The Legend of the Waterhen

Long ago, in a poor village, there were two orphans named Quắc and Nhân. Both came from the families of poor scholars. Neither had a father or a mother left, and neither had a fine house with wide doors. They had only each other to lean on. When one went hungry, so did the other. When one ate well, so did the other. Whatever joy or sorrow life brought, each had his friend beside him.

When they had grown a little, the two friends held hands and made a vow, simple and lasting. Whether they lived or died, whether life was sweet or hard, whether they grew rich or stayed poor, they would treat each other as brothers by blood. They would never abandon each other. It was a vow made by poor children, with no feast laid out for it. There were only two hands held tight and two sincere hearts. Even so, it went with them for the rest of their lives.

Quắc was quick-witted and better with letters, so he soon became a teacher. Each day he taught a handful of children to read and write. A teacher earned very little, yet Quắc often shared what he had with his friend. Once Quắc fell gravely ill, and Nhân stayed by his side day and night, brewing medicine and caring for him until he pulled through. But the poor must go out and earn a living, and in the end the two friends had to part and go their separate ways. Quắc stayed with his little class. Nhân packed a small bundle and went far away to work for hire. He took whatever job anyone offered, and he trudged from one region to the next to earn a bite to eat.

Nhân was gentle and hardworking, honest and patient in every task. After much wandering, he found work in the household of a rich merchant. The merchant saw that he was upright and diligent, and grew very fond of him. So he gave the young man his daughter in marriage. Nhân had set out as a hired hand with nothing. Now, all at once, he had savings to spare and a proper house, and he no longer had to worry about food or clothes.

People who grow rich often forget the old days. But not Nhân. At the height of his comfort, he thought all the more of his poor friend from long ago. He remembered how his friend had shared what little he had, and the nights he had sat up by his friend's sickbed. He remembered their vow to stand together in life and in death. He told himself that he could not stay warm and well fed while his friend struggled alone. So Nhân made the long trip back to his old home. He asked around for a long time before he found Quắc again. His friend was still poor, still bent over his little class in a thatched hut.

When they met again, the two friends laughed and wept at once. Nhân took his friend by the hand and insisted on bringing him home. He told his household that from now on they must treat Quắc just as they treated him. His friend was to be well looked after and given a decent place to rest, and he must never go without anything. In those first days under that roof, the two old friends were together morning and evening again. They talked and talked, just as they had when they were small boys. It seemed that nothing in the world could shake their friendship.

Sadly, the wife of Nhân could not understand that friendship. She came from a rich family and had never known hunger or want. So she could not see why her husband valued an outsider so much. When she looked at Quắc, she saw only a stranger who stayed on and on in the house. He ate there and slept there, and helped with nothing. At first there were a few pointed remarks. Later came coldness. She was not cruel. Her heart was simply not yet wide enough to hold the deep bond between two old friends.

Quắc understood how things stood. He knew he had become a worry in that house, a reason for husband and wife to exchange sharp words. He loved his friend. He did not want Nhân to grieve because of him, or the home to lose its joy. So one morning, at first light, before anyone was up, Quắc quietly left. He could not bring himself to say goodbye. He was afraid his friend would hold him back, and afraid of seeing him sad. As he passed through a forest, he took off his head scarf and jacket and hung them on a branch by the roadside. It was a farewell without words. Then he walked on to a far-off place, where he went back to teaching children.

In the morning, Nhân found his friend gone, and he rushed off to search. Then he heard that someone had found a scarf and a jacket left at the edge of a forest. He hurried there and knew them at once as his friend's, and his heart ached as if cut by a knife. He blamed himself for failing to keep his friend. He blamed himself for letting his friend feel so hurt that he slipped away in silence. Without another thought, Nhân plunged into the forest to find him. He pushed through thorns and thickets, and he called out wherever he went. Quắc. Quắc. His call rang out again and again, full of longing, never resting.

The old tellers say that Nhân kept walking like that, on and on, calling his friend by name, and he never came home. His love for his friend was too great, and his longing too deep, to fade away when his footsteps did. That love became a small bird, so that night after night it could still call out for his friend. The call of that bird is strangely full of longing. Two short notes follow each other, as if calling a dear name from long ago. Quốc. Quốc. People say that this is Nhân, who turned into a bird. He is still searching for his friend in the night sky, still calling him with all his heart.

As for the wife, by the time she understood everything, it was too late. She was filled with regret. She grieved for her husband, and for a beautiful friendship that she herself had broken off without meaning to.

Vietnamese people have told this story from one generation to the next, so that each time they hear the quốc bird, they remember the two old friends. The quốc bird, also called the cuốc bird, is a real bird. It lives in rice fields, on reed banks and in the grassy brush along rivers. It is known in English as the waterhen, a marsh bird of the rail family. And just as the tale says, its call sounds like quốc, quốc, a little sad and full of longing.

On clear summer nights, a restless bird call drifts in from the far fields. Quốc. Quốc. The people of old said it is the voice of one friend still searching for another. Through season after season of sun and rain, the two still call each other by name, and will not let each other go.