Drifting, where does the duckweed go?
It lands at An Giang, among downcast eyes
Clouds cover Bay Nui, birds flapping wings
Three rivers flow, bent-whiskered fish,
Wild herbs in the wastes, pale-faced people,
Not a dried mangrove apple, grey-haired monkeys.

Phan Van Tri

Old Bich turned to the side. The sun was shining down in patches of fire, like red hot steel just pulled from a forge, its embers bursting into the air before floating slowly down to the ground, cooling and dreamily flitting away like a swarm of invisible fireflies hovering through the night. The old man had not eaten even a grain of rice, had only drunk water for the past three days. For the first two days, the old man’s excuse was that he was tired. The next day, his son filled a bowl with rice, and the old man promised he would eat once he felt better. As soon as his son took his afternoon nap, the old man poured the rice back into the pot, and then threw a few grains into the water to watch the schools of carp swarm, hurling themselves to the surface vying for the bait … Presently, the old man’s belly felt strangely at peace, not knowing hunger. Or had it been paralysed? Not eating for a few days is no reason to die; a person can withstand hunger for a long while, as long as they still feel hunger. But the old man was no longer hungry: half of his body, from the chest down, felt like it had been detached. From the chest up, his breath was shallow, and it felt as though there remained only a thin layer of skin thrown wrinkled over his dried bones. Tuberculosis had had its way with him for more than ten years, destroying his lungs. All that survived were two eyes and two ears. But even these senses had wasted away. Was it now day or night? Am I still in the realm of suffering or am I now atop Mount Penglai? Countless different faces appeared vaguely in the flickering rays of sunlight. They were as gentle as the jade maiden, and bamboo flutes and two-stringed fiddles played for the flock of phoenixes circling overhead.

“Buzzards! Shoo!” shouted Kim, the old man’s son.

The old man was startled, sputtering, “Buzzards eh? Well I thought that …”

Kim crawled up the sampan, waving the oar at the pack of buzzards that brazenly gathered on the bow. The old man shook his head, “If they want to peck at my body let them peck. Be careful not to sink the sampan … Try to paddle forward … Son!”

The old man grabbed his son’s hand and pulled him close. “Do you see a patch of trees, or any houses ahead? Is it dawn?”

• Tags: Anthony Morreale, Issue 13, Son Nam, Vietnam