Across the Mekong River Read Free

hid my face in her skirt as we stood by helpless. In less than three hours they were both dead. We buried them in the rich dark soil next to a stream and piled stones on top to keep the wild animals from digging them up. Father said even if we could not give them a proper burial, we would pray for their souls to find their way back to their birth place, then to the heavens with their ancestors.
    I often cried, but silently, so the evi l soldiers would not find us. They found us anyway.
    A few nights later sharp bursts of light erupted as we picked our way across a steep mountainside nearly impenetrable with dense pine trees and clinging vines. Whistling noises and loud pops swept past my ears. At first I thought someone was throwing rocks. But the noises multiplied into a drum roll of deafening bangs and pings that caused my body to jerk. I felt the heat of bullets whizzing past and ricocheting off the trees. Mother grabbed my hand as we ran through the forest with the others. A thorn caught my arm. A twig scraped my eye. A huge earthquake rocked the ground, obliterating our path. Dirt and rocks and leaves flew through the air and showered down, hitting me about the head and shoulders. The air smelled of metal and fire and rotten eggs. And then another blast. In a flash of light, no brighter than the palest moon, my cousin Chao and Aunt Nhia fell to the ground, their faces full of surprise. A scream formed in the back of my throat, but I could not make the sound come out. We ran and ran and ran until finally the shooting and explosions ceased. And we kept running.
    At last Mother stopp ed, and we fell on the ground. Her entire body shook as she wrapped me in her thin arms. The warmth of her body melted into mine and calmed my pounding heart. I lay there as she rocked me back and forth. Fue soon found us. We huddled together, listening for the others. Our terror settled over the hum of crickets and mosquitoes and a thousand crawling creatures living in the dark.
    In the first shadows of dawn, the remaining members of our group gathered. Mother wept with relief when Father and Fong appeared. A bullet had grazed Fong’s neck, leaving a red burn. Yang Shoua had a bullet in her arm. Her husband wrapped a cloth around it, and a slow trickle of blood oozed through. Four were missing. Father, Fong, Uncle Boua, and Chia crept back to look. An hour later Fong came for us. We found the men digging graves beneath the leaves and moss, gently placing my cousin Chao, Auntie Nhia, and Yang Kim, and Yang Lia to their rest. We cried and prayed for their souls.
    Mountains receded into rolling hills and dense pines gave way to coconut palms, monkey pod, and acacia trees. Fruit orchards dotted the land. I happily gorged on breadfruit and mangos and corn stolen from fields in the middle of the night.
    L ate afternoon a plane buzzed over the stand of mango and palm trees where we had stopped to rest. A fine yellow film seeped through the leaves like the white clouds of mist that had often veiled our village and mountain early mornings until the sun burned through. The yellow powder seared my eyes and lungs. Father lifted me into his arms, and we scattered through the mango trees into the hibiscus bushes and ferns and away from the choking fog. We reached a stream where Father dunked me repeatedly, scrubbing my skin. The water turned pink around me, and when I touched my nose, blood covered my hand. Like many in our group, I retched for hours that night until there was nothing left in my body. My muscles quivered and convulsed. Mother gave me a small piece of the brown medicine, and I floated in and out of consciousness. Three days later I ate a bit of rice, then a banana. But my young cousin Chay was not as lucky. He had bled from his ears, eyes, nose, and mouth, and died the first night.
    At last we reached the flatlands of flooded rice fields. For a week we crept along the narrow levees at night, hoping not to encounter poisonous water snakes or