Free Out of the Dragon's Mouth by Joyce Burns Zeiss Page A

welcome,” she said in Vietnamese.
    â€œThank you. Can I come tomorrow?” Mai asked.
    â€œTomorrow after breakfast. Right here. What is your name?” Miss Cindy took out her notebook and pencil.
    â€œNguyen Mai,” Mai whispered, her eyes lowered.
    â€œGreat,” said the teacher. “See you tomorrow.”
    â€œThank you, thank you,” said Mai, clasping her hands and bowing. She was going to school again.
    Mai thought of her school in Vietnam, the one Grandfather had built. How proud she was when he visited the school, arriving in his chauffeur-driven Cadillac, a distinguished-
looking man dressed in a dark suit and tie, standing straight as a soldier as the students all marched in lines out of the school to greet him. She’d stood at attention with the others, her bobbed hair neatly combed, her white blouse tucked into her navy blue skirt. How she loved going to school and learning about anything, especially Chinese folktales.
    Her favorite was the story of the two Trung sisters, heroines of Vietnam’s rebellion from the Chinese a very long time ago. She loved the way they had led the nobles and captured many citadels and declared Vietnam’s independence. She dreamed that one day she, too, would come back to Vietnam, charging in on an elephant, a saber in her hand, like the Trung sisters, the Communists running from her as the Chinese had retreated from them, her family bowing down to her in admiration.
    A woman could change things. She could help her country, and some day she would. Women were not drops of rain, as the Chinese poet said, some falling purely by chance on luxurious palaces while other fell on muddy rice fields. This view was one her mother had taught her, but she didn’t want to be like her mother, running to serve Grandmother’s every whim, her life not her own, her children left in the care of a nanny. She would be like the Vietnamese women of old, warriors, judges, and traders. Women with power.
    â€œIt’s time to go.” Kien nudged her and she awoke from her daydream to the sight of her countrymen: old men with wispy beards; young mothers with hungry children clinging to them; once-proud men, their heads hanging in shame, waiting in line for their noon meal like beggars. Her eyes grew hard and she thought, I’ll never forgive the Communists for what they have done to us. And she took her place in line.

Nine
    The rhythm of the waves lapping the beach at nightfall failed to lull Mai to sleep as she lay curled in her hammock, a knot in her stomach. She closed her eyes. What was that? Something was moving near her. She opened her eyes. A figure floated toward her. It was Sang. But he was dead. She closed her eyes, praying he would disappear. But when she opened them again, he had moved closer. She could see his face now, twisted in agony. Sand poured from his mouth. His hands clawed the air.
    â€œHelp me. Help me,” Sang screamed. “Don’t leave me in this well.” About him was the stench of decay and death.
    Terrified, Mai hid under her blanket.
    â€œYou and your uncle will be punished,” Sang’s ghost called. And then he disappeared.
    Mai couldn’t move. If only Small Auntie had had a funeral for him, perhaps some chanted prayers to usher his spirit into the next world; that probably would have satisfied him. What did he want from her? She’d had no part in his death. With no body to cremate and no monks on the island to chant prayers for him, would Sang be forced to wander the four corners of the earth, weeping and wailing, looking for vengeance, unable to go into the next world? Grandfather had told her that this was what happened to people who died violent deaths and were not given a proper burial.
    â€œHiep, are you awake?” She peeked over the edge of her hammock at him, the moonlight seeping in underneath the brown plastic canopy that sheltered them and casting a silvery shadow on Hiep’s