Page 12 of Song of the Crimson Flower

“Just taking some air,” Bao said shortly.

Chú Minh studied him. “Is everything all right? I don’t mean to pry, but if I can help—”

“There’s nothing. Thank you, sir.” Bao prayed that the man would take the hint and move on, but he stayed where he was. His gaze fell on the flute and the bundle in Bao’s boat.

“You’re leaving, then,” Chú Minh said softly.

Bao could almost taste the bitterness of his own smile. “Eight years ago, I thought I had found a family who wanted me at last,” he said. “I thought I might find someone to love me here. But now I know that the gods have always meant for me to be alone.”

“What happened? Did that Huynh woman do something to you?” Chú Minh demanded.

“No. But someone I cared for turned out to be just like her.”

The fisherman’s face softened. “So there’s a girl at the heart of it. I knew you had one when Ông Hung kept teasing you. You don’t have to tell me who she is, but—”

“I will never speak her name again.”

Chú Minh blinked at the despair in his voice. “Please don’t do anything silly, Bao.”

“Would breaking this flute in half and disappearing off the ends of the earth be silly?”

“You cannot break that flute,” Chú Minh said calmly, “because you told me once who gave it to you. Do not be so quick to assume that you’reunworthy of love. Think of everyone at market who cares for you. Think of who gave you that flute and taught you how to play.”

Bao bowed his head, tears burning his face at the memory of Baba and Ma. He had been six, alone and rummaging for food in their garden. The elderly couple had taken pity on him and taken him in despite their own poverty. Ma was a singer, and Baba often said that the birds wept for joy when they heard her voice. He had accompanied her on his hand-whittled instruments, and together, they had given their love of music to Bao. The flute’s smooth, reedy tone had called to Bao in particular, and it had been the happiest day of his life when Baba had given one to him.

“You told me they died, one after the other,” Chú Minh said gently, “and you were flung back to the mercy of the world, with only that flute. Don’t throw their gift away so lightly.”

“I do nothing lightly,” Bao said, exhausted. “I’m sorry to leave you now, but I must go.”

“At least tell me where you are going.”

Bao closed his eyes, but opened them just as quickly, frustrated, for behind his lids he saw Lan’s face. Would he never be free from her memory? If only there was a way for him to clear his mind of her. If only there was a way to forget her, as though they had never met. And then the words slipped out. “I’m going to see the river witch,” he told Chú Minh. “I’m going to ask her to make me forget everything, and then I’m going to start a new life far away.”

The older man’s face was carefully impassive. “Are you sure you want to do that?”

But Bao had already picked up his oars. “I apologize for my rudeness today. I am not myself,” he said, and began to paddle. Some of the despair slipped from his shoulders as he moved. He had a purpose now,a destination. If the river witch was just a silly tale after all, there would be no harm done. But if she wasreal, this might be a way to leave Lan behind for good.

“Just remember,” Chú Minh called after him, “you will always have help in the market. Come to us if ever you are in trouble.”

“Thank you,” Bao called back, and he meant it wholeheartedly, though he had no intention of returning. He watched Chú Minh get smaller and smaller until he disappeared. As much as Bao would miss him and the friends he had made in the market, they were part of that old life he no longer wanted. He wished them the best and rowed with his thoughts on the future.

The sun slipped behind the limestone mountains, painting the sky salmon pink and ocean blue. Bao passed boat after boat on the water and house after house on the shore without noticing any of them. He kept seeing Lan’s silhouette in the window, her hair cascading over one shoulder as she leaned out toward him. He felt the ghost of her hand on his shoulder, touching him that day at tea. He heard her angry voice, shouting at him because he was not the man she wanted.

He wished that he had never agreed to the Huynhs’ ruse. He wished he had let Lan’s flowers sink beneath the river. He wished he could take back every minute of undeserved happiness he had ever given her. He couldn’t change any of that now, but hecouldtry to forget it.

Bao rowed on through the night.

Strange, unsettling dreams plagued him. Bao alternately rowed and slept, and when his head drooped onto his chest, he would see Lan running to him with arms wide open. Sometimes, he pushed her away from him and reveled in the sight of her grief, but other times, he let her embracehim, her soft body pressing against him as she lifted her mouth to his. He would wake with his throat dry and his heart pounding, only to sink into other dreams of swaying golden fields, moonlit rivers, and clouds of smoke around the walls of a great unknown city.

In one of these visions, he fell to his knees as flames devoured a field of crimson flowers. And then a woman came, tall with iron-gray hair and eyes like fire, calling Bao’s name as she searched the tall grass. He heard the love and loss in her voice and felt the overpowering urge to run to her, but for some reason, his legs wouldn’t obey him. At the last minute, she turned and looked directly at him, smiling like a cat that had found its prey.

Bao woke abruptly in broad daylight.

It was the next afternoon, judging by the sun’s position in the sky. If he had to hazard a guess, he had been rowing and sleeping on and off for twelve hours. In his hurry to flee, he had neglected to pack any food, a mistake about which his stomach was loudly reminding him.

He looked around, disquieted by the silence. There was not a single soul or boat on the river and no birds sang in the trees. He had never seen the river so empty, but then again, he had never ventured this far south. The vegetation was so thick that he couldn’t see any signs of habitation, and some of the large trees had branches drooping into the river like outstretched arms. Bao paused to move one so that his boat could pass, sweat trickling down his forehead in the damp, cloying heat that smelled of rot and dead plants.

“I’m going to see the river witch,” he had told Chú Minh.

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