Tâm found Mai clutching a bloody fish. She was crying hysterically. Blood was everywhere, on her hands, her arms, even the rock. “What happened?”
Mai held up her wrist. “I stabbed myself with the hook. Then I pulled it out. Am I going to die?”
Tâm hurried to the sampan, where she’d stowed the sheet bundled with their clothes. She untied it and tore off several strips with her teeth. Then she ran back to Mai and helped her off the rock. Blood was still flowing freely—Mai must have nicked a vein. She took Mai to the river’s edge and rinsed her wrist in the water. Then she tied the strips tight around the wound.
“That will help stop the blood. We’ll put a new one on afterward. Can you squeeze your wrist with your other hand? That will help.”
Mai nodded and wiped her tears on the strip of sheet. “Are you sure the blood will stop?”
Tâm tried to calm her sister. “It will.” In her thoughts, though, doubt swirled. She should have never left Mai alone. Mai was too young, too inexperienced. Perhaps it was folly to head toward Saigon. Perhaps, despite her best efforts, she and Mai wouldn’t make it. Aloud she said, “You may have a scar, but you will be fine in a few days.” Unless an infection sets in.
Tâm decided it would be safer to travel by night, so she spread the sheet down in a shady spot at the edge of the bush. Then she took the rod and caught two more catfish. Catfish liked to fight, and they flipped and flopped back and forth on the line until Tâm overpowered them. Their whiskers could sting as well, if she wasn’t careful. She laid all three fish on the rock. The sun was now scorching hot. Chances were good they would be eating baked fish by sunset.
“Let’s try to take a nap, and then we’ll eat.”
Mai sniffed. “What fruit did you find? Can we warm it like Mama used to?”
Tâm smiled sadly. Warmed fruit sliding down their throats had been a treat. “Let’s try.” She peeled the fruit and set it down beside the fish.
Two nights later Tâm paddled south on the Mekong, hugging the shore. Bright moonlight spilled down, making the sampan more conspicuous than she wanted. She was weary. It was difficult to sleep during the heat of the day; all she’d managed was a few hours. It wasn’t much cooler at night anyway, and tending to Mai’s wrist, providing food, and protecting them as best she could was draining her. There had been no time to mourn or plan what to do next. She watched the shoreline carefully, looking for any discrepancy in the muted shades of greenery that would suggest a potential stranger or enemy.
The whine of an engine startled Tâm. She paddled more strenuously. The noise woke Mai, who’d been dozing in the belly of the sampan. “Where are we?” she asked drowsily.
“I don’t know. But without you paddling, we’re not making much progress.”
“What can I do?” Mai said bitterly. She held up her wounded wrist.
“I know. I’m just saying. . .” Tâm’s voice trailed off. She wasn’t angry, just fatigued and despondent.
Mai changed the subject. “What is that noise?” She sat up and twisted around. So did Tâm. A fishing trawler cruised behind them. Even in the dark Tâm could see it was about ten meters long, weather-beaten, and shabby, with scratches and dents on the side. A hiccup in the engine every few seconds told her that it wasn’t in very good shape, either. Tâm wondered how many generations of fishermen the trawler had served.
Other ships and boats had passed them on the river, but Tâm ignored them and told Mai to do the same. This time, though, Mai looked straight at the boat. So did Tâm. No one was on deck. Of course. Most of the crew would be sleeping. Except whoever was at the wheel.
Mai kept gazing at the boat. Tâm was about to tell her to stop when its engine suddenly died. Fear climbed up Tâm’s spine, but Mai cocked her head to the side. In an effort to put more distance between them, Tâm plunged her oar in the water, pulling with strong, powerful strokes.
“Wait, Chị Tâm.” Mai pointed. “Someone’s on the deck. He’s waving at us!”
“We don’t know who he is. We need to get away.”
Mai let out a breath. “Chị Tâm, please. Let me try something.”
“You are a child.”
“And you are a grumpy old woman.”
“My job is to keep us safe.”
“How safe were we when I sliced my wrist on the fishhook?”
“I was wrong. I shouldn’t have left you alone.”
“And I should never have fished in the first place.” Mai threw Tâm an indignant glance, swung her head toward the trawler, and waved back at the man on deck.
He called out. “Hello! Where are you headed?”
“Saigon,” Mai answered.
Tâm was pulling away from the boat. “Stop, Chị Tâm,” Mai said.
The man on the deck replied. “So are we! That’s where we sell our catch.”
In the bright moonlight Tâm watched him look them over. “It will take you days to get there by sampan.”
“This is all we have,” Mai said. “We had no choice.”
The man nodded as if he knew or could imagine what had happened. Maybe he did, Mai thought. The entire country was in the middle of a war. He looked down. “If you don’t mind the stink of fish, we could give you a ride. We’ll be there tomorrow.”
Mai grinned. “Really?” She twisted back to Tâm, who was already shaking her head.
“You can’t board a stranger’s boat. Anything could happen.”
“Well, then you stay in the sampan. I want to get to Saigon.”
“Mama and Papa would never permit this.”
“Mama and Papa aren’t here.”
“Dirty Rabbit, please.” Tâm’s tone softened. “Please don’t. We can make it to Saigon by ourselves. Why rush?”
“Because I’m tired. My wrist is throbbing. I’m dirty and hungry. I hate this.” She paused. “And please don’t call me ‘Dirty Rabbit’ again. It’s absurd. So old-fashioned,” she scoffed. “There are no evil spirits.”
“What do you mean? What about the massacre?”
“You know what I’m talking about. No spirit will kidnap us. We’re not children anymore.”
Tâm sighed in defeat and lowered her head. She was exhausted too. She lifted her paddle out of the water and laid it across the stern.
Mai smiled and turned back to the man on the deck. “Thank you. We’d be grateful for the ride.”