Chapter 3 — The Talisman Painter Who Guards the Village

Linh Căn Temple Festival Night

Every year, on the full moon night of August, the whole Tùng Lĩnh Village comes together to Linh Căn temple, a small temple located in the middle of an empty plot of land on the bank of a stream, where people believe that the roots of the sacred soil flowing underground under the village emerge closest to the ground. It is the biggest festival of the year, bigger than Tet, because this is not only an occasion for fun but also an opportunity for the whole village to thank heaven and earth for a peaceful season, together praying for the land to continue to sleep peacefully without turning over.

Diệp Sương, now ten years old, ran around in the crowd with Mộc and Mận, three children who had always been stuck together like shadows for many years since they skipped school together to catch fish in the stream behind the temple and were caught and beaten by adults.

"Look at that," Mộc nudged Diệp Sương's shoulder, pointing towards the group of young men carrying a wooden palanquin painted in gold and faded over the years, on top of which was placed a gray stone slab engraved with strange lines." That is a Linh Thạch slab, my grandfather said it was placed in the temple when my great-grandfather was not yet born."

"There's nothing to look at on a stone slab," Cái Mận pouted, her hand still not letting go of the grilled sticky rice cake she had just bought from a street vendor. "I'd rather watch the lion dance. I heard there's a lion dance troupe from Lam Thủy Town coming up this year."

Diệp Sương didn't say anything, just stared intently at the Linh Stone slab as the palanquin passed by. She didn't understand why, but every time she looked at the lines on that stone slab, her hand itched to pick up the pen and draw them again, even though she had never dared to try, partly because of fear, partly because of a vague feeling that it wasn't something to play with.

"Sương, you're stunned again," Mộc waved his hand in front of him. "What are you thinking?"

"Nothing," he shook his head, smiling wryly. "I just think that stone is beautiful."

"Girl," Mộc stuck out his tongue. "You can look beautiful in anything."

Cái Mận punched him on the shoulder, all three of them burst into laughter and then ran along the stream of people toward the temple, where torchlight had begun to light up, casting red-orange streaks of light onto the rows of ancient trees surrounding the temple yard.

*

In the evening, after the main worshiping ceremony ends, when the adults are busy cleaning up the trays and chatting over jars of sticky rice wine, children often gather around a small fire burning in the corner of the yard, listening to old people tell old stories. This year, it was Mrs. Chín Lài's turn — she rarely tells stories in public, but the festival night's light alcohol and warm atmosphere made her more open than usual.

"Tell me the story of the Vụ Ẩn clan," a child shouted, and the whole crowd responded enthusiastically.

Mrs. Chín Lài glanced at Diệp Sương sitting next to her, her eyes slightly hesitant, then she sighed and began to tell in her familiar deep voice.

"In the past, before there was Tông Vân Các on top of Vân Tiêu," she pointed to the dim mountain in the moonlight. "It was said that there were tribes living deep in the jungle, not human, not really monsters in the way people are afraid of now. They lived in harmony with the Linh Mạch, knew how to listen to the earth move before it even shook, knew how to avoid places where the earth veins were weak without any spells. People called them the Vụ Ẩn tribe, because they were always hiding in the mist, only appearing when someone truly needs help, never appearing before someone who is greedy."

"So are they good or bad?" asked Cái Mận, eyes wide.

"I don't know," Mrs. Chín Lài answered honestly. "Because no one in my life has ever actually met them. There are only stories passed down from generation to generation, each person tells it differently, some say they are gentle, some say they are as dangerous as ferocious monsters. But I think, perhaps the truth lies in the middle - no one is completely good, no one is completely bad, including those we call demons and monsters," She paused, looked at the crackling fire, then continued, her voice low. "There is a story I always remember. In the past, there was a very violent earthquake in a remote area. The villagers scattered, and no one had time to carry anything. It was the Vụ Ẩn clan who led them through the deep forest to a safe place, then disappeared without saying goodbye. But later, when the royal court sent people to investigate, they blamed the Vụ Ẩn clan for causing the landslide and mobilized hunters into the forest to hunt them. From then on, the Vụ Ẩn tribe completely distanced itself from humans, and no one saw its shadow anymore."

The children were silent, the atmosphere around the fire suddenly became unusually heavy compared to the initial bustle.

"Why does the court blame them, if they saved people?" Diệp Sương asked, her voice was small but clear.

Mrs. Chín Lài looked at her, her eyes had something complicated that a ten-year-old child could not fully understand. "Because it's always easier to blame others than to wonder what you did wrong, my child. That's an adult thing, you'll understand when you're a few years older."

*

The night of the festival gradually ended when the moon reached its peak, adults led their children home, and the sounds of laughter and conversation faded away along each path leading to small hamlets. Diệp Sương, Mộc and Mận stayed a while longer on the stream bank near the temple, sitting with their feet in the cool water, watching the moonlight break into thousands of sparkling pieces on the water's surface.

"Do you believe what Mrs. Chín Lài told you?" Mộc asked, still playing with a pebble and throwing it into the water.

"Believe it," Diệp Sương replied, "Mrs. Chín Lài is not a person who makes up stories."

"I'm scared," Cái Mận shivered, hugging her knees tightly. "What if one day our land turns violently like that story?"

"It won't be," Mộc reassured, although his voice was not very certain. "There is a Linh Thạch slab at the temple, there is Mr. Tám Mực with some old talismans at the village gate, what are you afraid of?"

Diệp Sương remained silent, unable to express the thoughts that were running through her head: she remembered the only time she saw an old talisman leaf hanging at the village gate, the ink color had almost faded, the edges of the paper were worn out from years of wind and rain. She didn't know if the talisman still had any effect, but she didn't dare ask anyone, afraid the answer would make the whole group more confused.

"Hey," Cái Mận suddenly spoke up, her voice was lower, almost whispering, "Sương, do you see... every time you're sad or scared, the way you draw it is different?"

Diệp Sương turned to look at you in surprise. "How different?"

"I don't know how to describe it," Cái Mận bit her lip, trying to find the right words. "Normally you draw thin, gentle strokes. But last time, the day you told the story of Uncle Kiệm's cat, you drew that picture for me, your hands were shaking, the strokes were much darker, almost pressing hard on the paper. I don't know why I noticed, but I remember forever."

Mộc scratched his head, not quite understanding the two girls' story, but Diệp Sương was a bit speechless. He had never noticed that in himself, but Mr. Tám Mực's teachings about "a person's heart draws when he writes" suddenly rang in his head, clearer than ever.

"Thank you for speaking," Diệp Sương said, her voice sincere. "I'll pay more attention."

Cái Mận smiled, somewhat confused because she didn't expect her careless statement to be taken so seriously. "Well... I just find it strange. Besides, I like watching you draw, even though I don't understand anything."

The three children sat for a while longer on the bank of the stream, not saying much, just quietly watching the moon, listening to the chirping of insects in the night and the sound of water flowing through small rocks. That was one of the last peaceful nights that Diệp Sương remembered every detail for the rest of her life — not because anything special happened, but because nothing special happened at all, just three children, a stream, and a full moon hanging on the distant peak of Vân Tiêu, quietly as it has always been quiet for many generations.

On the way home, when passing the village gate, Diệp Sương stopped for a moment and looked up at the old talisman leaves hanging on the crossbeam. The moonlight shined on the faded ink lines, making them almost invisible, leaving only a thin piece of yellowed paper fighting against the night wind.

Little did she know that in just a few years, that very faint talisman — or rather, its lack of effect — would become one of the fateful details of her life.

"Sương, hurry up," Mrs. Chín Lài called from the front, carrying a bamboo basket containing the leftover sticky rice cake from the worshiping ceremony, "it's late, we have to get up early to go to the fields tomorrow."

She quickly ran after her, leaving behind the fading laughter of Mộc and Mận who were turning to the other side of the village. On the way home, they passed the rice fields, the scent of young rice wafting through the night breeze and mixing with the incense smoke lingering on their clothes. Diệp Sương looked up at Mrs. Chín Lài, intending to ask more about the Vụ Ẩn clan, but when she saw the older woman looking thoughtfully towards Vân Tiêu Peak, she stopped and simply walked beside her.

"Madam," she finally couldn't help herself, "are you afraid of turning the earth?"

Mrs. Chín Lài did not answer immediately. She took a few more steps, then spoke, her voice as light as a breeze: "Afraid. Who lives in this land and isn't afraid? But afraid is not to hide, but to know what preparations we need. My grandparents built the Linh Căn temple and kept the Linh Stone slab, not because they believe it will prevent all disasters, but because it reminds us: this land does not belong to anyone, if we live thanks to it, we must be grateful to it, fear it, not just take whatever we want." Diệp Sương nodded. Even though she did not fully understand, that sentence—like the instruction about drawing a spell to save someone—once again remained in her memory, waiting for the day she grew old enough to fully understand its meaning.

Returning home, when Mrs. Chín Lài turned off the light to go to sleep, Diệp Sương still lay awake for a while, watching the moonlight filtering through the cracks in the floorboards, creating a long streak of light on the ground. She thought about the Linh Stone tablet, about the old talisman at the village gate, about the Vụ Ẩn clan hidden in the mist that no one had ever seen, and about what Mận had said in the afternoon - that her drawings changed according to her mood without her even realizing it. She told herself that from tomorrow she would pay closer attention every time she picked up a pen, like Mr. Tám Mực always told her, and then sleep came without realizing it, bringing with it flickering dreams of images of gray stone lines mixed with blurry silhouettes of people in the mist.