A long time ago, Indians lived by a lake north of the island river that led to the salt water.  The water was so clear that it looked black.  At night, when the moon’s rays spread across the dark surface, the lake appeared to be smiling.  The Indians called it Happy Lake.

The lake had many fish.  The Indians caught big largemouth bass and the great northern pike by using spears.  The fish were so plentiful that sometimes the Indians trapped them in their hands.  While their mothers prepared the fires, the Indian children then set about separating the meat from the small fish bones.   A tasty meal would soon be ready.

Over time, the Indians left Happy Lake.  Settlers moved in.  Today, there are houses and boats and docks along the waterfront.  Tourists come to fish, swim and go boating.  The lake has changed, but Happy Lake is still beautiful, and many fish still swim her waters.

Loons distinctively sing their contentment as they drift on the surface searching for their next meal.  Flocks of geese swoop down as ducks paddle by.  Magical herons of varying shades stand erect and still in trees along the rocky shores.  Moccasin snakes and snapping turtles busily work the waters as giant mountain frogs mingle in the lily pads.  Beaver build their huts while woodpeckers drill the trees.  Elegant black mink go about their harvesting as seagulls rest on the rocky shoals before darting away for nature’s scraps.  Ever-watchful, gigantic osprey circle above, as Happy Lake quietly accommodates all her patrons.

When the water is still, the swirl of a big pike or the high rise of a black bass breaks through the calm.   Happy Lake has smaller fish too.  Sunfish, moonfish, colorful perch, whiskered catfish and frisky rock bass line the shallower waters cozying up to the docks.

Sami’s grandfather and grandmother live on an island on Happy Lake.  One day, Sami’s grandmother, Dotie, gave him a floating vest and a big straw hat.  Sami’s grandfather, Papa, took him down to the dock.  Papa handed Sami a fishing rod with a gold reel.  The gold reel quietly let the line out then neatly retrieved it back onto the spool.  On the end of the line was a hook.  Papa put a small piece of bread on the hook.  “Now Sami, drop that bread into the water,” he said.

Sami lowered the line with the bread on the hook into the water.  In a blink, several fish swept up and grabbed the bread from the hook.  Sami stood for a minute, thinking about what had happened.  He smiled, because now he understood, this was just the beginning.  

Ben Cat, South Checkpoint

“Old Friend, how many times have we walked this path?”

“More than can be counted.”

“Would you not think the oxen would know the way?  Perhaps they lead us?”

“They are like my grandchildren,” smiled Mai Nin.

“Ah, then they do know the way,” Ching Phor laughed.  “They just need our guidance.”

“At least.”

“But our gait has slowed.  It is good they are mindful.”

“The children or the oxen?”

“You are worried?”

“One is north, the other is south.  Tranh Nhu Lam embraces tradition, but my little flower, Laureen, embraces the American.  As with her mother, she will follow her heart.”  Mai Nin shook her head.  “To forbid?  To encourage?  My heart agonizes for them, for Ben Cat, for myself.”

“This time an American.  Laureen’s world is a dream, her mother’s dream.  And Tranh, he has the heart of a lion, but the experiences of an ox.  He is of the village.  Do they ask advice?”

“Advice!  Who seeks advice from such a decrepit old woman?  Did their mother listen?  Their paths are as different as their two fathers’, but they share a determination as great as my daughter’s.  The only certainty is that my life will end here, where it began.”

Ching Phor laughed.  “Then we must stay the course together so that we may enjoy the results.”  She hesitated.  “This time the danger is greater.  Not because the commitment is less, nor because the intruder is unfamiliar, but because their instruments are so unforgiving.”

“But Ching Phor, the crops, they come back well, do they not?”

“Aye, they receive experienced care, Ching Phor began.  “Soon we begin the harvest.  Our young men will be missed.  Your oxen will be tested.”

“Ben Cat will not be disappointed by my oxen.  Is it not typical that when the men are needed most they disappear?”

“Only men are surprised by men,”  Ching Phor chuckled.

“Aye, they are predictably unpredictable.”  Mai Nin turned to her friend.  “Do you miss your husband or do you bide your time?”

Ching Phor hesitated.  “Life is the same.  My husband gave me happiness not fulfillment.  Without children, my path has been less complicated than yours, but who will carry on?  Ben Cat is my reward.  Her children are my children, her elders my parents, her adults my friends.  The village has given more than can be returned.”  Ching Phor put her arm around Mai Nin.  “What about you, are you lonely?”

“Lonely!  Ha!  With eight stubborn oxen and two ambitious grandchildren, who could be lonely?  Their future, their dreams, those are my worries.”

“Then, old friend, you must guide with a steady hand for their future and their dreams are at the crossroad.”

“Laureen, you know who you are.  You will only become more beautiful.  Me, on the other hand, I might change so that you will desire me less.  You might tire of me?”

Her hands moved to the black scarf.  Playfully she pulled the ends tighter around his neck.  “So, already you plan an escape!  You had better realize there is no escaping me.  And, as we grow older, I will be lighter afoot than you.  Perhaps from your shadow, I will emerge to lead the way.”

“Ha!  From my shadow?  That’ll be the day.  I am putty in your hands.”

“I see.  We have been in unusual forms.  But never have you been putty… in my hands.”  She loosened the scarf bending to kiss him.  “Or, do you forget so soon?”

The Last Parade