From the forest roof, the chirping of birds mixed with the wind carried the damp smell of moss and rotting leaves, a smell that could not be found anywhere else in the wilderness. Standing before the majestic forest, I could truly feel why Chuong loved the forest so much, a love that was almost infatuated.
Carrying our backpacks, we headed towards the gong-shaped suspension bridge spanning the rapids. At this time, the only sound we could hear was the babbling of the stream, mixed with the breathing sounds from the deep forest. The suspension bridge, made of rope and bamboo, precariously connected the two banks, winding along the path between the reeds and disappearing into the shade of the leaves.
Illustration: Van Nguyen
I didn’t think this trip would be anything special, just a short getaway from the noisy, dusty city. Chuong, my travel companion from a conference on ecological conservation, invited me to climb a mountain and find a stream he had accidentally discovered on an old tourist map. A place marked with a blue symbol and faint lines as if someone had been there and then forgotten how to get back.
We started on a dirt road that wound through the tea hills, then turned onto the mountainside. Chuong walked ahead, his bulky backpack on his back, whistling the whole way like a traveler returning home. The smell of damp grass, the smell of the hill soil, and the sound of the babbling brook made me feel strangely peaceful. When the sunlight filtered through the leaves, I realized I was in a very far away place, so far that if I closed my eyes, I could forget the way home.
On a large rock, Chuong fumbled with an old map, he spread it out and showed me the location of the forest he was surveying. "People planned to exploit wood here, but luckily, this place is still pristine today." Chuong said and stood up to pick up styrofoam boxes and bottles stuck under tree roots and put them in the bag he was carrying. Looking at Chuong chasing the water trying to pick up floating plastic bags, I secretly thought, if everyone who came here took a little trash like him, this place would be even more wonderful. Opening the bag to prepare food and drinks on the rock, I cut the bread into small pieces and spread butter. Chuong was probably hungry, so he got up to eat with me, while eating he took out the compass and fumbled to find his position. I sat on a rock shaped like a turtle's shell, dangling my legs in the water, watching the long-legged long-legged sandpipers glide across the smooth surface of the stream. Behind the rock crevice, a few frogs heard the noise and quickly jumped down and disappeared, leaving behind the shape of fragile sunlight.
Chuong whistled softly, dreamily looking up at the forest roof filled with the sound of early morning birds. Listening carefully, I recognized the familiar melody of the song Comme toi . Suddenly Chuong turned and said softly: "I think I can stay here forever."
"You'll be sad! It's not easy to live alone in the forest," I laughed, urging Chuong to pack up and go up the hill above. Along the way, Chuong took pictures, marking the coordinates of ancient trees, rare native flowers, and bird nests in the bushes. "I'm creating an ecological profile for this area," he said, growing more and more enthusiastic. "If we have enough data, we can propose to preserve it as a community forest, where local people will manage it together, both protecting the forest and making a living. Keeping the forest pristine is also a respect for nature."
Quietly observing his work, I began to find it interesting. We continued our journey. Truong walked ahead, and when we reached a small waterfall, he stopped and carefully led me through. The deeper we went, the more surprisingly beautiful the forest became. Truong walked around with his camera, taking pictures of every corner of the forest, then turned back and pointed at the purple flower bushes among the grass. "Giang, do you see the trail next to that flower bush? It leads up to the forest above! Now I'll lead the way, Giang follows, breathe deeply and slowly, don't talk too much or you'll quickly lose your strength."
Following the trail up with Chuong, I realized that Chuong was really talented even though it was his first time here. The trail would be hard to see with the naked eye because it was covered with green grass. Only someone who had been in the forest for a long time could discover the path. Following the stream, we stopped at a section of eroded land. Chuong took out a small roll of rope and a few wooden stakes from his backpack. He buried the stakes in the ground and pulled the rope around to warn of the danger zone. While Chuong was working hard, I also took the opportunity to plant a few clumps of native bushes to hold the land.
We reached the top of the hill, it was past noon. Chuong silently looked at the distant mountains, muttering: "I'm not sure if what I did changed anything, but at least I planted the seeds. Who knows, maybe someone will come by and continue to water them." Looking at the drifting clouds, he suddenly turned back and asked: "Sometime... I suddenly disappeared, Giang, do you remember today?"
I smiled, but somehow my heart ached. We stood on the hilltop as the sun began to slant west, the last light of the day painting dark yellow streaks on the rocky slope. The wind carried the pungent smell of young grass and rotting wild fruit. When he was a few steps away from me, Chuong turned around, silently raised his camera and took a picture. Then another, as if he was saving this scene and me in a memory.
"Giang," Chuong whispered. "Later on, we may not remember exactly how many streams we crossed or how many hills we climbed. But perhaps we will remember today." I sat down quietly on the rotten log. I know that all wanderings have an end. But there are places that, when touched enough, make the heart vibrate with a sweet melody, on a tired afternoon in life.
On the way back, it suddenly started to rain. The rain in the forest was so intense that we couldn’t handle it. Luckily, there was a bare hut nearby, probably built by the locals to rest during their trips to the mountains. We rushed towards it. Seeing me drenched, Chuong burst out laughing, rummaged through his backpack to take out a towel and gently wiped my hair. As soon as Chuong’s hand touched me, I felt a jolt of electricity run down my spine. As if to spare me from embarrassment, Chuong whispered about his mother and the reason he chose to work in nature conservation, because of a promise he made before she passed away.
Until later, when I returned to that forest alone, the rock we sat on was still in the same place, the water was still clear, and the birds were still chirping on the forest roof. It was just that Chuong had not returned. I still kept the old map and the camera he had left behind in my backpack. Sometimes I seemed to hear Chuong whistling somewhere, the song Comme toi in the pale sunlight of an afternoon.
Afternoon. On the way back, Chuong stopped by an old tree and took out a small bag of seeds. "I brought them from Ms. Hau at the forest conservation center. She said if I ever get a chance to go into the forest, I should try sowing some seeds."
I bent down with Truong, carefully digging small holes in the ground where there was light. We dropped each seed as if placing a simple wish in the ground. When we finished, Truong opened his camera to show me the pictures he had taken during the journey. There was a picture of a white butterfly perched on my shoulder, a picture of a pair of jays pecking at each other affectionately on a broken dry branch. And there was a picture of me standing next to a waterfall, the sunlight slanting through my hair like a strip of heavenly silk. "I will print a photo book about this trip." "For what?", I asked. "To tell everyone about the untouched forests, about the people who are silently protecting the forests, about you, about today."
That night, we stayed at the Windy Hut, a wooden hut built by a group of young people to serve the survey trips. The next morning, the sky was still foggy, and Chuong woke up quietly to pick up trash along the trail leading into the forest. I followed behind, carrying a bag filled with tin cans, can lids, and even plastic sandals that had drifted from somewhere. We left the forest in the afternoon. On the hill, the flower bushes were still in full bloom. Chuong looked back toward the forest, one hand on his chest as if to keep the beat of this short period of time, his voice whispering: "Tomorrow, if you don't see me, come back here. Who knows, I might be a tree standing in the middle of the forest."
I smiled but my heart was choked. Since the day I returned from my trip with Chuong, I began to write more about the forest, about the silent people who kept the green. The letters Chuong wrote to me gradually became less frequent... less frequent, then disappeared completely. I did not dare to ask why. Maybe it was because of his ideals, because of a promise, or simply because some wind had swept him away from vague ties.
Many years later, I returned to that place. Just as Chuong said, Chuong quietly left all the noisy connections and followed other projects in the remote areas. As for me, sometimes I quietly returned to the old place alone. The old wooden hut had rotted and collapsed after seasonal storms. A few bamboo shoots emerged from the ground, soft and fragrant. Next to the small bush where we had sown seeds, a chestnut tree had grown. I unconsciously bent down to gently pick up a yellow leaf, and suddenly heard a whistle somewhere, an old melody that made my heart ache. At my feet, a sprout had just sprouted, so green that the light seemed to be transparent through the small sprout. I sat on the rock and took out the camera that Chuong had forgotten. In the camera was a photo of me sitting by the stream, behind me was the green of the forest and the sun was falling on my shoulder. I smiled. I would carry that green with me on my journey of sowing seeds.
That spring, I returned to the forest once again.
I walked on the old path, across the meadow and the waterfall-like stream. The chestnut tree where we had planted seeds had grown taller than my head. I trembled as I touched the rough trunk, feeling the underground water flowing through each grain of wood in my palm. At the foot of the hill, someone's shadow had just passed by. A tall and thin figure, the familiar color of the shirt and backpack. I felt my heart flutter, could it be the person I had been waiting for? The figure approached. It wasn't Chuong...
In the afternoon, on the way back, I met a group of boarding school students who were following their teacher on a field trip to the forest ecosystem. They were busy taking notes on the names of each tree. The teacher invited me to sit down and rest. During that short time, I told them about my first trip to this forest.
Three months later, I was sitting in a small coffee shop in the afternoon sky of Da Lat, outside it was drizzling. Suddenly, my phone screen lit up with a message from an unknown number: "See you at Lan Gio". I was speechless. Lan Gio? The place where I used to stay overnight had collapsed long ago. Who is still there now? Why is he texting me?
To satisfy my curiosity, I quickly got on my motorbike and headed towards the forest, winding through the hillsides hidden in the clouds. When I arrived at Lan Gio, night had already fallen. In the misty fog, a figure sat by a flickering fire. He was wearing an old, worn jacket, and a felt hat the same color as the one I had seen the first time we met. His hair was tied in a bun on his shoulders.
"Chapter!", I called tremblingly.
He turned back. His eyes still smiled when he looked at me, the corners of his eyes still squinted humorously. But I realized that in those eyes, there was now a vast stillness, as if after many years, he had finally returned and was sitting here, waiting for me.
"Last month I came back to build this hut, but I didn't text you. I wonder if you still remember this place," Chuong smiled, holding my hand tighter.
I sat down quietly beside him, adding another piece of wood to the blazing fire. On the other side of the forest, the mist covered the white, but I could still see there a roaring waterfall surging fiercely.
Source: https://thanhnien.vn/duoi-thac-may-rung-truyen-ngan-du-thi-cua-vu-ngoc-giao-185250705192336734.htm
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