The Story of the Devoted Son

In the mountainous region of northern Vietnam, where mist clings to ancient peaks and rice terraces climb toward the clouds, there lived a poor family in a small village called Bắc Hà. The family consisted of an elderly father named Thành, his frail wife Liên, and their only son, Hiếu, whose name meant “devoted” in the old language.

Hiếu was twenty years old, strong and intelligent, with hands skilled in farming and a heart full of love for his aging parents. Though many young men his age had left the village to seek fortune in distant cities, Hiếu remained, determined to care for the two people who had given him life and raised him with such sacrifice.

Old Thành had once been the finest rice farmer in the village, but years of hard labor had bent his back and weakened his legs. Mother Liên had grown so thin and pale that she could barely lift a bowl of rice to her lips. The small plot of land they owned produced barely enough to feed one person, let alone three.

“My son,” said Thành one evening as they shared their meager dinner of rice porridge and wild vegetables, “you should leave this place. Find a good wife in the city, make your fortune. Your mother and I are old—we have lived our lives.”

Hiếu set down his bowl and looked at his father with eyes full of determination. “Father, a tree that forgets its roots will wither and die. I am nothing without you and Mother. I would rather eat grass and sleep on stone than abandon those who gave me everything.”

The old man’s eyes filled with tears, but he shook his head sadly. “Noble words, my son, but noble words cannot fill empty stomachs or cure weak bodies. This winter will be harsh, and we have so little stored away.”

Indeed, as autumn progressed, it became clear that the coming winter would test them severely. The rice harvest had been poor due to drought, and the small amount they had managed to gather would last only a few weeks. Other families in the village were also struggling, so there was little help to be found.

As the first snows began to fall, Mother Liên became seriously ill. She developed a terrible cough that kept her awake at night and left her gasping for breath. The village healer examined her and sadly shook his head.

“She needs rare herbs that grow only on the highest peaks,” he told Hiếu privately. “Ginseng root that is at least fifty years old, snow lotus that blooms only in winter, and the tear of the mountain spirit—a special fungus found only in the most dangerous places. But even if you could find these things, the journey would likely kill you. The mountains are treacherous in winter.”

That night, Hiếu sat beside his mother’s bed, listening to her labored breathing. Father Thành lay on his own sleeping mat, too weak to do more than offer comfort with his presence.

“I must try,” Hiếu whispered to himself. “If there is even the smallest chance to save Mother, I must take it.”

Before dawn, while his parents still slept, Hiếu packed a small bag with what little food they had and set out for the mountains. He left a note saying he had gone to find work in a nearby village and would return soon, not wanting them to worry about the dangerous journey he was actually undertaking.

The mountain paths were covered with deep snow and ice. Sharp winds cut through his thin clothes like knives, and more than once he slipped on hidden rocks and fell into snowdrifts. Wild animals prowled in the darkness, and the howling of wolves echoed through the valleys.

For three days and nights, Hiếu climbed higher and higher into the mountains. His hands were cut and bleeding from grasping icy rocks, his feet were numb with cold, and his stomach ached with hunger. But each time he thought of giving up, he remembered his mother’s gentle voice singing lullabies when he was small, and his father’s patient hands teaching him to plant rice seedlings.

On the fourth morning, as he scaled a particularly treacherous cliff face, Hiếu finally found what he was seeking. Growing from a crack in the rock was an ancient ginseng root, its thick stem indicating it was indeed more than fifty years old. Carefully, he dug it from the frozen earth with his bare hands.

Higher still, in a cave behind a frozen waterfall, he discovered the snow lotus—a white flower that glowed like moonlight against the dark stone. As he reached for it, his foot slipped on the icy cave floor, and he tumbled toward a deep crevice. Only by catching hold of a rocky outcrop did he save himself from falling to his death.

The third ingredient, the tear of the mountain spirit, was the most elusive. For two more days he searched, growing weaker with each hour. His lips were cracked and bleeding, his clothes were torn, and his body shook with exhaustion and cold.

Finally, on a narrow ledge high above the clouds, he found it—a rare fungus that grew in the shape of a teardrop, glowing with a soft, silvery light. As he carefully harvested it, a fierce wind rose, threatening to blow him from the narrow ledge. He pressed himself against the rock face and prayed to his ancestors for protection.

The journey down the mountain was even more perilous than the climb up. Hiếu was so weak he could barely walk, and the precious herbs were his only motivation to continue. Several times he collapsed in the snow, and once he was sure he would die there, but each time he struggled to his feet and continued on.

When he finally reached his village after seven days and nights, Hiếu was barely recognizable. His hair was white with frost, his face was gaunt with hunger, and his clothes hung in tatters. The villagers who saw him gasped in shock and amazement.

“Hiếu!” cried his neighbor. “Where have you been? Your parents have been dying of worry!”

Hiếu staggered to his house and fell through the door. His parents rushed to him as fast as their old legs could carry them.

“My son, my precious son!” wept Mother Liên, forgetting her own illness in her relief. “We thought you were lost forever!”

With trembling hands, Hiếu showed them the three rare ingredients he had risked his life to gather. “For you, Mother,” he whispered before collapsing from exhaustion.

The village healer was amazed when he saw the precious herbs. “These are exactly what she needs,” he said in wonder. “But how did you find them? And in winter, no less!”

Under the healer’s guidance, they prepared the medicine. Within days of taking it, Mother Liên’s cough began to improve. Her color returned, her appetite came back, and her breathing became easy and natural.

But the most miraculous change was yet to come. Word of Hiếu’s devotion and bravery spread throughout the region. A wealthy merchant who heard the story was so moved that he offered Hiếu a position managing his business, with a salary generous enough to support his whole family.

“I have many employees,” the merchant explained, “but few with the character and dedication you have shown. A man who will risk his life for his parents will surely be trustworthy and hardworking in all things.”

Moreover, the mountain village headman, who had also heard of Hiếu’s deed, offered him the best farmland in the valley as a reward for bringing honor to their community.

“Filial piety is the foundation of all virtue,” the headman declared. “Our village is blessed to have such a son among us.”

Years passed, and Hiếu’s devotion continued to bring blessings to his family. His parents lived long and healthy lives, often telling visitors about their son’s great sacrifice. Hiếu married a kind woman who shared his values of family devotion, and they had many children who grew up hearing the story of their father’s mountain journey.

The tale of the devoted son became legend throughout Vietnam, passed down from generation to generation as an example of the rewards that come to those who honor their parents above all else.

And they say that even today, if you climb high enough into the mountains where Hiếu once searched for healing herbs, you can still find traces of his footprints in the stone—a permanent reminder that true devotion can overcome any obstacle and that the love between parent and child is stronger than the harshest winter storm.

The villagers built a small shrine where Hiếu had collapsed upon his return, and every year on the anniversary of his journey, families come to pray for the health of their loved ones and to remember that the greatest treasures in life are not gold or silver, but the bonds of family and the strength that comes from putting others before ourselves.