Dam Di Goes Hunting

Before the sky was fully light, a forest bird called out from the great forest. Its call was crystal clear. It carried through the mist and fell on the roofs of the longhouses, still dark. In the khan of the Ê Đê of the Central Highlands, that bird's call means it is time to get up and light the kitchen fire. A teller of khan does not name the hour. The teller measures the time of day by the forest birds. Each bird that calls brings its own task.

This story is one such khan. A khan is a long epic, sung and spoken aloud, and the Ê Đê have sung it to one another since long ago. People call this piece Đăm Di Goes Hunting. Here the hunt is retold, much of it in words borrowed from the khan itself.

Đăm Di was the eldest of five children, four sons and one daughter. The sons were all able, and the daughter was known across the region for her beauty. But the name spoken most often, the name the khan teller praised most, was still Đăm Di. He was tall and broad, his voice rang like a gong, and whenever he called, the whole village listened.

That morning, Đăm Di stood on the raised floor of the longhouse and called out across the village.

He called the young men to come and fill the floor, so he could tell them what was on his mind. He wanted the young men of the village to go with him into the deep forest to hunt. The great forest of the Central Highlands was vast, full of animals and full of tracks, and no one could cover it alone. They had to go together, in numbers, to make a real hunt.

No sooner had Đăm Di finished speaking than the young men came, many and fast. Before anyone could finish a smoke, they had packed the floor. One spoke up, another chimed in, and all of them wanted to leave at once. Their knives were already sharpened, their blades honed keen, their shields mended and trim. They raised their spears and lances, bristling like the plumes of wild reeds and cane at the edge of the forest. Their talk rumbled like the season's first thunder.

Đăm Di heard them, and his heart was glad. Early the next morning, he said, they would eat rice and drink wine until they were full, then set out while the air was still cool. He told everyone to go home and rest, so their legs would be fresh and their arms strong. In the morning they must hold their shields firm and their knives steady.

When the young men had all gone home, Đăm Di stayed behind to plan with a friend and with his younger brothers. There was Đăm Gơrơoăn, his friend. There were Xing Mun and Xing Mơ Nga. Each of them had an idea. One wanted to go this way, another that way, so the hunt would bring plenty and bring joy.

Only one person sat silent in a corner of the floor, eyes shining, not daring to speak up. That was Hơ Lát Dang, the youngest in the family.

Hơ Lát Dang was still small. His shoulders were not yet broad enough to carry a shield, and his arms were not yet long enough to reach a tall spear. This time, his older brothers would not let him come along. Yet strangely, this youngest boy had very sharp eyes. When a parrot in flight barely tipped its wing behind the leaves, he still saw it. Even the huge rhinoceros of the forest dared not come near where he sat.

Hơ Lát Dang sat there and listened to his brothers plan their routes, quietly hoping. Đăm Di looked at him and understood that hope at once. He laid a hand on the boy's shoulder and told him he was still small and should stay home for now. There was no hurry to go into the deep forest. With eyes that sharp, his feet would soon be quick as well. Next season, or the season after, his brothers would surely call him to come along. The boy nodded, but his bright eyes kept gazing toward the forest.

Then day truly broke.

The bơrơbúc bird called first. That was the time to put the pots on and set up the hearth stand. The ató bird called next, the time to wash the rice and cook it. The kite gave its cry, the time to wrap rice for the road. The bulbul hurried everyone along, the time to open the village gate. And when the mơlang bird called out to send people to their work, the party was already standing in the yard. Their shields were on their shoulders and their spears in their hands, ready to set out.

Those staying behind watched them go. The old people leaned on their sticks in front of the longhouse. The women held their babies and called out a few words, so the men would not lose their way in the forest. Đăm Di walked at the front, tall, with long strides. His younger brothers and the young men of the village followed in a single line, slowly vanishing up the slope.

The great forest opened before them.

In the early morning, the forest of the Central Highlands was tall and deep, stretching far into shadow. Kơnia trees with straight trunks rose up and up. Their crowns closed together and covered a whole stretch of sky, so the sunlight came down only in thin streaks onto the rotting leaves. Under those trees, human footsteps suddenly sounded small, while the forest grew loud. Leaves rustled high above. A stream ran somewhere behind the mountain. A flock of birds took off in a rush of wings whenever an unfamiliar step passed by.

The hunters moved quietly. The Ê Đê were skilled in the forest. They stepped so lightly that even the dry leaves rarely crackled. They bent to study the ground, reading each animal track pressed into the damp mud. They could tell which animal had just passed and which way it had gone. They lifted their heads to listen, telling the wind from an animal hiding in the brush. The whole vast forest was theirs, and they knew it like the palms of their own hands.

At this point the story draws out long, like a bronze gong on a festival night. Here are the young men of the village walking through the great forest, shields and spears gleaming, their steps as steady as roots gripping the earth. Here is a forest journey made by sons of the Ê Đê, people who treat the forest as home and the mountains as friends.

And at the edge of the village, a young boy stood watching until his brothers were out of sight. Hơ Lát Dang stood there with the forest wind cool on his face. His sharp eyes were wide open, taking in the whole deep green of the great forest. He could not go on this hunt. But the forest was still there, waiting for him. And everyone who hears the story this far smiles. Everyone knows that this Ê Đê village will one day have one more hunter, with eyes as sharp as a parrot tipping its wing across the blue sky.