So Dua, the Coconut Boy

The sound of a flute drifted down from the hillside, clear and unhurried like a small stream. Below, a herd of cattle grazed in peace, unwatched, yet not one had wandered off. The youngest daughter of a rich man stood by the hedge and listened, her heart suddenly stirred. Who could play the flute so beautifully?

This is a folktale that grandparents have passed down to their grandchildren for generations.

The story begins with a poor mother who worked for hire, day after day. One scorching summer noon, she sipped the cool water still pooled in an empty coconut shell lying by the road. A few months later, she gave birth to a baby with no arms and no legs, its little body as round as a dry coconut. Astonished and worried, she wondered how she could ever raise such a child. She set the baby down and was about to walk away.

In that moment, a tiny voice rose from inside the round little body. "Mother, please don't leave me."

The mother stood still. The voice was as thin as a thread, but she heard it clearly. She picked up her child and held him close. She named the strange baby Sọ Dừa, which means coconut shell. From then on she raised him without a word of complaint.

Sọ Dừa grew up in his mother's love. Without arms or legs, he rolled himself around the house, chatting cheerfully, cleverer than many children his age. One day he told his mother that she worked too hard, and that he would find work to help. She hesitated but could not bring herself to stop him. Sọ Dừa rolled to the house of the rich man at the head of the village and asked to herd his cattle.

The rich man looked down at the boy and sneered. But nobody else wanted to herd cattle for hire, so he decided to give it a try. Every morning, the boy rolled out to the fields behind the herd. Strangely, every evening the whole herd came home fat and healthy, with not one strayed or sick. The rich man was surprised, and pleased.

The rich man had three daughters. Each day at noon, one of them carried rice out to the herder on the hill. The two older sisters wrinkled their noses at Sọ Dừa, set the rice down at a distance and hurried away. Only the youngest was different. She set the meal down gently, asked whether he needed anything else, and stayed until he had finished eating. Sọ Dừa thanked her in a polite, warm voice.

One day, the youngest daughter brought the noon meal up the hill earlier than usual. Before she reached the top, she heard the sound of a flute. She tiptoed around a clump of trees and stopped short. A handsome young man sat on the hill, playing the flute for the grazing cattle, happy and carefree, as if no one were watching. But at the slightest sound, the young man vanished. Only Sọ Dừa lay there on the grass. She stood spellbound for a moment, then quietly turned away. Her heart fluttered all afternoon.

From that day on, she watched him more closely. Knowing that Sọ Dừa was no ordinary person, she grew fond of him. When his season of hired work was over, he went home and asked his mother to go to the rich man and ask for the youngest daughter's hand.

His mother felt shy, knowing that people would scoff. But her son kept pleading, and at last she went. The rich man burst out laughing. Then, to turn her away without saying no, he demanded an enormous bride price. It was a jar of gold nuggets, ten bolts of pink silk, ten fat pigs and ten jars of fine rice wine. The rich man was certain that such a poor household could never manage it.

The mother came home and told her son, her face downcast. Sọ Dừa listened, then told her not to worry. On the appointed day, every gift the rich man had demanded appeared at his gate, gold, silk, pigs and rice wine, with not a single thing missing. The rich man stood staring, dumbfounded. Reluctantly, he kept his word. The wedding took place, and the youngest daughter was calm and smiling.

When the time came to lead the bride home, no one could see Sọ Dừa in his old form anymore. The handsome young man she had once seen on the hill now stood beside her in the flesh. Everyone was astonished. She looked at her husband, calm at heart, knowing she had not been mistaken. The two older sisters burned with jealousy, but could do nothing.

The couple lived peaceful days with his mother. Then Sọ Dừa devoted himself to his studies. Clever and hardworking, he soon took the highest honor in the royal examinations, and the king sent him as an envoy to a faraway land.

On the day he left, just before he stepped onto the boat, he paused. He placed three things, one by one, into his wife's hands, slowly, like a man entrusting what mattered most. First came a flint, as small as a pebble, but hard and warm in her palm. Next came a small knife, sharp and neat, just right for her grip. Last came two hen's eggs, round and still warm from being held close. He looked at his wife for a long while without a word. Then he said softly, "Keep these with you. Don't lose them, no matter what."

The youngest daughter nodded and kept the three things safe in her sleeve.

Sọ Dừa, now an official, set off. The two older sisters watched him go, then looked at each other. A wicked idea took shape in their minds.

One afternoon, the two sisters sweetly invited the youngest to go rowing out on the sea. Suspecting nothing, she went along. When the boat reached deep water, the two sisters suddenly pushed her into the sea. The waves slapped against the hull, and the boat glided away. The sisters went home, sure that they could now take her place as the official's wife.

Darkness. Cold. The youngest daughter sank. But in the black water, a huge fish swam up, opened its mouth and swallowed her. Inside the fish, in thick darkness, her trembling hands searched her sleeve. The flint was still there. The knife was still there. She struck a spark, raised the knife and cut open the belly of the fish from the inside. The cut split wide and she slipped out, carrying the light of the flint with her. The waves carried her on and on, until she washed up on a small island in the middle of the sea.

The island was deserted. There were only wild plants and the sound of the wind. She lit a fire with the flint and lay there through the night. The next morning she took out the two eggs and kept them warm with great care. A few days later, the eggs hatched. A rooster and a hen stepped out and hopped onto her shoulder, clucking softly. From then on, the three of them lived together on the island, like a mother and her children. The chickens scratched for grain, and she tended the fire. Day after day slipped by, as quiet as waves lapping the shore.

Across the sea, Sọ Dừa finished his mission and boarded a boat for home. The boat glided over the smooth sea. Then, from far away, came the crowing of a rooster. It was loud and ringing, unlike the crowing of any rooster on land. The official stopped and looked toward the sound. The rooster crowed once. Then it crowed again, louder, like a call. He told the boatman to put in at that small island.

The boatman planted his pole and moored the boat. The official stepped onto the island. There, in the morning light on that wild, rocky shore, he saw his wife. She stood with her hair tangled and her old clothes faded by sun and wind. But her eyes were the same eyes. For a long while they looked at each other, unable to speak. On the island there was only the sound of the waves and the wind over the rocks. Then she stepped forward. He came toward her. The rooster and the hen beside them crowed once, joyfully.

Back home, the official held a feast without telling anyone that his wife had returned. The two sisters came and made a show of grieving for their little sister. Then the official called his wife out, and the truth was plain for everyone to see. The two sisters were so ashamed that they slipped away and left home for good.

The youngest daughter and the official lived together again, this time in true peace.

On that lonely island, on a bright morning over the blue sea, a rooster had crowed. It crowed once, then once more, until that boat turned in to the shore. The rooster and the hen stood on the rocky beach. They did not know that they had just done something that nobody else on the sea that day could do.