Chapter 99 — The Talisman Painter Who Guards the Village

Child at the Village Gate

This visit to Tùng Lĩnh Village took place in early autumn, when the trees began to turn orange-yellow and the wind carried the season's first chill with the faint smell of newly harvested straw. Diệp Sương took Vân Nhi along, continuing a tradition she had maintained every year since the deaths of Mrs. Chín Lài and Mr. Tám Mực, so her daughter would not forget her family roots.

The horse-drawn carriage rolled slowly along the familiar road. Fields that had just been harvested stretched on both sides, straw piled in small mounds and giving off a pleasant smell in the afternoon sun. Vân Nhi sat by the carriage door, eyes wide as she looked at the unfamiliar scene her mother had described countless times in bedtime stories.

The village had changed greatly since Diệp Sương's childhood—the dirt road from years ago was now paved with smooth stones, and a small school had been built with a contribution from Quán Lai Mặc, teaching both literacy and basic knowledge of Linh Mạch to local children.

*

As soon as the convoy stopped in front of the village gate, the current Chief Lý—the son of the late Chief Lý Đoài, who had succeeded his father—came out to greet her, looking unusually hurried.

"Miss Sương," he said, his voice a bit tense, "luckily you came back just in time. There's something going on in the village that needs your help."

*

Diệp Sương was immediately alert. "What's up?"

"It's not a demon tide," Chief Lý quickly reassured her when he saw her expression change. "Three days ago, a small flood suddenly came from upstream and washed away a house at the edge of the village. The child's parents had no time to escape; only the child was saved by a neighbor because he clung to a piece of wood that happened to pass by."

When Diệp Sương heard the news, her heart tightened because of a deep sympathy, being so familiar with her own life story. "Where is the baby now?"

She remembered how she had felt years ago, when she was a baby with no memory of the night she lost her father and mother, only fragments left from other people's stories. If fate had a rule, she thought, perhaps it was the way old wounds always found a way to repeat themselves, to remind people never to forget compassion.

*

"The whole village has been taking turns caring for him," Chief Lý replied, leading her to a small house near Linh Căn temple. "But he has refused to speak to anyone for three days, sitting in a corner and barely eating or drinking. We didn't know what to do, so when we heard you were coming, the whole village hoped you could help."

Diệp Sương entered the small house and saw a boy about seven years old sitting crouched in the corner, his knees pulled close to his chest, his eyes blankly looking toward the front yard, where an old jackfruit tree still had a few green leaves left in the middle of autumn.

*

She sat at a respectful distance from the boy—not close enough to frighten him, but not so far away as to seem distant. "Hello," she said softly. "My name is Sương. I also lost my parents when I was very young, right here in this village."

The boy didn't answer, but his eyes glanced slightly, a small sign that he was listening, even though he wasn't ready to speak.

*

Diệp Sương pulled a small piece of tree bark from her pocket that she had picked up on the way to the village, along with a piece of charcoal from a nearby fire. She said nothing more, simply drawing; simple charcoal lines gradually appeared on the rough surface of the bark—a small, uncomplicated image, a soft circle surrounding a small dot in the middle.

The boy, curious about that strange action, gradually moved closer, his eyes glued to each drawing.

*

"What is this?" He finally spoke, his voice hoarse because he hadn't spoken for three days.

"This is An Mien talisman," Diệp Sương replied, smiling with relief when she heard the child's first voice. "A little talisman to soothe sleep, to ward off night terrors. I learned to draw my first drawing in this very village, when I was younger than you are now." The boy looked at the piece of tree bark for a long time, then asked softly, his voice still shaking. "Can you teach me to draw?"

*

Diệp Sương looked at the boy, a familiar feeling rising in her heart—the feeling she had known many years ago, when Mr. Tám Mực first held her hand and taught her the first brushstroke on a similar piece of tree bark. The circle of fate, it seemed, was closing right where it had once begun.

"Okay," she replied warmly. "But not today. Today, you need to rest and eat well first. I promise I'll stay in the village for a few days and personally teach you the first strokes when you're ready."

*

The boy nodded, something resembling peace entering his vacant gaze for the first time in three days. "My name is Choi," he said softly. "Your father named you that because he said you were born in the season when trees sprouted."

"A beautiful name," Diệp Sương replied, gently patting the boy's head. "The bud will eventually grow into a tree, no matter how many harsh winters it has to endure."

*

That night, Diệp Sương discussed with Chief Lý and the elders in the village about Choi's future. There were no other relatives in the village eligible for a permanent adoption, and the child, after the afternoon's conversation, seemed to trust Diệp Sương more than anyone else.

"I want to adopt him," Diệp Sương told Thanh Việt in a hastily sent letter to Quán Lai Mặc, her hand shaking slightly as she wrote down that important decision. "Not out of pity, but because I see myself in his eyes, and I believe I can give him what Mrs. Chín Lài, Mr. Tám Mực, and Elder Tạ Vân Khê once gave me—a chance to turn pain into something meaningful."

*

Chief Lý and the elders in the village heard Diệp Sương's intention and could not hide their relief and emotion. "If you adopted him," Chief Lý said, his voice sincere, "the whole village would have nothing to worry about anymore. But we still want him to visit the village from time to time, so as not to forget his roots, just like you have always done over the years."

"I promise," Diệp Sương replied, bowing her head in gratitude to the whole community that had supported the child through the most difficult days. "But he will always know that Tùng Lĩnh Village is where he belongs, no matter where he grows up."

*

Vân Nhi, initially hesitant towards the strange boy, gradually became acquainted over a few afternoons together going to the stream to catch small fish, and climbing up the old jackfruit tree in front of the house together. By the third day, both children had become so close that they never left each other's side.

"Mom, Choi told me the story of the flood," Vân Nhi said one night, her voice filled with the seriousness of a child who had just learned a big lesson about life. "I told Choi, from now on he can live in the same house as me, so he won't have to be afraid of being alone anymore."

Diệp Sương rubbed both children's heads, feeling warmth at their natural sympathy, without adults needing to teach them many words. "That's right," she said. "From now on, you two will be brothers, growing up together, learning to draw spells together, and sharing all the joys and sorrows of life."

*

A few days later, Thanh Việt's reply came, only a few lines but containing all the unconditional support he had always given her. "I have prepared a small room next to Vân Nhi's room. Bring your child home, Sương. Our family is ready to welcome a new member."

Diệp Sương read the letter under the light of an oil lamp, smiled through her tears, then walked out, where Choi was sitting on the front porch, playing with a piece of tree bark with scribbled charcoal lines that he had practiced drawing from memory since the afternoon.

"Miss," he looked up when he saw Diệp Sương coming out, his voice was much more natural than the first day they met, "do you see if my drawing looks the same?"

Diệp Sương bent down to look at the clumsy but earnest drawing on the piece of tree bark. An indescribable emotion rose in her heart when she realized that the shape, although still distorted, had begun to resemble the outlines of the An Mien talisman she had drawn that afternoon. "Very similar," she said, her voice slightly choked. "You have a gift, Choi."

She sat next to the child and looked up at the familiar starry night sky of Tùng Lĩnh Village, her heart filled with a certainty rarely found in life—that no matter how strange the cycle of fate, it sometimes brings beautiful things capable of making up for past losses.

The night wind blew gently through the yard, bringing the season's first cold air and the smell of new straw from the freshly harvested fields, along with crickets chirping beneath the old jackfruit tree. Choi leaned his head on her shoulder, his eyes closing with sleepiness even as he tried to stay awake a little longer, as if afraid that closing them would make all this warmth disappear.

Tomorrow, when the first morning sunlight shone through the familiar roof, she would officially teach Choi his first drawing stroke, just as promised, opening a new chapter for the child and perhaps for herself, as the circle of life closed where it had begun many years ago, when an old man who made ink and paper held a little girl's trembling hand to guide her first stroke.