Chapter 10: Chapter 10 A Wound That Won't Heal — Ink on an Old Map

As darkness fell over the entire settlement, the only light that remained was from the kerosene lamps flickering through the plywood walls of the shabby houses. An wore a dark coat and carefully walked on a path filled with weeds up to her knees, going around to the back of the village as the young woman had promised in the afternoon.

The cottage is located alone at the foot of a bare hill, completely separate from the rest of the settlement. There was no electric light, only a small candle lit on the rustic wooden altar in the middle of the house. The young woman was waiting at the door, quickly pulled An inside and tightly closed the bamboo door.

In the corner of a semi-dark house, on a rickety bamboo cot, a skinny old woman with a hunched back sat chewing betel. Her hair was as white as ice, her cloudy eyes sunken deep into their sockets, her face bearing the austerity, resignation, and strange resilience of someone who had been blind for many years.

"Grandma," the young woman called softly, taking An's hand closer. "The girl from the capital that I told you about this afternoon has arrived."

The old woman stopped chewing betel, raised her head, and turned her blind eyes toward the sound of footsteps. "Are you from the government? Are you here to silence these old people forever?"

"No, sir." An quickly knelt on one knee on the clay floor, holding the old man's cold, wrinkled hands. "I'm Lê An, a historical archivist. I don't work for the people who harmed your villagers. I just returned from Hòn Sương valley. I met Mr. Bay Hunter. I learned the truth about the agarwood bunker and the X-14 campaign."

Hearing Mr. Bay's name and the incense burner, the old lady was startled and her whole body trembled. "Bat... is he still alive? Oh my God, for decades I thought he had died in the jungle."

An opened her backpack and carefully took out the stone tablet that she had cleaned. She placed it between the old woman's trembling hands.

"Uncle, I found this object in the mud hole in the center of the valley. Please feel it..."

The old woman's thin hand glided over the rough surface of the stone slab. Her calloused fingers traced each engraved line. Suddenly, she stopped at the first letter, then the second character. She caressed the Hán-Nôm characters expertly, as if she had read them thousands of times in her mind.

"Pursuing... Le Mon Duong Thuong... Đan Trầm Village..." The old lady sobbed as she read each engraving, murky tears pouring out of her blind eyes, rolling down her wrinkled cheeks. "That's right... It's the tablet of my Le family! Father! Mother!"

She hugged the stone tightly to her chest and burst into tears, the cry of a child deprived of family, pent up for half a century and now released. "My father was Lê Văn Thiện, head of Đan Trầm village. This tablet was carved by my great-grandfather himself and placed on the altar in the middle of my house. How... how did you find it beneath those ashes?"

"I found it, old man. It is proof that Đan Trầm village really exists. I beg you, please tell me the whole truth. How did you survive, and why did everyone here have to suffer in silence for so many years?" An urgently.

The old woman used her father's sleeve to wipe her tears, caressed the tablet again, then spoke in a hoarse voice, slowly recounting the bloody story.

"My name is Le Thị Mây. That year I had just turned twenty years old. Because I knew a little about the words and how to bandage wounds, I was sent to the district clinic nearly two days away by road from the village to take an intensive nursing class to serve the resistance. That fateful night, the district clinic had too many seriously wounded soldiers brought home, I had to stay to help with the surgery, and was unable to visit home as planned."

Mr. May's voice choked, a trace of resentment shone on his old face. "When I returned, Đan Trầm was no longer there. The whole valley was filled with fire, smoke, and the smell of burning. Barbed-wire fences had been erected everywhere. The guards said it was a military restricted area and anyone who entered would be shot. I cried and wanted to go in to find my parents and relatives, but they pointed guns at my head. They gathered me and a few dozen other Đan Trầm people—those lucky enough to survive because they had been working in distant fields or doing business downstream that night—and threw us into canvas trucks, transporting us straight to this barren hill area."

"How did they threaten you?" An shivered and asked.

"The commander... he had eyes as sharp as knives," Mr. May shuddered as he recalled. "He called to gather us together in the middle of the night. He said that Đan Trầm village had been bombed to death by enemy bombs. If anyone dared to mention the word Đan Trầm, or say a word about our soldiers entering the village before the bombs exploded, he would charge them with treason and espionage and shoot them without mercy. He said our lives are now like trash, our family is dead, and we live every day thanks to him for sparing our lives that day. He created this thing. This 'Dawn Settlement' was to keep us under house arrest, with people watching day and night. For many years, we lived like ghosts, gritting our teeth and swallowing our tears, not daring to cry, not daring to worship our ancestors, for fear of implicating the children born later."

"But why, sir?" An asked bitterly. "Mr. Bay said that they drove people into the agarwood tunnel and then exploded. They wanted to rob that agarwood, right?"

"Right!" Mr. May gritted his teeth and tightened his grip on the bamboo bed. "Đan Trầm is poor, but there is a huge store of natural agarwood accumulated for hundreds of years in an underground cave. My father, as the village chief, always refused the merchants from the lowlands who tried to buy it, because he said it was a treasure of the jungle and selling it would anger the god of the forest. But human greed is more terrifying than the gods. That commander colluded with a large group of smugglers. They took advantage of the chaotic war, using the military's name to blockade the valley. They drove the villagers into the cellar as sacrifices, blew up the mines, and brought down the cellar door so that no one could escape. Then they brought in their men to exploit the treasure for months before completely leveling the ground to erase the traces."

"Do you know the name of that commander?" An asked nervously, holding a notebook in hand.

"Colonel Trần Hùng is the enforcer, the one who threatens us," Mr. May said clearly. "But the person behind it, the one with the power to sign the order to wipe out Đan Trầm, is named... Trần Văn Định. At that time he was a high-ranking political commissar of the forward command."

Trần Văn Định.

An felt as if heaven and earth were collapsing beneath her feet. That name rang in her ears like a death knell. She knew it well: his portrait hung solemnly in the traditional room of the National Archives. Most importantly, Trần Văn Định was the biological father of Director Trần Văn Bình—the highest-ranking person at the agency, who could decide An's career and life.

The robber and serial killer of the past was the father of a powerful official who held the nation's historical treasure. A chilling irony. No wonder the documents about Đan Trầm were destroyed and falsified so perfectly. Their power has continued from generation to generation to protect a crime that heaven and earth will not forgive.

"He... his son is currently the Director of the National Archives Center," An whispered, his voice extremely confused. "Now I understand why Chief Khang reacted negatively when I mentioned the ink stain hiding Đan Trầm. They are protecting the Director's position."

Mr. May smirked bitterly. "Weeds are easy to pull up, but old trees with poisonous roots deep into the soil are very difficult to cut down. But God has eyes. Before my father died, he foresaw the disaster."

Mr. May fumbled and reached into the lining inside the chest of Ba's shirt, pulling out a tiny tin box, rusty and peeling paint, which was used to store pipe tobacco in the past. He trembled and put it into An's hand.

"This box is the only souvenir I can keep. My father put it in my hand before I went down to the district clinic, telling me to keep it secret at all costs. In here are letters my father wrote, intending to send to the highest levels of the Central Government to denounce the acts of harassment and bribery of incense by Trần Văn Định's group of officers. But before the letters could be sent, tragedy struck. For the past few decades, I have been blind, unable to read, and only know how to keep them hidden inside my body. Now I Give it to me."

An carefully opened the rusty tin box. Inside were a few yellowed sheets of paper, folded into tiny pieces. She opened it and used a flashlight to illuminate it.

The handwriting of village chief Lê Văn Thiện is strong and full of anger, clearly describing the threatening tactics of Trần Văn Định and his accomplices, asking for the intervention of his superiors. And along with those letters, was a piece of paper stamped with the red seal of the front command, ordering the interception of Đan Trầm's complaint letter. The signature on that piece of paper, clear and arrogant, with sharp handwriting: Political Commissar Trần Văn Định.

An clutched the fragile stack of papers in her hand. This is a fatal blow. The tablet proves that Đan Trầm existed. The testimony of Mr. May and Mr. Bay exposed the massacre. And this stack of letters is evidence that denounces the despicable motives and the real mastermind.

She is holding weapons to destroy a power empire built on blood and tears. But at the same time, she is also putting herself in a fight to the death, where her opponents can use their power to strangle her the way they strangled Đan Trầm half a century ago.

"I will bring this truth back to Hanoi, sir." An stood up, carefully placing the tin box in his breast pocket, his eyes shining with unshakable determination. "Regardless of the cost, Đan Trầm's wound must be healed, and those who committed the crime must pay for their crimes."