The Seed that Started a Village

In the winding heart of the great forest, Potsa and his wife, Lisha, pressed on, their weary feet sinking into the damp earth. The towering trees hummed softly as the breeze danced around them, their leaves swaying like unseen spirits watching over the travelers. The couple had ventured deep into the wild in search of a new home, carrying nothing but their resolve, a few belongings, and a pouch of precious rice seeds in a pouch fashioned with sheep bladder. With every step, hunger gnawed at their bellies, and exhaustion clung to their beings, but they pressed on—driven by hope, by the need to survive.

After what felt like an eternity, Potsa, pushing aside a web of vines, stumbled upon a breath-taking sight—a valley cradled by rolling hills, its soil dark and rich, glistening under the golden light of the sun. A spring gurgled nearby, its water as clear as polished glass, feeding into a river where fish leapt through the air like gleaming spears. Bamboo groves swayed gently in the breeze, and wild fruit-laden trees stood in abundance.

Potsa turned to Lisha, whose face was lined with exhaustion but still carried the glimmer of hope. He grasped her calloused hands and said, "We have found it. This is the land where our children’s children will thrive."

As they set down their burden, Potsa reached for his pouch of rice seeds, intending to plant the first grain of their future. But when he loosened the pouch’s strings, a chill ran down his spine. The pouch had torn during their journey, and the seeds had fallen, leaving him with only a single grain resting in his palm. His heart pounded as he turned the empty pouch inside out. This was all they had. Without rice, their survival would be uncertain. He clenched the lone seed, staring at it with despair.

Lisha, ever gentle, placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "A single seed, if given care, can fill a thousand hands. Plant it, and let the earth decide our fate."

Summoning all his faith, Potsa knelt on the warm, fertile ground and carefully buried the seed. He scooped water from the spring with his hands, gently feeding the soil. Then, with nothing else to be done, he rose and began the task of building their home.

Seasons passed. Potsa and Lisha endured hardships—the chill of the night that gnawed at their bones, the prowling beasts lurked beyond the tree line, and the fear that the seed might never sprout. The villagers they had once known had remained behind, their voices now nothing but distant echoes in memory.

One evening, dark clouds engulfed the sky, and a great storm raged over their valley. Winds howled like cursed spirits, and the river overflowed, its waters threatening to wash away their fragile existence. As Potsa and Lisha huddled together in their half-built shelter, the soil where they had planted the seed was battered by relentless rain. Potsa’s heart ached—had the seed lost to the storm?

But when the sun rose the next morning, clearing the mist that blanketed the valley, they saw it—a tiny green shoot emerging from the soil, defying the chaos of the night. As days turned to months, the shoot grew into a mighty stalk, bearing a heavy cluster of golden grains.

With careful hands, Potsa gathered the grains and replanted them. Each harvest bore more than the last, until fields of rice stretched across the valley like waves of gold. With time, travelers, drawn by the promise of fertile land and the generosity of Potsa and Lisha, arrived seeking shelter. Potsa welcomed them all, teaching them to cultivate the land, to honour the river’s gifts, and to give thanks to the spirits of the forest.

Word of the valley’s bounty spread far and wide. The people who settled there brought with them their customs—the rhythm of drums echoing through the hills, the warrior chants sung beneath the moon, the grand feasts held after each harvest, where meat roasted over open flames and rice beer flowed freely. The elders of the new village spoke of how the valley was blessed by the spirits, and the rice that grew there was no ordinary crop—it was the fruit of patience, faith, and perseverance.

Years later, when Potsa and Lisha had grown old, the village gathered to honour them. They built a great granary at the heart of the valley, its pillars adorned with carvings of the single seed that had birthed their prosperity. And when Potsa took his final breath, they buried him beneath the ground where they planted their first seed, where it is said his spirit still watches over the fields.

To this day, when the wind rustles through the golden crops, the villagers say it carries the breath of the first seed—the seed that started it all.