Vietnamese Mythology Retold: Saint Gióng
God of War, of Health, of Youth
Archive #4: Saint Gióng, the God of War, of Health, of Youth.
Every Vietnamese, from every world and every dimension and every plane, knows the story of Saint Gióng. Some from The Left said they saw him frequently, patrolling The Cradle where Âu Cơ the Allmother birth the first 100 Vietnamese in eggs. Citizens from The Right told accounts of the Saint Gióng blessing their children at the school’s sport festival. Others, those who have survived the War, claimed they felt his presence whenever they pray the memories away.
Those few who caught his eyes, who were chosen as his Heroes, however, rarely see the same benevolent God as the rumours. Setting foot in his quarter of The Heavenly Palace is akin to being trapped by his eyes. Underneath the gentle, raven curl, Gióng’s gaze squeezed the space around anything, leaving the victim in a state where they feel very aware of being naked, and every movement is more ammunition for the enemy.
Sitting at his throne in his corner of the Heavenly Palace, always in his golden armour, the Saint’s posture, where he barely every looked up from whatever book he was reading, demands you either bring him good news on the task he forced upon you, or face the hooves of his iron horse. Being a God’s Hero has always been a curse, just ask Hercules.
Saint Gióng’s story is, of course, well-known and well-told. His mother, the mortal one, was out one day when she came across a footprint on the dirt road, one was bigger than even the butcher’s, because she was the village’s slippermaker and his straw slippers would always take three times the straw to make. Curious, she compared her own foot with the print, only to find her consciousness started to fade. When she woke up, the print was nowhere to be found, but her stomach has grown like a balloon overnight. Worried, she went to the village’s herbalist only to find out she was three months pregnant.
Six months later, the slippermaker gave birth to a baby boy and named her Gióng. He was normal in every way at birth, a bit on the chubby side perhaps, but the herbalist concluded that the boy was as healthy as can be. Yet, even after three years, Gióng still didn’t let out even a single sound, let alone speak or smile. As for all parents whose child-was-born-from-a-giant-footprint, the woman was concerned, but she held strong the belief that the boy was a gift from the Gods.
Back then, Vietnam would face invasion on a monthly basis, and the worst of them, Ân Vương (King Ân) was once again at our border. They would kill and pillage and burn all in their path, taking everything and anything that wasn’t nailed down, and sometimes even the nails weren’t spared. Hùng Vương, The King of Văn Lang (Vietnam’s name at the time), by that time has tried seven times to drive the Ân’s away, yet all he got back was seven severed heads of his generals. As the Ấn’s inched closer to our border, Hùng Vương sent his messengers throughout the land to find gifted individuals to stand up against the enemies.
One day, a messenger arrived at an unassuming village, one situated next to a bamboo forest. Even then, the image of the slim, rugged, but flexible, sturdy bamboo was believed to be the embodiment of the Vietnamese people. In fact, many tales told of how the first bamboo sprouted from the remains of a Vietnamese soldier, and thus the tree was given its resilience, its gentleness, its straightforwardness, and its determination. Hearing the messenger, the boy Gióng’s mother said: “You heard that son? You would never get to defend our country at this rate!”
“Call him. I’ll show you.”
“Who’s there?" - She almost dropped the boy. “I warn you, I was blessed by Lạc Long Quân himself! Don’t think you can scare me.”
“What are you on about, mother? Call the messenger in here before he goes away!” - The voice, tempting, alluring, deep, soft, attractive, dangerous came out of the boy’s mouth. Each syllable calmed the nerve like a sedative, and the slippermaker found herself walking outside, screaming for the passenger, pleading for him to stay, so as not to disappoint her son.
“A three-year-old kid who recently learned to talk is enlisting for the King’s Army? What can you do, cry them to death?”
“Tell the king to gather every single piece of silver in the land to forge me an iron horse, and all the gold to forge me a set of armour. Leave the rest to me.” - The messenger, who was on the verge of laughing at his own joke, forced the air back in so hard he almost choked to death.
Hùng Vương didn’t even question the story, as if the boy’s charm has infected the messenger and spread to the King, and soon everyone of the Kingdom for they willingly donated their silvers and golds without a second thought. The finished products, of course, were so heavy it took the whole army to bring them to Gióng’s village.
“Mother, it’s time to feast!” - For the first time in his life, Gióng smiled.
His mother quickly cooked him her signature dish: rice with salt and lettuce. With each bowl he devoured, the boy Gióng grew an inch and asked for more. By the time he finished the village’s whole stockpile of rice, the three-year-old boy was now a fully grown man, standing as tall as the thatch roof. Before everyone could close their gaping jaws, Gióng dashed out of the house towards the soldiers, started putting on his golden armour, and climbed on the back of the iron horse. The horse, who was cold-metal a few moments ago, now neighed and huffed and puffed fire out of his nose.
Gióng spurred his horse, and it flew like the wind, covering great distances with each mighty stride, causing the heavens and earth to tremble. In the blink of an eye, Gióng reached the enemy camp, bamboo in hand. Ân King might have tens of thousands of men under his belt and years of battle experience, but Gióng he had never face a God. In no time, the enemy soldiers found themselves facing two choices: to run away or face the 3-meter tall man and his fire-breathing iron horse, and those who chose the second option soon found themselves next to their King, crushed to death. In less than an hour, Gióng had rid the land of the threat.
Yet, instead of dousing himself in the glory to come, Gióng rode his horse to the foot of Mount Sóc Sơn not far away from his village, and ascended to his rightful place in the Heavenly Palace.
At least, that was how humans tell the story. Saint Gióng himself, remembers it quite differently.