The Ferry Landing Behind the Bamboo Grove and the Keeper of Promises

At the edge of Van Bai Village was a river that was not very wide, but during the rainy season it often rose, turning murky and carrying along branches, straw, and even planks from the houses along the bank. On the other side of the river was a large field, where the village children often went to herd buffalo, while the adults crossed to plant rice or go to the district market. Before there was a concrete bridge, the ferry landing behind the bamboo grove was almost the only route connecting the two banks.

The ferryman there was a man named Tu Lanh. He was thin, with sun-darkened skin, and his hair was always tousled by the river wind. His ferry was not new; its wooden sides had been patched many times, but it was always clean. Every morning, before taking the first trip across the river, he used a coconut-shell scoop to bail out the water collected in the bottom of the boat, then carefully placed the oars in their proper position.

Mr. Tu never asked passengers whether they had money. The villagers knew this, so those who had money paid, while those who did not recorded their debt in the small notebook kept beneath the oars. Some paid the next day, some after the harvest, and some kept going and eventually forgot. He never blamed them. If anyone mentioned it, he would usually smile and say, “As long as the river keeps flowing, people will keep meeting one another. Don’t let a single ferry ride make us fall out.”

The Schoolbag by the Riverbank

That year, Mai was twelve years old and lived with her mother in an old tiled-roof house at the entrance to the village. Her father had died young. Her mother took on all kinds of odd jobs, but still could not afford to buy her daughter a new pair of sandals. Mai was an excellent student and especially loved literature. Whenever she read aloud in class, her voice was so clear that her teacher often told her that she might become a writer someday.

Mai did not dare think that far ahead. She only hoped to finish middle school, then find a job so her mother would not have to work so hard. That morning, she hugged her schoolbag and ran to the ferry landing because she was afraid of being late. It had just rained, and the dirt path was slick. As she stepped down onto the wooden stairs, Mai slipped. The schoolbag flew from her hand and fell with a splash at the water’s edge.

Mr. Tu was tying the ferry’s rope to a post. Hearing her cry out, he immediately turned around. Without stopping to think, he jumped into the river. The water was only chest-deep there, but the current was strong, forcing him to swim around a patch of water hyacinths before he could reach the schoolbag. When he climbed back up, his clothes were soaked through, and a shard of glass had cut his hand.

Mai hugged the schoolbag, tears streaming down her face. Inside was the literature notebook in which she had stayed up all night writing her assignment. Most of the ink had blurred, but the final pages were still intact.

“I’m sorry, sir. I don’t have any money to pay you back,” Mai said.

Mr. Tu took an old towel and wiped the water from her face, then said, “A wet notebook can be dried. Someone falling into the river—that’s what we need to worry about. Get on the ferry, or you’ll be late for school.”

That day, Mai arrived late to class, and her teacher asked why. She told her what had happened. The teacher did not punish her. She only placed a hand on Mai’s shoulder and told her to be more careful next time. At the end of the lesson, she gave Mai a new notebook. Mai held it, feeling both happy and sad. She wanted to thank Mr. Tu, but there was nothing in the house except a few sweet potatoes her mother had set aside.

That evening, Mai wrapped two sweet potatoes in a piece of banana leaf and brought them to the landing the next morning. Mr. Tu accepted them and pretended to be stern as he asked, “Is this the ferry fare?”

“Yes, sir. They’re for you.”

“Then I’ll accept them. But from now on, if you have a good piece of writing, just read a passage aloud to me.”

From that day on, whenever she crossed the river, Mai often told him about the stories she had read. Sometimes they were stories about someone planting trees by the roadside; sometimes they were about a child finding a lost family member. Mr. Tu listened attentively, even though he did not understand every part. He simply liked the way Mai told stories, because in her voice every story became as familiar as a passenger who had just stepped off the ferry.

The Promise Beneath the Bamboo

The year Mai passed the entrance examination for the district high school, her family could not afford to pay for her lodging. She planned to leave school and work at a garment factory. Mr. Tu heard about it and went to her house. He did not offer lofty advice. He simply gave Mai’s mother a sack of rice and said it was payment for the ferry fares he still owed their family from many years before, even though Mai’s mother had never recorded any debt.

Mai’s mother refused, but he set the sack of rice down on the veranda and walked away. Three days later, he brought an old study lamp. It was badly scratched in places, and its electrical cord had been wrapped in tape, but it still worked. He said a relative living far away had sent it to him and that his household had no use for it.

Mai understood that he was helping her. She ran to the ferry landing and searched for him beneath the bamboo grove.

“I’ll pay you back someday,” she said.

Mr. Tu smiled and pressed the oar down into the bottom of the boat. “If you remember, don’t pay me back. When you meet someone who needs help and you can help them, just reach out your hand. That’s enough.”

Mai nodded. She did not know that this promise would stay with her for many years.

After graduating from university in the city, Mai worked at a small publishing house. She rented a cramped room, rode the bus every day, and had to work for many years before finding a stable job. Her busy life meant she rarely returned to her hometown. Whenever she called her mother, she always asked about the ferry landing, but her mother would say each time that Mr. Tu was still healthy and still rowing the ferry as before.

Then, one rainy season, her mother called to tell her that the new bridge had been completed. From then on, the villagers no longer needed to take the ferry. Mr. Tu had taken down the shelter and stored the boat in a small shed behind his garden. Mai planned to return that weekend to visit him, but just then she had to go on a business trip. After that trip, one work assignment followed another. The appointment kept being postponed until one day she received word that Mr. Tu had died.

The Return

Mai returned to the village one late-autumn afternoon. The road leading to the ferry landing was covered in grass. The bamboo grove, once sparse, had grown dense, its leaves brushing against one another with a rustling sound like a conversation taking place far away. The new bridge stood not far from there, broad and sturdy, with vehicles passing over it continuously. But the old ferry landing still had its few rotten wooden steps and the post for tying boats, leaning at the water’s edge.

Mr. Tu’s house was locked. A neighbor handed Mai a small wooden box and said that Mr. Tu had instructed him to give it to her if she ever came back.

Inside the box was the notebook in which he had recorded the ferry fares. The first pages had yellowed with age. Beside each person’s name, he had written a very small amount; for some, there was only a dash. Near the end of the notebook, Mai saw her own name. Beneath it was no number, only a line written in trembling handwriting: “Paid in stories.”

Mai sat on the veranda for a long time. She remembered the mornings when Mr. Tu stood amid the mist, the old towel, the smell of damp wood, and the sound of the oar stirring the water. She also remembered the promise beneath the bamboo. Over the years, she had helped several colleagues, bought books for a child in her neighborhood, and quietly paid the school fees for a friend’s child. But she had never thought of those things as a way of repaying her debt to Mr. Tu.

The next day, Mai walked around the village. She realized that many children still had to walk quite far to get to school because the new bridge lay beyond the main road. Some studied in houses with little light, using old textbooks passed down from older brothers and sisters. A boy named Nam reminded Mai of herself when she was young. He loved reading but had only a few storybooks whose covers had fallen off.

Mai returned to the city and told her friends at the publishing house about the ferry landing and the notebook. She did not call for anything grand. She simply asked whether each person could contribute a book suitable for children. A month later, she and several others brought boxes of books, a number of study lamps, and school supplies back to the village. Mai’s mother asked permission to use the empty room beside the community center as a reading room. The villagers contributed their labor to clean it, build shelves, and repair the windows.

Mai named the room “The Ferry Landing Corner.” She did not put up a large sign or write down the founder’s name. On the wall was only an old oar, cleaned until it shone, which a neighbor had found in the shed at Mr. Tu’s house.

The River Keeps Flowing

In the years that followed, Mai returned to the village every summer to hold a reading session for the children. She told them about ordinary people who had done a kind thing at exactly the moment someone else needed it. She did not mention Mr. Tu’s name right away. She wanted the children to understand that kindness was not something distant, nor did it need to be expressed in very grand words.

One time, the boy Nam asked, “Teacher, if I help someone else someday, do they need to pay me back?”

Mai looked out at the river. The afternoon sunlight spread across its surface in flickering streaks. She remembered Mr. Tu’s words from long ago: as long as the river kept flowing, people would keep meeting one another.

“No, they don’t,” she replied. “But remember how it feels when someone helps you. When you meet someone who needs help, you’ll know what to do.”

Nam nodded, then lowered his head and opened the book in front of him. Outside, the new bridge continued to carry people between the two banks. The old ferry landing no longer echoed with the sound of oars, but the ferryman’s story continued to pass through the village, from Mai to children who had never met him.

Some promises are not written on paper, and no one needs to witness them. They remain in a small act, then quietly grow over the years. One day, the person who has received love will pass it on to someone else. When that happens, the debt of gratitude does not disappear. It becomes a new current of water, continuing to flow forward.