Mikman Ruikhu - the healing waters of the ancients

A sacred tale of faith and healing from Somdal

Before the days of roads and roaring engines, before electric light drowned out the stars, there was a sacred place hidden deep in the Shaori Hills of Somdal.

In those quiet times, people lived in rhythm with the land, and they believed—not out of superstition, but from what they had seen with their own eyes—that the earth itself could heal.

And at the heart of these hills, where the forest thickens and time seems to fold in on itself, lies Mikman Ruikhu—the healing spring pool.

The forest there breathes differently. The air is dense with the scent of wild herbs, and the silence carries weight, as if the trees are listening. Here, every rock has its own place, every tree a purpose, and every wind carries the voice of an old tale passed from grandmother to child. Mikman Ruikhu is not marked on any map. No road leads to it. Yet every child born in Somdal grows up knowing its name.

They call it the pool that heals, the spring that listens, the soul of the hills.

Its water is clear—so clear you can count the pebbles resting on the pool’s floor. It is still as a breath held in prayer, and colder than winter rain. But what sets it apart is not how it looks. It is what it does.

In the days when homes in Somdal were built on wooden stilts, thatched with hay and thick grass, and the nights were lit with pine fatwood torches, the people lived in deep communion with the land. They knew when the birds would nest, when the wild bees would swarm, and when the herbs on the hillside would bloom.

It was during this time—when the forests were thick with untouched wonder—that a group of hunters stumbled upon a spring while tracking game through the Shaori Hills.

It bubbled quietly from beneath the roots of a towering tree—some say a tree older than the hills themselves, and the water gathered into a natural pool, ringed with moss, fern, and the sharp green scent of wild ginseng.

Thirsty and weary, the hunters drank from the pool and felt a strange energy flow through their limbs. They washed their cuts and bruises, and the pain eased. One of them, whose eyes had been clouded for weeks by an unknown illness, splashed the water on his face—and the next day, he saw more clearly than he had in years.

Word traveled back to the village, first spoken softly over shared meals and hearth fires, then passed down from generation to generation like a sacred inheritance.

The elders took it as a sign, and Mikman Ruikhu became sacred. The villagers visited it not with shouts or laughter, but with silence and respect.

They cleared leaves from its surface, and fetched water in small amounts—only what was needed.

Among the oldest and most beloved stories is that of a girl from a nearby village, cast out for having leprosy. In those times, the disease was feared more than death. The afflicted were considered cursed, untouchable, and were left to wander alone into the wilderness.

This girl, whose tale is told but her name lost to time, was weak, her body covered in sores, her spirit nearly broken. She wandered into the Shaori forest, too sick to cry, too tired to run. Then, as if led by fate—or the forest itself—she found Mikman Ruikhu.

She built a small shelter of sticks nearby and began to bathe in the spring pool each day, whispering soft prayers to no one in particular. Days turned into weeks. Slowly, the wounds on her skin began to close. The burning fever in her blood cooled. Her strength returned.

One morning, she looked into the water—and saw herself, clear and whole. Not a scar in sight.

When she returned to her village, those who had once cast her out stared in disbelief. Some dropped to their knees. Others wept. She was living proof of the spring’s power—and from that day, she was no longer seen as cursed, but as blessed by the spring.

More stories followed. The old man whose swollen joints softened after drinking the water. The child with a skin disease who stopped itching after a single bath. The pregnant woman who feared for her unborn child until she cupped the spring water and felt peace wash over her.

But Mikman Ruikhu was never a place of magic for everyone. It healed only those who came in faith, with humility. Those who came out of desperation, not belief—or worse, with greed in their hearts—returned unchanged.

Even in recent times, as some villagers left for cities and foreign lands, they carried the pool  with them in bottles. Tightly sealed, carefully wrapped. Some used it in quiet moments of illness. Others simply kept it near, like a charm from home. For them, Mikman Ruikhu wasn’t just water—it was hope in liquid form, a reminder of where they came from, and what still watches over them.

But not all tales end untouched.

As knowledge of medicinal herbs spread, so did greed. People learned of the wild ginseng and other rare plants growing near the spring pool. They came not to kneel, but to harvest. They uprooted what had been growing wild for generations. They bottled the herbs, sold them, ground them into powders for modern pills.

The plants grew scarce. The forest felt thinner. And the water, once pulsing with invisible life, began to quiet.

Some say the spirit of Mikman Ruikhu has withdrawn—hurt, like a betrayed friend. Others believe it still waits, sleeping beneath the water, waiting for reverence to return.

Even now, the natural spring pool remains.

It does not cry for attention. It does not appear on tourist maps. It does not demand rituals or coins. It simply is—watching, breathing, and listening to those who still believe.

In Somdal, the old ones still speak its name with reverence. They tell their grandchildren the stories by firelight, just as their grandparents did. And as long as one voice remembers, as long as one soul returns to Mikman Ruikhu with a grateful heart, the spirit of the healing pond will never truly fade.

Because Mikman Ruikhu is not just a place.

It is a memory.

A lesson.

A living tale.

And it belongs to Somdal, now and forever.