Until the Next Life

Episode 4: Shadows Between Festivals

In November, after the rice harvest, Luang Prabang gave thanks in its own way. Families carried flowers and candles to the temples, tying strings at the wrists of loved ones during quiet Baci ceremonies, calling for health and protection through the dry season.

Khamla knelt beside her grandmother in Wat Xieng Thong, offering a handful of marigolds and sticky rice. She closed her eyes, asking the spirits to shield her brother and to harden her own heart.

When she rose, she saw him again — Étienne — standing at the temple gates, not entering, merely watching. For a moment, his gray eyes softened, as though he, too, sought blessings from gods he did not know.

The River Incident

Weeks later, during a crisp December morning, children played by the riverbank while women washed clothes. A sudden cry broke out — a young boy had slipped on the wet rocks and been swept into the current.

Chaos erupted. Mothers screamed, men ran for boats, but the river pulled the child deeper.

Before Khamla could think, a figure dove into the water — uniform cast aside, boots abandoned on the sand. Étienne cut through the current with strong strokes, reaching the boy and lifting him above the waves.

Gasps and murmurs filled the air as he carried the child back to shore, coughing but alive. The villagers were stunned into silence. No French soldier had ever risked himself for a Lao child.

Khamla stood frozen, her heart pounding as though she herself had been dragged into the water. Étienne did not wait for thanks; he simply nodded once, pulled on his wet uniform, and walked away.

But that night, as villagers murmured prayers of gratitude, they also whispered:

“Perhaps not all foreigners are the same.”

Khamla lay awake, staring at the woven ceiling above her bed. She wanted to hate him still — for being here, for bringing fear, for taking rice. Yet her heart betrayed her, remembering the sight of him lifting the boy from the river like a brother.

The Gossip of Shadows

By February, as the festival of Boun Khao Chi arrived, gossip began to swirl. Women prepared sticky rice balls roasted with egg to offer at the temple. At dawn, villagers placed them at the monks’ alms bowls, smoke rising into the cool air.

But whispers spread that the French officer’s eyes lingered too long on Khamla, that her defiance had sparked something more than anger. Children giggled behind their hands; older women frowned and muttered about spirits being disturbed by forbidden ties.

Khamla felt the weight of their stares. She kept her head low, offering rice with quiet devotion. But when she looked up, she saw him standing at the edge of the crowd, gray eyes steady, a silent acknowledgment between them.

Her heart skipped, and guilt flooded her. She prayed harder, begging the spirits to protect her from such dangerous weakness.

Seasons turned. The cool air of February gave way to the heat of March, and soon the village prepared for Pi Mai Lao — the great New Year.

Yet beneath the surface of offerings and prayers, Khamla carried a secret flame. Each encounter, each act of kindness, each stolen glance from across the courtyard wove a thread she could not cut.

The villagers might whisper, the spirits might disapprove, but the Mekong only carried their story forward, as if it already knew where the current must lead.