Chapter 6 — The Medicine Bearer Through the Chaos

Rice Grains Have a Strange Smell

In July of that year, the weather in Dong Hai was hotter than usual. The first rains of the season came late, causing the salt fields to crack and the village well to dry up to the bottom. Fourteen-year-old Tinh Yen was helping Mrs. Khue sort a new batch of relief rice distributed to coastal villages by the Thanh Duong government - a consolation prize for families with sons serving as soldiers, as well as food to share with the growing number of refugees who continue to return every day.

"Grandma, why does this rice smell so strange?" She picked up a handful of rice, brought it close to her nose, sniffed it, and frowned. It was not exactly a musty smell, but a slightly unpleasant, pungent smell, mixed with the normal smell of rice like a dirty stain that's hard to notice if you don't pay close attention.

Mrs. Khue took the handful of rice from her grandchild's hand, smelled it, rubbed a few grains between her fingers, her eyes slightly suspicious. "Maybe it's due to being left in a humid warehouse for a long time. But it's better to be careful — soak this part in water and then dry it thoroughly before cooking, don't cook it right away."

The whole Lach Dua village received that batch of rice with joy and relief, because this season the sea had few fish, the fields were dry, and every house was short of food. Not many people paid attention to the strange smell that Mrs. Khue was wary of, or even if they did, they did not dare to throw away that rare portion of food.

Five days later, the youngest son of a family living near the village well began to have a sudden high fever, accompanied by severe diarrhea and stomach cramps that made him cry endlessly. The child's parents rushed to Mrs. Khue's house in the middle of the night, exactly like the scene Tinh Yen remembered clearly from when she was eight years old - but this time, there was something different in the way Mrs. Khue examined the patient, an unusual caution appeared on her face.

"His stomach hurts intermittently, his stools are as loose as rice water, and he vomits continuously." Mrs. Khue muttered to herself as she felt the baby's pulse and gently pressed on the child's stomach, making it howl in pain. "It's not like a common cold. It's not like the wind fever you've seen."

"So what disease is it, ma'am?" Tinh Yen asked, preparing the ginger decoction in her hand according to a familiar reflex.

"I'm not sure yet," Mrs. Khue said, shaking her head, gave the child sips of diluted salt water mixed with sugar to compensate for lost water, and told the child's parents to constantly wipe the body to reduce the fever. "This could be a type of cholera — a disease of the intestines, often transmitted through drinking, dirty water or spoiled food. If so, it must be isolated immediately to prevent it from spreading."

The child survived after three days of strenuous treatment, but just two days later, three more similar cases appeared — same high fever, same severe diarrhea, same abdominal cramps. All three were families scattered around the village, not closely related to each other, making Mrs. Khue even more suspicious.

"If the disease is transmitted from person to person, there must be a contact link." She spoke to Tinh Yen while the two of them hurriedly prepared more medicine, her voice revealing unconcealed worry. "But none of these four families have met each other recently. So there must be a common source that all four families use."

"Well water?" Tinh Yen blurted out.

"I thought so too at first, but not every house gets water from the same well." Mrs. Khue stopped, her eyes suddenly stopped on the bag of rice relief left in the corner of the kitchen - something that every house in the village had received from the same distribution by Thanh Duong government. A cold current ran down her spine. "Unless... it's rice."

Tinh Yen remembered the strange smell she smelled five days ago, and her heart suddenly beat faster. "Do you think there's a problem with relief rice?"

"I can't confirm, but I have to check right away." Mrs. Khue quickly went to each house where there were sick people, asking carefully whether they had cooked the newly received donated rice or not, and had soaked and washed it thoroughly before cooking as she had instructed. The result made her even more worried: all four families had cooked rice for relief, and at least two families admitted that they had cooked it immediately without soaking it thoroughly because they were in a hurry, because they were hungry, and because they did not think that the food given by the royal court could be the source of the disease.

That night, Mrs. Khue sat alone by the oil lamp, carefully took some of the remaining relief rice, soaked it in water, and watched as the color of the soaked water turned to an unusual opaque yellow color, with a layer of sediment settling at the bottom of the pot that normal rice did not have. She had no way to know for sure—no microscope, no later-life tests, only forty years of practice and the intuition of someone who had seen too many diseases to recognize when something was wrong.

"Grandma, should I report it to the government?" Tinh Yen asked, sitting next to her, staring at the basin of water soaked in rice.

"So, but I'm afraid they won't believe it, or if they believe it, they won't do anything." Ms. Khue sighed, recalling the cold attitude of the Cao Ba Doan Tri Palace two years ago. "Food has already been distributed, admitting mistakes means taking responsibility, and officials are often more afraid of taking responsibility than they are of people dying."

"So what should I do?"

"In the immediate future, tomorrow I will go from house to house, telling everyone to stop eating the remaining rice from the charity, to change it to home-grown rice if available, or to soak it thoroughly and cook it thoroughly if you must use it. As for reporting it to the government, I will figure it out later - there must be clearer evidence than a strange smell and a pot of cloudy water, otherwise it will only bring disaster to yourself and not save anyone."

Tinh Yen nodded, but in her heart a new feeling of helplessness arose - for the first time she realized that sometimes, the enemy of the physician is not the disease, but the indifference and silence of those who have the power to prevent disease from the root but choose to ignore it.

The next morning, Mrs. Khue went around the village giving instructions as mentioned, but the warning of a traditional medicine woman, no matter how respected, could still hardly overcome the hunger roaring in the stomachs of the poorest families. Some families obeyed and threw away the remaining rice even though they regretted it; Some families half believe it, but still secretly cook because they can't bear to throw away scarce food; Some families flatly refused to believe it, thinking that the old medicine woman was just worrying too much.

That afternoon, when Tinh Yen followed her to visit old cases, she happened to see Van sitting on the porch, looking unwell, holding her stomach.

"Van, what's wrong with you?" He quickly ran over and touched your forehead - the unusual warmth spreading under his palm made his heart clench.

"I've had a bit of a stomach ache since noon. Maybe I didn't eat anything right." Van smiled wryly, trying to act okay. "My family cooked the remaining rice this afternoon. I'm so sorry I can't bear to throw it away."

Tinh Yen stood still for a moment, a cold feeling running down her spine even though the weather was hot. She looked at her friend, she was still trying to smile as if nothing happened, and in that moment, she suddenly realized that the vague worry that Mrs. Khue had been carrying in her heart for the past few days was no longer someone else's business - it had reached her best friend, and perhaps, this was just the beginning.

"Let me call my grandmother to check on you." He said, trying to keep his voice calm even though his hands were shaking. "Don't hide it, you have to say clearly where it hurts, do you hear?"

Van nodded, the smile on her lips gradually fading when another stomach ache made her wince, her hands clutching her stomach and bending down.

Tinh Yen rushed home, pulling Mrs. Khue over right before she had even finished untying the medicine bag from the previous case. Mrs. Khue examined Van carefully, meticulously asking about every little detail - what she ate, what she drank, how many times she had a bowel movement, what color the stool was, was it mixed with blood - her hands were still steady but her eyes could not hide the anxiety that Tinh Yen had rarely seen before.

"Exactly the same as the previous four cases." She spoke softly, almost loud enough for only Tinh Yen to hear, then turned to Van's mother who was standing trembling next to her. "Please give him salt and sugar water right away, a little every fifteen minutes. Don't let him vomit it all up. It'll be in vain. I'll stay here tonight to monitor, tomorrow morning I'll see how the situation is and then move on."

That night, Mrs. Khue and Tinh Yen stayed awake next to Van's bed, taking turns wiping her body to reduce her fever, and spoonfuls of sugar-salt water dripping into the girl's mouth, who was unconscious in the midst of agonizing pain. Tinh Yen held her friend's hand tightly, feeling the weak tremors passing through her palm, silently praying to everything she believed to be sacred that her friend would survive like the child of the Fishing Village years ago.

Near morning, Van's fever subsided and her breathing returned to normal, but Mrs. Khue did not show any relief like before. She sat quietly on Van's porch, looking out at the sea that was turning gray under thick dark clouds, her shoulders as if weighed down by an invisible burden.

"Grandma, Van is better, why are you still sad?" Tinh Yen asked softly, sitting down next to her.

"This girl survived, but if you're not wrong about the source of the disease, there will be many more cases." Mrs. Khue looked at her grandson, her voice heavy with a premonition that her entire life as a physician had taught her to trust. "Five cases in less than a week, and the rainy season has just begun. I'm afraid this is just the beginning of something much bigger, my child."

In the July sky that day, dark clouds began to gather from the sea, signaling that the first rain of the season was finally about to fall — but for Tinh Yen, the truly scariest storm was not forming in the sky, but silently creeping into every bowl of rice in Lach Dua village.