“Not really.”
He nods. “Retirement withdrawal.”
I shiver, feeling cold from the inside out.
“Take care of yourself, Broussard,” he says before heading back to the chopper.
“I will.”
“And thanks for what you’ve done. For your country. And for, well…”
He doesn’t finish, because he doesn’t have to. We both know it’s bullshit, all of it everywhere, and only about cashing checks on each and every side.
“I wish I could promise a ride back, but…” He lets that hang there, too, to make sure I know exactly where we stand. “We were never here in the first place.” Good little soldier.
“Thanks for the ride,” I say, and shoulder my pack.
The man nods, climbs back inside the cockpit, and closes the door. The blades begin to spin, whipping up its own private hurricane that nearly sends me airborne. The chopper ascends into the sky and is gone, the departure echoing off the granite faces that stare down at our silly drama with disinterest. None of us wave goodbye.
I walk toward the tall grass, and without much of a search, I find a worn patch of ground, leading up into the hill country, lorded over by mountains ringed in a beard of silken white clouds.
I part the grass and touch feet to trail. The green closes in behind me, as if I was never here.
32. Retour du Fantôme
There’s something in these trees, hiding under the water of the rice paddies. Something closing in on me, and it’s not Black Shuck. It’s something worse.
The foot trail winds, and takes me through flooded fields and lakes coated with lily pads and legions of dragonflies. Flowers smell of perfume, and the wet air keeps it close to the ground. The pathway cuts up terraces and across narrow bridges built for one traveler at a time. This is ancient country, and it watches me, whispering messages to the things in the trees and under the water. I’m thirsty, but I dare not drink anything out here. Something will climb inside me if I do.
After what could be days but is probably only hours, I walk up a hillside on a narrow but precisely cut and hard-packed trail that zigzags up the incline through a series of switchbacks. The trail wasn’t noticeable from below, expertly disguised by low growing foliage lining the track. You’d only find it if you were on the path.
I climb the hill, sweating and spent, and find a mini-plateau that seems to be cut right out of the side of the mountain. The land is smooth clay the color of polished rust, supporting a compact village of sturdy Hmong huts. Each dwelling is raised on stilts, with a small porch protected by a railing of thick bamboo, and a set of steps leading to the ground. In my fever, I can vaguely recall bayou shacks, hovering over the swamp or occasionally dry land that quickly regresses into marsh with each heavy rain. Laos always did remind me of Louisiana, but for some reason Vietnam never did. Bangkok reminded me of nothing I’d ever seen before, or wanted to see again. But Laos always carried a hint of home, and filled me with a mix of strange longing.
I look up and down at the precisely arranged rows of houses, six on each side of the central clearing. It looks like military housing. The porch of the last house at the far end creaks under a heavy weight. I glance down, and see a great black shape sitting patiently just above the small staircase. Black Shuck stares back at me, its expression unreadable. It traveled ahead, knowing where I’d end up. It was no longer chasing, but waiting. For some reason, I’m not scared.
A man emerges from the largest hut and leans forward on the bamboo railing. He’s old and gaunt, deeply tanned skin covering tight muscle and knobby bones. Sandy white eyebrows furrow down low over far grayer eyes, now sunk deeper into the additional lines covering his skull, marking his days like thin cuts in a cracked leather belt. But those eyes shine like they know that secret still.
It’s Chapel.
I open my dry mouth to recite the words I’d committed to memory after tracking down the book for months. Once I finally laid my hands and my eyes on it, I burned those words, that ending, into my mind. I never knew if I’d have a reason to speak them aloud, but I never knew anything about my life since I left the bayou.
“And sometimes through life’s heavy swound
We grope for them!—with strangled breath
We stretch our hands abroad and try
To reach them in our agony—
And widen, so, the broad life-wound
Which soon is large enough for death.”
Chapel grins, something genuine and filled with just a touch of proud surprise. “You knew the ending after all,” he says, his voice a note lower, but still clear and strong.
“No, I had to learn it,” I say.
Chapel nods slowly. He always knew what I was saying even when I didn’t come out and say it.
“What are you doing out here?” I say.
“I could ask you the same.”
I shake my head, and take a step forward. Shaky now. Always shaky. I’m not sure how far I should go. Not sure how he feels, or how I do. Hmong tribesmen, dressed in civvy clothes, are posted up all over the clearing, Chinese-made AK-47s resting over shoulders and in the crook of tanned arms. The spook’s army. He collects one everywhere he goes.
Chapel steps down from he porch, walks up and wraps his arms around my shoulders, bringing me in for a tight hug. Still strong. I press one arm around the man’s back, then grimace. Chapel releases me.
“You hurt?”
“Nothing major.”
Chapel nods. “Let me get a look at you.” Sharp gray irises inspect my face, then pull down his brow into a furrow. “Your eyes,” he says.
“Different now.”
“Yes they are.” He appraises me again. “Come inside.”
“Do you see it?”
Chapel glances at me. I gesture to the last house in the village. Nothing is there.
“Come on inside,” Chapel says, taking me by the shoulder.
I walk with him into the hut, but not as the good soldier entering the bunker, but as the hunter entering the den of my prey. I’m not sure if Chapel knows this, and don’t care. He’ll find out soon enough.
33. Rest Home for Wandering Souls
I’m seated on the ground, a cup of tea and a platter of fruit in front of me. Mangos, papaya, dragon fruit, wild haired rambutans, and a single orange the size of a grapefruit. I wonder about that orange, just for a second, but then realize that there would be no way he’d know. I finish a pitcher of water in one long gulp, which makes me feel sicker and just as thirsty.
A Hmong woman and a man stand in front of me, with various children clinging to their legs and peeking out at me. The adults are glaring, the children just stare. One of them makes a face at me, rolling his eyes into his head and showing his lower teeth. Chapel returns from the other room with a bowl of steaming rice, spiced with curry and lemongrass. He places this on the table, dusts off his hands, and clears his throat.
“That’s Sua, my brother in law,” Chapel says, gesturing to the man, then to the woman. “And this is Maiv, my wife.” He speaks to them in Hmong, and I detect my name.
Sua nods his head slightly. Maiv stares at me, the disgust in her eyes dripping down and slightly twisting the forced inscrutability of her expression. It always comes down to the eyes.
“The children?” I say.
“What about them?” Chapel says.
I don’t say anything.
Their obligation to manners at an end, Maiv turns a glance to Chapel, then slips out of the room, Sua and the children in tow.
Chapel watches her go. “She doesn’t like you.”