The Three Axes

The sound of an axe rang out from the direction of the stream, every stroke firm and even. The early mist still drifted over the water, and a few forest birds perched on the branches, looking down. A woodcutter was chopping firewood on the bank of a small lake. His shirt was soaked with sweat across the back, and still he did not rest. He was poor. He had no fields and no garden, only his two hands and an old iron axe to earn his living each day.

Generations of Vietnamese children have grown up with this folktale. It has long been part of the Vietnamese language textbooks for primary school. It is the story of a woodcutter, an iron axe, and the one thing an old immortal wanted most to know.

That day, just as the woodcutter swung his axe, his hand slipped. The iron axe flew out of his grip, tumbled across the grassy bank, and dropped straight into the lake. There was a small splash, then silence. He stood watching the ripples spread across the water, and his heart felt torn in two.

That axe was the most precious thing he owned. Without the axe, he could not cut firewood. Without firewood, he had no money to buy rice. He sat down on the grass, covered his face with both hands, and did not know what to do.

Suddenly the surface of the lake stirred gently. A sweet fragrance drifted past. Then an old immortal rose up in the middle of the water. His hair and beard were silver white, his robe was as white as a cloud, and his eyes were bright and kind.

The immortal asked softly, "My son, why the tears?"

The woodcutter lifted his head, wiped his tears, and told him honestly. "I let my axe slip and fall into the lake, and that axe is all I have. Without it, I do not know how I will live."

The immortal nodded, then quietly dove beneath the water.

After a while, he came back up holding an axe. It glittered with the gleam of gold. The immortal held it out and asked, "Is this your axe?"

The woodcutter looked at the golden axe for a moment. It was beautiful, much bigger and brighter than his old iron one. But he shook his head. "No, sir, it is not. My axe is only an iron axe."

The immortal said nothing and dove down again.

This time he came up with a different axe. It was a pure, shining white, its silver glinting in the morning light. The immortal asked, "Then is this one your axe?"

The woodcutter looked again. The silver axe was even more beautiful, sharp and finely shaped. But still he shook his head. "No, sir, that is not it either. My axe is not as fine as this."

Once more the immortal dove down. The third time, he came up holding a black axe, old and worn, its wooden handle rubbed smooth and shiny. It was a plain iron axe, nothing special at all.

But the moment the woodcutter saw it, he jumped to his feet. "Sir, that's it! That is my axe!"

The immortal smiled and placed the iron axe in his hands. Then he looked him straight in the eye and spoke warmly. "You are honest. You refused the gold axe and the silver axe that I offered you. You are not greedy. So all three of these axes are yours."

The woodcutter stood there, stunned. Three axes, iron, silver and gold, all lay in his hands, heavy and warm. He bowed his head and thanked the immortal. Tears welled up in his eyes again, but this time they were tears of joy.

That afternoon, the woodcutter went home with the three axes. He sold the gold axe and the silver axe for money to buy rice and more land, and from then on his life changed completely. The iron axe he kept. It was the one that felt most at home in his hand, and it reminded him of that morning by the lake.

The news spread all through the village. When his neighbor heard it, the man's eyes lit up. The next day he went to the lake too. He pretended to chop firewood, then threw his own iron axe into the water on purpose. He sat down and pretended to cry very loudly.

The immortal appeared again and asked what was wrong.

The neighbor sobbed, "I let my axe slip and lost it. Oh, how miserable I am!"

The immortal dove down. The first time, he came up with the gold axe. Before the immortal could even ask, the neighbor eagerly reached out his hand. "Yes, that's it! That gold axe is mine!"

The immortal stopped. He looked at the neighbor for a while. He said nothing.

Then he laid the gold axe down on the water, dove down once more, and this time, he did not come back up.

The neighbor waited and waited, but the immortal never rose again. He looked down into the lake, and his own iron axe did not float up either. He waited until noon, then until late afternoon. Nothing came.

The neighbor went home empty-handed. No gold axe, no silver axe, and he had lost the iron axe he had thrown into the lake that morning as well.

It is a simple story, and it lingers long after the telling. The immortal by that lake never asked whose axe was finer or worth more. He asked only one question: is this yours?

And an honest answer, given on a morning when the mist still drifted over the water, was what won all three.