Ouyan the Curlew

Ouyan the Curlew

Long ago, among wide plains and wet lowlands where water shone among the grasses after rain, lived a young man named Ouyan.

Ouyan knew the paths well, could find water in the heat, and heard birdsong before others even noticed the birds in the sky. But there was one thing he could never master: hunting the swift emu.

His mother, Bleargha, dearly wanted her son to bring home large game. Whenever Ouyan returned empty-handed, she sighed.

“Others do not come back from the hunt with nothing. Can you not catch even one emu?”

Ouyan lowered his eyes.

“I am trying, Mother.”

“Trying is not enough,” she answered. “You must bring results.”

These words weighed heavily on Ouyan. He knew that everyone had different gifts, but he was afraid to say so aloud. He wanted his mother to be proud of him.

The next morning he set out before anyone else. The sun had only just touched the tops of the grass when Ouyan saw emu tracks.

He followed them for a long time. At times he ran, at times he hid behind bushes, and at times he stood still and listened. At last a great grey bird flashed ahead of him.

Ouyan rushed after it.

The emu took a few swift strides and vanished as lightly as though the wind had carried it across the plain.

Ouyan tried again. And again.

By noon he was tired, but the emu was still far away.

“What shall I say at home?” Ouyan thought. “Mother will be disappointed again. Everyone will decide that I am good for nothing.”

On his way back, he saw bushes near the marsh with thick reddish roots. Ouyan knew they were bitter and scarcely edible. But from a distance, wrapped in broad leaves, they might resemble pieces of dried game.

And then a bad idea came to him.

“I will say it is emu meat. Only this once. Tomorrow I will surely hunt a real one.”

He cut the roots, wrapped them in leaves, and carried them home.

Bleargha was delighted.

“You see! I knew you could do it.”

Ouyan smiled, but his happiness was uneasy. The lie already lay between him and his family like a pebble in a shoe.

When the roots were cooked, they turned out to be very bitter. Those who tasted the dish pushed their bowls away at once.

“A strange flavour,” said one woman.

“It does not taste like emu at all,” added another.

Ouyan quickly replied, “Perhaps that emu ate bitter grasses.”

The next day his mother again asked him to bring home game.

Ouyan went to the plain, saw an emu again, and again could not catch it.

And again, instead of returning home honestly, he went to the marsh for the red roots.

But this time Bleargha and two of her friends followed him quietly. They wanted to understand why the strange “game” had the same bitter taste each time.

They saw Ouyan beside the water. He was crouching down, cleaning red marsh mud from the roots and wrapping them in leaves.

Bleargha stepped out from behind the bushes.

“Ouyan.”

The young man started.

He looked at his mother, at the roots in his hands, and understood that there was no point in inventing more stories.

“I did not catch an emu,” he said softly. “Not yesterday, and not today.”

No one shouted. That made Ouyan feel even more ashamed.

“Why did you not tell the truth?” his mother asked.

“Because I was afraid you would decide that I was worse than the others.”

Bleargha was quiet for a long time.

Then she looked at the wide marshland where birds circled above the water.

“I wanted you to be a skilful hunter,” she said. “And I insisted on it so much that I did not notice how many other things you can do. But you too had to tell the truth. Deceit only made everything harder.”

Ouyan nodded.

He wanted to be alone for a while, so he walked farther into the marsh. Red mud clung to his legs almost to his knees. Ouyan moved among the reeds, listened to the whisper of the grasses and the far-off calls of birds.

It was here that he suddenly felt calm.

He knew where the water was shallow and where a deep pool hid beneath the grass. He noticed tiny tracks along the bank. He could stand still for hours and listen to the life of the marsh.

In the following days, Ouyan returned there again and again. He showed the others where clean water gathered after rain, where edible plants grew, and where birds nested and ought not to be disturbed.

It turned out that his attentiveness was no less needed than the skill of catching an emu.

And people also began to notice a curious marsh bird with long legs. Its legs seemed reddish, as though it had just come from the same mud in which Ouyan had once stood. In the evening, the bird lifted its head and called in a long, clear voice above the water.

“Do you hear that?” people would say. “It is as though Ouyan is reminding us that we need not pretend to be someone else.”

So in this old tale appeared Ouyan the curlew, the bird of long shores and quiet marshes.

And whenever someone was afraid to admit that something was difficult for them, the elders would remind them, “It is better to return with empty hands and truthful words than to bring a full basket of lies.”

For everyone has their own strength. And sometimes we discover it only when we stop pretending to be someone we are not.

May this story leave a little light in your heart ✨