Chapter 15
DITTY
Ever since the officials and soldiers came to open and cultivate that inviolate land, the wild beasts of the forest have feared the imperial army. Those fierce brutes dare only bare their fangs at their own kind, yet they have lost the heart to stir their sharp claws before the monsters in human guise. Wildness has been subdued, and the murderous aura has vanished into the pure air, that mankind may dwell in peace with the Heavens and the Earth.
The pestilent wilds and their baneful waters, once shrouded in miasma, have grown clement with the turning of the years, imbibing the warmth of men; and the essence of death has been quickened into vital breath, which courses through Bac Son. The parched earth, as if meeting long-awaited rain, blossoms everywhere with fragrant flowers and luscious fruits; all things abide in unprecedented tranquility.
That which rises most gloriously is the brilliant golden field to the west, pervaded by the scent of ripened grain. This place was once desolate and dry. Now, because the army and folk opened a winding emerald river that threads through it, the waters flow in mazy turns, cutting across the paddies to make them lush and verdant, as vibrant and lithe as a maiden filled with the spirit of spring.
Afar, the rustic refrains of folk songs echo in the clear air, as if they come from the deep bosom of the wild heaths. The herds of kine, stirred by the familiar cries, now high, now low, run in delight and leap in playful pursuit. Even the most slothful of beasts, which all the while do naught but wander and crop the grass, lift up their heads and prick their ears to hearken unto the merry strains, wherein the herdsman's pipe is mingled, until they are woven into a rustic melody of peace upon a kindly land where birds alight.
The wanton child laughs shrilly, sprinting with joy toward the clusters of brown-black trinh tuong houses on the distant hill. There, the folk of the Dao, Nung, H'Mong, and Tay hamlets laugh merrily, jesting with one another as they at their ease bear their hoes and lead their plows to the vast, open plains. Some delve and sow, others till and plant.
After a time of tilling, both man and buffalo are covered in mire from head to foot. The farmers wipe the sweat from their brows with cloths; some walk swiftly to the water-soaked places at the foot of the mountain to cleanse the filth from their bodies.
They cannot but break into laughter, for a small lad runs about to wash their feet, or helps another apply lime, or uses fire to sear away the blood-sucking leeches from their flesh. He chirps in response to the farmers' gratitude.
That playful lad follows the stream through the mountain crevices, seeking mysterious caverns that even the local folk have never approached. After he writes of the scenes within the cave for a moment, the lad and his teacher step outside, spread their arms wide, and breathe deeply the pure air brimming with the scent of ripened grain.
Master and disciple walk toward a group of beasts enjoying their leisure after hard labor. Buffaloes and yellow kine walk unhurriedly to the brookside where the water passes through a verdant meadow. They lie contentedly upon the soft sward, facing the whistling breeze, listlessly watching the goats bleat among their flock, leaping skillfully over the steep crags. The beasts graze leisurely while beholding the wondrous leaps of the goats, until the shepherd leads them back to their folds.
The children are still immersed in their play; one after another, they leap into the brook to catch fish, eating them with relish after they are roasted. The lad is filled with joy and goes to make their acquaintance.
The children joke and tease him, even offering him a string of roasted fish. After he finishes eating, they put the fish into baskets, lead the buffaloes and kine away from the fields, and walk toward the north.
On the way, they divide the fish among the master artisans who are even now carving the patterns of Lang Chau upon the dwellings. The craftsmen offer their gratitude with quiet smiles. Their diligent hands fashion across the village exquisite traditional motifs of wave and water, of cloud and sky. The children, with arms entwined, bow low in reverence to the elders, then with merry laughter bid farewell to the gluttonous boy.
The herd-boys drive the water-buffaloes and the kine unto the steadings of the beasts. Where once a mere dozen paces sufficed, now they must traverse a hillock far removed from the hamlet, ere they reach the place for the tending and stalling of the cattle.
At the first, their feet being weary, they murmured against Nguyen Yen Van, for that he had moved the villagers to banish the beasts afar, distant from the pastures. Yet in time, they came to discern his counsel: that it was purposed to prevent the beasts from suddenly breaking into wildness, lest they despoil the fields; and likewise to fortify the sinews of the herd-boys themselves. Verily, since they hearkened unto his words, and by their diligent treading of the long road daily, they have become full of life and vigor.
Master Van had also made the village anew, overseeing the cleansing of the paths and alleys, until the place was rendered a fair and comely abode for the sampling of delicacies by wayfarers.
In those days, their parents were burdened with a thousand-and-one labors, and the children labored beneath the fierce sun at their household tasks; wherefore they did oft, in their weariness, revile Yen Van with bitter speech.
But when the guests began to throng in multitude, each household not only discharged their ancient debts, but also built lofty manors, more spacious and fair than of old. Their parents, unwilling that their children should fall behind their companions, arrayed them in raiment of great beauty.
Thus, the heavy countenances of old were put away, and in their stead arose songs of praise from the mouths of the babes. Since that hour, the children had learned to put away vanity and strove to succor the people. The eldest among them marks the rhythm, and leads the multitude in song:
In days of yore
The paths were mire
Slip and tumble headlong
Green moss with damp
Wild growth ran riot
Each house apart
Rank with musty damp
But now, this day
There was Yen Van
From the Imperial Capital
He reached Lang Chau
He aided our folk
To build our town
Byways and winding lanes
The way is smooth.
Dwellings are wide,
The hamlet is clean.
When the praise of Yen Van was ended, the children felt a shadow of sorrow, for that the song had reached its close. The eldest boy, his mirth being spent, kicked at the stones; yet sudden, he called to mind an elder who had given him sweetmeats but a few days past. The song that elder taught was passing sweet to the ear. Wherefore, the eldest boy began to teach the children thus to sing:
In days of yore,
The earth was parched,
With grit and stone,
Pestilent wilds, baneful waters
Wild beasts beset,
Rugged and perilous land
Ten departed, one returned
But now, this day
In Thang Long Citadel
Emperor Nguyen Phong,
Loves folk as sons
Wise and merciful King
Proclaims the royal edicts
Both talent and treasure
Restores the ancient vestiges
Cleave rock, pierce pass
Channel rivers, raise dikes
Rear the Summer Palace
Vast and primeval wilds
Through myriad toils,
Host and folk united
Transmute ancient Lang Chau
Wild mountain fairy maiden
Wayfarers press upon press
Heel following upon heel
Winged bee host gathers
Seek bloom, sip nectar
The children have studied for a long season, that they might discern those characters formed of horizontal, vertical, and oblique strokes, which they deem to be but a chaotic script. Yet, in practicing their nursery rhymes, they have remembered every verse in their hearts after but a single chanting.
Following wild children's tread, folk chants have hailed elders, resounding through rustic hamlets. Children's songs exalting the elders have passed from child to child, from one village to another, reaching remote lanes and shadowed byways, even as their maker has desired.
As for Yen Van, these twain years, the Master of the Venus Tower hath of his own accord drawn nigh unto the children; he hath listened with patience to their railings, and at last hath invited them to fish from the same boat.
He hath led the brood of children to tread the mire and plow the fields, and thereafter they have returned together to the caravanserai to pound the rice.
The great merchant from the capital hath transformed himself into an old husbandman who knoweth the soil, kindling the curiosity of all, and hath caused travelers to come in great throngs to taste the joys of the farmstead.
Yen Van hath secretly rejoiced, beholding the fish take the bait. When the guests' delight hath reached its zenith, the Old Fox hath opened a school for spinning and weaving. He hath commanded the damsels of the Venus Tower to invite noble daughters from Thang Long unto Lang Chau. These maidens have been learning the weaving arts of Lang Chau, whilst they have taught the skill of Thang Long embroidery and raiment-stitchery to the women of the land of Lang.
The women and maidens have each day woven hundreds of silken lengths, embroidered with the graceful and elegant forms of the wild mountains and untamed forests. The men have felt their pride stung at so great an accomplishment.
The stout youths of the village, their pique being stirred by the industry of the women, have hewn timber to fashion boats, that they might draw profit from the princely scions who delight to fish upon the river. Unwilling to be surpassed by the delicate maidens, the men have moved stone mortars into the caravanserai, inviting the guests to pound rice with them.
All matters had proceeded smoothly, and Yen Van, being well-content, had joyfully prepared a feast to thank those of old and of the present who had labored for the building of Lang Chau. Likewise, this banquet had been a self-reward, for Yen Van's stratagem—to use the diligence of the women to provoke the idle men unto change—had reached its glorious fulfillment.
This scheme had not escaped the keen eye of the Assistant. She has long been the counselor who governs the merchant affairs of Yen Van. In the Meteor Guild, her rank has been second only to him. Since the days of her maidenhood, she has followed the Old Fox amid the strife of trade, and thus she knows the Master's mind full well. The Assistant had glimpsed his heart: the Master did but sow the seed, yet the villagers must cause the seed to take root and flourish of itself, that the foundation may endure forever.
The plowmen, whose feet bore the marks of mire and whose hands were stained with soil, did not fail their benefactor. After abiding with Yen Van for a season, these folk—who for years had faced the yellow earth with their backs unto the heavens—took on, in their very marrow, the trader's blood. They bore their husbandry implements forth beside the thatched booths set upon the fields.
They went forth beating gongs and drums as they walked, crying aloud the call of the plough, that they might draw distant folk unto them. The newcomers supposed that the farmers did so merely for the convenience of their toil. Yet on the morrow, all were stirred with a desire to follow suit, seeing their acquaintances busily tilling the earth and sowing the seed.
Ofttimes, the scions of the nobility have dwelt in the ease of a proud and sumptuous life, stepping but one pace to enter a carriage, and two paces to dismount a horse. Now, they cast off their garments of brocade and flowered silk; they don the worn and tattered raiment of husbandmen, and plough the fields alongside the oxen.
The daughters of high ministers gird up their long silken lower garments unto their knees; they wander amidst the miry marshes and search through every canal and watercourse, seeking crabs and gathering river snails.
Anon, they flee back to the shore in terror. The attendants are at their wits' end, desiring to aid them, yet none dare touch their precious and noble persons. The maidens sternly refuse their help; instead, they run unto the houses of the villagers, beseeching the wives of the householders to help them catch the leeches that cling fast unto their flesh to suck their blood.
The sun sets in the west, and the company returns to the inn and caravanserai by the light of torches held in the hands of the villagers. The scent of roasted brook-fish spreads abroad; man and woman, old and young, all hasten with joy to enter the hall.