The Song of Nai Ngoc

On a high mountaintop in the Chư Bô-đa area, there was a very strange green stone. It was shaped like a small child sitting on the back of an elephant. For many, many years, the wind blew across it and the rain washed over it. Every morning the forest birds flew in, perched around the stone and sang their finest songs.

The Gia Rai, also called the Jrai, are one of the peoples of Vietnam's Central Highlands. They say the stone simply lay there and listened. It listened to the wind and the rain, to the stream and the birds, season after season. It listened for so long that one fine morning the stone gave a little shiver. It stirred a bit, and then slowly, very slowly, it turned into a real child of flesh and blood, lovely and smiling.

The child walked down the mountain, toward the village in the valley below.

Just then, the village was in trouble. A huge herd of wild animals had come out of the forest. There were deer and wild boar, and flocks of birds besides. They all poured into the rice fields on the hillside, trampling and wrecking everything. The villagers ran out to chase them away, waving their arms and shouting, but the animals would not leave. Everyone was worried, because that rice was food for the whole village.

At that very moment, the strange child came down from the mountain. The child did not wave or scold, but simply stood at the edge of the field and gently began to sing.

And what a song it was. It was as clear as stream water and as warm as morning sunshine. At the sound of it, the whole herd suddenly stopped. The deer forgot to nibble the rice. The wild boar forgot to root in the earth. The birds forgot to peck at the grain. They all turned toward the child and listened, spellbound.

Then something delightful happened. The animals began to bob and sway to the song. When the child sang slowly, they danced slowly. When the song grew quick, they danced quickly. The whole herd danced together at the edge of the field, as gentle as old friends. When they had danced enough, they wandered back into the forest in a long line. They did not damage a single rice plant more.

The villagers looked at one another, overjoyed and still amazed. A young woman of the village, beautiful and kind, ran over and took the child by the hand. She gave the child a lovely name, Nai Ngọc. Hearing that name, the child smiled and nodded. From then on, Nai Ngọc stayed and became part of the village.

Nai Ngọc lived among the villagers, and wherever the child went, the singing went too.

When the villagers went up to the hillside fields, Nai Ngọc sang. Strangely enough, everyone who heard that singing found the work light and forgot what tiredness was. Hoes swung quickly, backs did not ache, and everyone was cheerful. People worked and sang along at the same time. So a long day in the fields passed as quickly as a spell of play.

Because of this, the village fields grew greener by the day. The rice hung heavy with grain, corn filled the slopes, and the forest trees burst into flower one after another. The whole mountain country seemed to share in the joy of the song of Nai Ngọc. Children ran after the singer, and the old people sitting by the hearth hummed softly along. The village had never been so warm and peaceful.

But far away, a few people heard rumors about this well-fed, contented village. They did not come with good hearts. They set out for it thinking only of taking what belonged to others, and every face was full of ill will.

When the news came, Nai Ngọc was neither afraid nor angry. The child climbed a small hill at the edge of the village, stood there and began to sing. The song was about the mountains and forests of home and the seasons of ripe rice. It was about the people of the village, who loved one another like family.

The song rode the wind far away, all the way to the people who meant harm.

And strangely, as soon as they heard it, those people stopped short. The fierce look on their faces slowly softened. Their hearts had been as hard as stone, but now they grew soft on their own. They stood still and listened, on and on, and felt a tenderness rise in their chests that was hard to put into words. They looked at one another, and each of them felt ashamed of the bad intentions of a moment before.

So they quietly set down what they had brought. They left their spears by the road, turned around and went home together. There was not a single quarrel and not a single clash. There was only the song of Nai Ngọc, still ringing behind them, following them until they disappeared beyond the forest.

Peace returned to the village. Everyone loved Nai Ngọc even more, and they thought of the child as a gift from the mountains and forests.

Then one day, the villagers could not find Nai Ngọc anywhere. They searched every corner. Someone said they had seen the child early that morning, alone on the old path. The child was walking unhurriedly up the mountain, toward the peak of Chư Bô-đa, the place where the child had been born long ago.

When people reached the peak, all they found was a green stone in the shape of a child sitting on the back of an elephant. It was exactly like the stone of old. Nai Ngọc had gone back to the mountain and turned to stone again. Silent once more, it listened to the wind, the rain and the birdsong, just as before.

The villagers still believe that Nai Ngọc has not gone for good. One day, they say, the stone on the peak of Chư Bô-đa will give a little shiver and stir again. Then Nai Ngọc will walk down to the village once more. And among the peaceful mountains and forests, people will hear that song again, as clear as stream water and as warm as morning sunshine. It is the song that stops the animals from wrecking the fields and makes people forget their tiredness. It softens even hearts as hard as stone, so that people love one another.