The Seven Young Men

At midday, a whole village lay as still as if it were asleep. Seven brothers stopped at the edge of the forest and looked down at it. The longhouses stood close together, their roofs low and their doors shut tight. Not a single thread of kitchen smoke rose. There was no sound of people, no chickens, no children. At midday a village should be full of noise. Yet this place was so quiet that the wind could be heard passing through the big leaves.

This is an old tale of the Ê Đê people of the Central Highlands. They have told it to one another for generations beyond counting.

The seven brothers were sons of one big family. All seven were grown, strong and hardworking, but the land around their village grew more crowded every year. The hillside fields were small, and there were many mouths to feed. One day the father and mother sat down to talk it over. Perhaps the whole family should move away and look for wider land. Hearing this, the seven brothers spoke up. "Let us go ahead and find the land," they said. "Once we find it, we will come back for you."

The eldest brother gave his younger brothers one rule. Wherever they went, they would go together. The seven of them must never split up. Then they set out.

They crossed forest after forest and climbed slope after slope. In one region, the earth under their feet changed color. It was red soil, as loose and fine as flour, and it gave off the raw, earthy smell of good land. When the Ê Đê look for a place to found a new village, this is the kind of soil they seek. It is rich enough to take the seed, with water close by. The brothers were overjoyed. This was the place.

But right beside that red land lay the silent village.

They went down and walked between the two rows of longhouses, their steps growing soft. Every house was shut. They called at the doors, and no one answered. The youngest brother spoke quietly. "Brother, something has happened here. Why else would everyone leave their homes and hide away like this?"

Just then, a young woman peered out of a pit dug into the ground. Her face was drawn with hunger and fear. When she saw seven strangers, her first thought was to duck back down. But looking closer, she saw they were only brothers who had lost their way, and she dared to climb out.

She told them what had happened, her voice still shaking. For four days now, her village had been in trouble. A giant bird had swooped down from the sky, bigger than anything anyone had ever seen. The people of the village called it kơ na kinh. Behind it came a whole flock of fierce birds, called gơ rứ, so many that they blotted out the sun. They circled above the village and carried people off. Her father and mother and all her relatives had been herded away. She had been quick enough to slip into the pit, and so she was still here to tell it. The men of the village had tried to shoot. But when an arrow struck the body of the lead bird, the arrow bounced off, as if it had hit stone.

The seven brothers listened and fell silent.

Here was a bird that arrows could not pierce. Here was a flock so large that no one dared step outside. And the brothers were only seven men, newly arrived, with the dust of the road still on their feet. How could they hold a bird like that? How could they win back a whole village of people, shut away somewhere deep in the forest? This was not their village. They had already found their good land. All they had to do was go home and bring their parents.

But the seven brothers did not leave.

The eldest brother sat down, looked around, and slowly worked out a plan. Fighting the flock in the open sky would never work. There were too many of them, and they could fly. The birds had to be made to come into a place the brothers had prepared for them.

He chose a sturdy longhouse. The brothers shut all the other doors and wedged them tight, leaving only the widest door open. In the roof they cut exactly seven holes, each just big enough for a bird to push its head through. Each brother took one hole and crouched right beneath it, hands ready, eyes fixed on it. At the widest door, the eldest brother hung a huge noose of strong braided rope and tied it to the main post. That place was meant for the lead bird alone. It was the biggest of them all, the one that no arrow could pierce.

When all was ready, the brothers hid silently inside. From the mouth of the pit, the young woman watched, holding her breath. The whole village lay utterly still, waiting.

Then the sky grew dark. The gơ rứ came back.

Their wings beat with a roar, like hail pounding down on the roof. The fierce birds dived in, trying to get into the house. But the house was shut tight. Whenever a bird pushed its head through a hole in the roof, the brother guarding that hole at once waved his arms and shouted. He drove it back into the sky. Seven holes, seven men, not a single gap. The flock raged and beat their wings on and on, but not one bird got in. After fighting so long in vain, they slowly lost heart. With short, sharp cries, they scattered into the forest night.

Only the lead bird was left.

It was bigger than all the rest, and cleverer. It did not waste its strength on the small holes in the roof. It aimed for the wide door, which looked easiest, and flew straight at it. But right in that doorway hung the noose the eldest brother had set. As soon as the bird thrust its head through, the rope pulled tight. The seven brothers seized the end of the rope together, braced their feet against the floor, and held fast. The giant bird thrashed and struggled until the whole longhouse shook. But the noose only grew tighter, and not one of the seven brothers let go. At last it lay still, held fast, unable to harm anyone again.

After four days of terror, the village was suddenly at peace.

Caught, the lead bird finally told them where the people were hidden. The whole village had been herded into a cave in the mountains, its mouth blocked shut. Following its words, the seven brothers and the young woman found the place. They cleared the cave mouth and brought the people out one by one. The young woman's parents held her in their arms, unable to say a word. The whole village was saved. Everyone crowded around the seven young strangers who had come out of nowhere and rescued them all. Some held their hands, some asked them questions, and no one wanted to leave their side.

From then on, the village came back to life. Kitchen smoke rose again. The young woman married the youngest brother. Following the Ê Đê custom, the groom went to live in his wife's house and became a member of her village. The other six brothers kept the promise they had made on the day they set out, and went home for their parents. The whole family traveled together to the rich red land next door. There they chose a spot by a clear spring for drawing water, built new longhouses, and cleared their first fields.

When the longhouse was finished, its roof curved upward. From far off, it looked like the hull of a boat turned upside down in the middle of the village. The staircase up to the floor had seven wooden steps. At the top of the stairs, a crescent moon was carved, so that anyone climbing up would know this house belonged to the mother.

And the village that had once lain so still at midday was full of voices again. Doors stood open. People called out to one another. Some drew water at the spring, and others planted seeds in the fields. As evening fell, at the foot of a longhouse still fragrant with new wood, an old man and an old woman leaned on their walking sticks. Slowly they climbed the steps, one step at a time. When they reached the seventh step, their seven sons were already standing on the floor above, waiting for them.