The Flower of Three Wishes

Huff, puff. Huff, puff. In a small forge in a village of the Central Highlands, two bellows are breathing. The fire in the hearth flares up, deep red, then pink, then a dazzling yellow. A boy stands beside it, pulling the bellows with both hands, steady and even, to make the fire burn high. His name is Rít.

Beside Rít, an old blacksmith raises his hammer and brings it down on a bar of hot iron. Clang. Clang. Clang. With every blow, a spray of sparks flies out like a small handful of stars.

This is a story of the Bahnar people of the Central Highlands. The elders still tell it to their grandchildren beside the fire.

Long ago, Rít was an orphan with no father or mother. The village blacksmith felt sorry for him. He took the boy home, raised him and treated him as his own son. He taught Rít how to pull the bellows and how to keep the fire alive. He taught him to read the color of the iron and know when it was ready for the hammer. Then the red bars of iron, passing through the hands of father and son, became knives, hoes and sickles.

Everyone in the village needed what the forge made. Those who farmed the hillside fields needed knives. Those who worked the rice paddies needed hoes and sickles. So everyone respected the old blacksmith, and everyone was fond of young Rít, working so hard beside the fire.

The years went by. The foster father grew older each day. His back bent, and his hands began to tremble. One day he set down his hammer and gave Rít a gentle smile. Then he passed away quietly, at peace, like the fire in the forge that burns down and slowly settles into warm embers.

From that day the forge fell silent. There was no more clang of the hammer. The fire in the hearth went out. Rít was very sad. He sat alone beside the cold coals, and his heart felt empty.

Just then, an old man he had never seen came walking up. His hair and beard were snow white, and he held a branch covered in pretty flowers. He looked at Rít with kind eyes, then softly asked why he was sad.

Rít told him everything. The old man nodded slowly. Then he picked three flowers from the branch and laid them in the boy's hand.

He explained, in no hurry, "These are three wishing flowers. Each one grants a single wish. Just hold a flower, toss it gently toward the sky and say aloud what you want, and it will come true. But remember, there are only three, and no more."

With that, the old man smiled and disappeared behind a line of trees. He left Rít with three flowers in his hands.

Rít gazed at the three flowers, his heart fluttering. He thought and thought. What should he wish for? Then he remembered the king. Everyone said that a king had the happiest life in the world.

So Rít took the first flower, tossed it toward the sky and wished to be king.

In a flash, Rít found himself seated in a palace. He wore a robe of shimmering golden silk and a heavy crown on his head. Servants crowded both sides of the hall. But strangely, a king had nothing at all to do. He just sat still in one place. The robe was stiff, the crown was heavy, and he could not move his arms or legs. After a few days, Rít was bored, so very bored. He missed the sound of the hammer and the glow of the fire. He missed having work for his hands.

Rít shook his head. Being king was not as happy as he had imagined.

So he took the second flower, tossed it toward the sky and wished to be very rich.

In a flash, riches appeared all around him. Gold and silver filled the house, rice filled the granaries, and buffalo and cattle filled the yard. Rít was the richest person in the whole region. But with so much wealth, he began to worry. He worried about thieves lying in wait, about losing things, about his fortune wasting away. By day he stood guard, and by night he lay awake. He could not enjoy his food or sleep in peace. After a few days, he was utterly worn out.

Rít shook his head again. Great riches with worry all day long brought no happiness either.

Only one last flower was left in his hand. This time Rít looked up at the high sky. Lovely white clouds were drifting there. Perhaps he could wish to fly among the clouds, he thought. So Rít took the third flower, tossed it toward the sky and wished to fly up with the clouds.

In a flash, Rít rose up, light as air. He glided among pink clouds, purple clouds and golden clouds, floating like a leaf. At first it was wonderful. But he flew on and on, and up there was nothing but wind and cloud. There was no one to talk to and nothing to do. Rít began to feel sad and homesick. He missed the village, the people he knew, and his own small forge.

At that very moment, Rít suddenly understood something. He had tried all three grand wishes. Yet what he missed most, and loved most, was the old forge: lighting the fire, swinging the hammer, making knives and hoes for the people who worked the hillside fields and the paddies.

All three flowers were used up. But Rít did not need another flower. He only wanted to go home.

Rít returned to the village. He swept the forge clean, piled up coal and relit the fire that had been out for so long. The fire caught again, deep red, then pink, then a dazzling yellow. Rít picked up the hammer, and the familiar clang, clang rang out across the village once more.

Hearing the hammer, the villagers came hurrying over, overjoyed. Some brought dull knives to be sharpened. Others asked him to forge a new hoe. Rít worked without rest, beads of sweat on his forehead and a bright smile on his face. He looked at the rosy glow of the fire and at the happy faces around him. Only then did he feel truly warm and happy inside. To light the fire, swing the hammer and make knives and hoes for everyone was worth more to him than a throne. It was worth more than a treasure, more than the loveliest clouds in the sky.

The Bahnar people of the Central Highlands still tell the story of young Rít to their children and grandchildren. Perhaps, whenever we pass a forge and hear the bellows breathing, huff, puff, and the hammer ringing, clang, clang, we too will remember Rít. We will remember the boy of long ago who traveled so far, tried all three wishes and came home gladly to his own fire.