The Sacred Land - Wedding
My grandmother was born into a wealthy family, but as she grew older, the family fortune dwindled. After my great-grandmother passed away, the family’s remaining assets were lost, forcing my grandmother and her sisters to return to their hometown. They survived by farming corn along the riverbanks, like many others in the village. Despite the hardships, my grandmother never complained, enduring poverty with quiet resilience.
My grandfather was six years older than my grandmother. From a young age, his only passions were swimming in the river and working diligently. The sun and wind had sculpted him into a strong, muscular man—a true laborer. In my memory, he was tall, robust, and strikingly handsome. Village girls often joked among themselves, daring each other to win his heart. Yet, he paid no attention, focusing instead on his cornfields and the ever-changing Red River, which flooded the village every year.
Each year, the Red River would rise for three months, submerging half of the small village of Bac Bien. The floods brought chaos, forcing villagers to evacuate or seek work in the city. The river carried with it debris and the lifeless bodies of drowned buffaloes, pigs, chickens, and sometimes even people. When the water receded, the village youths would bury the dead so their families, if they came searching, could give them a proper burial.
In 1956, the river swelled suddenly, its current more violent than ever. Almost the entire village evacuated, leaving behind only a few young men, including my grandfather, who stayed to salvage floating logs and build rafts. One day, while retrieving a log, he heard a desperate cry for help. A young woman clung to a piece of driftwood being swept into the raging current. The river’s force was so intense that no one dared to intervene. Without hesitation, my grandfather plunged into the water. With his expert swimming skills, he battled the current and finally brought the woman ashore. Exhausted, he realized she was N., a girl from the same village. N. had fallen into the whirlpool while packing her belongings to evacuate. Thanks to my grandfather’s bravery, she survived what would have been a certain death.
Though N. was deeply grateful, my grandfather treated his heroic act as a duty, expecting no reward. However, N. began visiting him at the riverbank daily, bringing him water, cooked fish, and even tidying his makeshift shelter. Despite her kindness, my grandfather remained distant, knowing she was engaged to another man. He eventually told her to stop visiting, fearing gossip from the neighbors. N. only came at noon or twilight, avoiding other times.
After some time, my grandfather started working as a laborer at the Hong Ha pen factory, leaving the riverbank behind. He grew close to another young woman—my grandmother—who was beautiful and strong. They soon married, and he no longer returned to the riverbank. Meanwhile, N. continued to visit the abandoned shelter. When she learned of my grandparents' wedding, she asked to meet my grandfather one last time.
According to him, N. tearfully confessed that ever since he had saved her, a strange old woman had been haunting her. The woman, who limped and spoke with a wheezy voice, would drag N. to the riverbank daily, forcing her to cook and clean for him. Though N. loved her fiancé, she felt as though her life was no longer her own. She cried and spoke incoherently before running home. The next morning, the villagers found N. hanging in my grandfather’s abandoned shelter.
On the night of my grandparents’ wedding, an eerie event occurred. A black cat leapt onto the rafters and stared directly at my grandfather, meowing, “It’s me, it’s me,” seven times.
Years later, when my grandmother returned home after her bout of madness, a chilling incident unfolded. That night, as she entered the house, my grandfather saw not his wife, but N., standing beside the same limping old beggar who had appeared in the village the year before. The beggar looked at him and rasped, “It’s me…” My grandmother, later recounting the event to my mother, described her vision of N. and the beggar in vivid detail. My grandfather remained silent, only going to the altar to light incense for the Chinese deity. As the third stick of incense burned out, a powerful wind slammed the door open and shut. Only then did he return to speak to my grandmother...