Vietnamese Gods: Breath

The Story begins.

You know, breathing is an interesting thing. You would not have paid any mind to it, not until now that I have brought it up. To commemorate the occasion, let’s us do a breathing exercise, just to loose yourself up and get into the mood for a story. Yes, breath in, breath out. Feel, truly feel, life coming into your lungs. Now hold it there, condense all of life’s worry and stress into a moment.

And release.

Good.

I assume that if you are reading this, you are at least capable of thinking for yourself. Yet look at you, forgetting your own breath without someone there to remind you. I do not blame you, though. I cannot expect much from a species that collectively forget the nose on their face nor the lashes on their eyes, nor the Gods that once were. No, I do not sound bitter. Because I know there are a few that still remember. And those few continue to tell stories, like the one I am telling you today, where I go will into excruciating details about every little happenings. For how else am I going to convince you they are true? For that is my burden to bear. You, however, can tell the story however you want to. That is, after all, the beauty of stories: they do not have to be true to be told. As long as they are told well.

Breath in. See, I have to remind you again.

Release.

When things are forgotten, they have a tendency to try and get noticed. It is no coincidence that your nose frequently grows those big, painful pimples (bless you if you have never had pimples on your nose, but I am talking to the other 99%), or that your lash would wage Ragnarök with the eyes which they were destined to protect, or a newborn baby, who wail and scream to announce their existence to the worlds. Of course, as with there are people who have perfect skin without ever touching any chemicals, there are infants who do not let out a single sound, and there are individuals who never forget anything. Funnily enough, our story revolves around that exact individual.

Desmond Sullivan, an alias (he requested his name be hidden from the worlds, yes, plural) remembered the warmth of his mother’s womb, and the frigid, glowing hands that took him out. You would think a God’s body would radiate heat from all the stored power, but Saint Gióng, Desmond’s father-god, was so cold Desmond still have the frostbitten scars until this day. The Saint then dropped him off to a wetnurse, and would not appear again 25 years later, when he instructed his son to kill Death.

This was the tale of another day in Vietnam. A day like any other day, where the Sun beams and the Gods play their cruel games with humans to stave their eternal boredom. A day like any other day, where men and women have to bury their loved ones. Desmond Sullivan was one of those men and women. In fact, he was carrying his wife’s coffin on his shoulder, and he was truly, very angry. Enraged, furious even, for he, THE Desmond Sullivan, the second richest man in this side of the country, could not prevent her Death.

Ignored the calls of his chauffeur, Desmond dragged his feet along Minh Khai St., the at-least-120-kg coffin weighed nothing compared to the memories bombarding him. The bakery he loved, the park where he failed to convince her to exercise, the various Japanese restaurants they talked about but never went in. Citizens of The Right looked at the man in fear, as it was summer, when even the slightest exposure to sunlight can turn you as red as a newborn, and yet the man walked, half-naked.

A right at Nam Kỳ Khởi Nghĩa St., and the city itself seemingly stopped, the croaking of motorcycle exhaust and screaming of car horns all choked in the presence of The Independent Palace. Few ever get to walk these pavements, for it is Father’s domain. Desmond, that day, was understandably doesn’t-give-a-crap about the Gods, and cut straight through the path for it is a shortcut to his family's apartment complex.

“Would you at least have a refreshment, Sir?” - Trọng, the bodyguard/butler was standing at the reception with a tray of soft drinks and tea. He was so worried for his Little Master that broke the rules of not-speaking-unless-granted-permission.

Desmond stopped, put down the coffin, and had a glass of water. It could not quench the forest fire inside of him, but he felt better. “Thank you,” he managed to murmur, and continued towards the lift. “Please put it in my room.” - He pointed at the coffin.

“Son, I had the chefs made Phở…” - Desmond’s mother, Mrs Lan said, as the doors opened. Since comforting was never the Sullivan’s strength, her voice came out robotic, fizzing in and out.

“Don’t start pretending to be my mother now.” - Not so much as a glance to her, Desmond kept walking, every step shook the marbled floor.

Like most of the houses and businesses in Vietnam, each of the Sullivan’s properties had an altar. They are signs of gratitude from the latter generations to the former. If it is true that the more gratitude you show, the more successful and good luck you would get, no wonder the Sullivan’s owns an estate empire. Because sitting atop of the complex was a temple with monks-for-hired walking all year round to make sure the elements never touch the gold statues of past Sullivans. Calling that building an “altar,” however, would be the same as calling Hồ Tây a swimming pool (although people treat the Lake as such). It is strange, however. If all it comes down to is gratitude, should not all citizens of the Right be rich? Should not all the ancestors grant their children the luck and success ahead of time, kind of like a loan, so that they have something to build big altars to begin with?

Without taking his shoes off, Desmond went down on his knees and prayed. The suffocating incense quickly filled his nostrils and lungs and mouth and ears, dug deep inside of him until it ripped his soul out of his body, transporting the essence of himself to the Heavenly Palace. The fragrance of peaches soon followed, and the specter of Desmond Sullivan stormed into the palace ahead.

“I thought we had a deal.” - Desmond shouted at Saint Gióng, who was lounging on a throne, one hand holding a book while the other was feeding peaches to his giant, iron horse. If the God had noticed Desmond at all, he did not show, for he turned a page and chuckled.

“What’s so damn funny?” The man screamed and rolled up his right sleeve, revealing a golden bracer. He clicked, and it turned into a crossbow, already loaded with a small arrow. “You better…”

The threat was empty, as before he could even blink, Desmond saw himself on the ground, staring at the ceiling, his throat being pressed so hard his head felt like it was going to pop out of his neck. The horse leaned his face closed to Desmond, his breath sour like fermented peaches, his eyes said “filthy disgusting monkey, how dare you!”

“Down, boy.” - The God said, and even the atmosphere seemed to bow to the depth of his voice.

Desmond blinked, and the horse was once again by Gióng’s side. It did not feel good almost being crush by a horse, and it did not feel good being insulted by that him either, but the near-death experience gave Desmond some much needed clarity.

“Apologies for my insolent behaviour, father. I’m afraid the weather and recent personal matters have left me quite… stressed.” He stood up and patted his ghost body, retracting the crossbow in the process. Then he did what he does best, and smiled.

“That is much better. Let’s start over, shall we?” - Gióng smiled back. Unlike Desmond where the smile was practiced, etched, forged into his face, the Saint’s was naturally inviting, immediately friendly, trustworthy, and ever more dangerous.

“I believe, Saint, that we had a deal.”

“And?”

“And, fact of the matter is, I have kept my end of the bargain, and you have failed yours.” - The smile persisted, but the veins on Desmond’s hands and temple were pulsing.

“I gave that poor corpse two more weeks, far longer than it would have lasted otherwise.”

“But I gave you what you asked. I did what you said would help her. I killed Death.”

“Good job, son.” The word “son” came out like a pebble over water, it was fun to look at it skipped, but now it was sinking to the bottom, time to get a new pebble.

“But?”

“But that was only half the journey.” - The God’s head dropped to the side, like he was saying “of course it would not be that easy, you dumb monkey.”

“You see, son, our country is a little different when it comes to Death. We have a place where the bad souls go. We have an entity that governs them. We have the Heavenly Palace to send the good souls in reincarnation, and our version of Hell, where the bad souls go to have fun. So, where does Death come in?”

“Diêm Vương (King of the Dead) called her Thanatos, and she collects souls.” - Vu remembered the little girl, deep in sleep as he jabbed the arrow into her throat.

“Yes, and is that a Vietnamese’s name to you? Thanatos is merely a hire help the King got from Greece. And what you “killed” was an aspect, a piece of the whole, less than an eyelash of the real being.”

“So, what I have done is pointless?”

“Not pointless. Never pointless. Consider it a proof of concept. And the concept continues: Now that we temporarily do not have anyone to collect souls, where do they go?”

“You’re telling me my wife’s soul is now out there somewhere, and I have to go get it?”

The God snapped, “Bingo, this monkey can think.”

“Why didn’t you just say that in the first place?”

“Without the desperation, would you have succeeded?” - They both knew the answer.

“So, where do I go now?” - As Desmond’s shoulders relaxed, his legs started to shake and tears were beginning to form. He could still save her.

“Your wife happened to die when my mother threw that lavish party for her little cult. The woman has never been one to discriminate, so even the lowliest of deities was invited into her ranks.”

“I do not think my wife is one for parties.”

“If she had a choice, which she probably did not. Without any guidance, ghosts like her are little more than instinctive beings, and human instincts would lead her to big events.”

“That’s easy then. Now I just have to go to the Left, infiltrate The Allmother’s Palace, and find my wife’s wandering soul!” - Desmond tried to be as sarcastic as possible, putting random intonations to the sentence.

“Not before you find a way to see and capture souls, but yes, that’s the gist of it.”

“Thank you, father.” - Desmond said through gritted teeth.

“Since I am in a good mood: two things before you go. First, that crossbow will soon prove its worth again, and second, that little stunt of yours with the coffin attracted my sister’s attention.”

It was the second worst thing Desmond heard that day.

This is the first episode of this novel.

If you would like more information on Vietnamese Mythology, you’ve come to the right place.

Want to know how to pronounce the Vietnamese words in the post? I have a Glossary too (although it might take me quite a while to fully update it).