up their houses, and the floating market gradually became silent.

– A human’s life passes like a breeze. We’re so busy. When we realize the time, our hair was already grey. Those who have died cannot come back to life. We can only rely on the door of Buddha’s place and ancestors’ blessings for comfort and peace. If, one day, you don't come back anymore, please don't forget your father and me.

The young lady nodded and looked at the red silk-cotton tree in front of her parents’ house. Her mother walked into the kitchen to prepare dinner. She was waiting for her husband to come home from his pawnshop. Though her daughter had moved to the other side, she was still worried about her every day. She looked at the altar. Everything seemed to have just happened yesterday. The moon was shining bright. The crickets were singing. The red silk-cotton trees shook slightly in the wind. She faded away. A chilly breeze passed through the house. At the village square, they played music from monochords, Vietnamese two-chord fiddles, folk songs, and dreary Vietnamese chanteys:

Thần cây đa, ma cây gạo, cú cáo cây đề (Thən kay da, ma kay gọwn, ku kow kay de).

(Gods reside in banyan trees, ghosts reside in red silk-cotton trees, and foxes and owls are in the bodhi trees).