The small canal lay across a large field. And when we decided to stop, the fierce drought seemed to have gathered all the sunlight to pour down on this place.
The young rice plants in the field, their stems already dry and curled like unfallen ashes, crushed to pieces when held in the hand. My father removed the bamboo frame that covered the boat floor, the flock of ducks swarmed out, frantically, squirming and splashing into the alum-scummed water. A new layer of alum, dark yellow, thickened on the feathers of the hungry ducks,
sticky on Dien's shoulders as he swam away to stake and spread the net to fence the flock of ducks. I carried the basket to the shore, lit a fire.
Then the fire that was whistling under the rice cooker rose to her heart, the woman was still lying on the boat. Even the intention to sit up quickly disappeared under the long groans.
Her lips were swollen and pale. And her hands, and her feet, and under the shirt I had covered her with was another shirt that had been torn to shreds, exposing the purple flesh that had been pinched.
And the roots of her hair were also bleeding. People had put their hands in them, twisted them to drag her all the way down the village road, before stopping for a moment
