Chapter 1: A tale of ignorance

There is intimacy in our memories, when only shared with us. There is a responsibility in facing them when they are dreadful, and peace when confessing them to something bigger than us, such as a kind listener.

This was the deathbed confession of my father:

“My father ordered me to take some water from the well so I went. When I arrived to the well, I saw this one-eyed cat with her three kittens by its side. I saw it was extenuated, bleeding… I thought it was dying. The kittens were meowing incolosalable.

I could not take them with me, and, since the mother was dying, I thought the most merciful thing to do was to kill them.

I drowned them. I threw them into the well in front of the tired eye of her mother. I stood there, watching them suffocate, while they tried to paw away from the water.

I thought I was doing the right thing. I did not know that this cat just gave birth. I did not even know where cats came from. I did not know what pregnancy even was. I saw the blood and I immediately thought his mother was dying.

Then, I grew up and I understood the horror of what I had done. Sometimes, I would go to take some water from the well and I would see this dueling mother, confronting me in the distance.

65 years have passed and I still can see them drowning when I close my eyes. I will never forgive myself.

Beware of the evil of this world, but above all, beware of ignorance —said while holding my hand—.”

Chapter 2: The wizards that did no magic

                                                                   “Let no ignorant of runes drink from this well”

I have been seeing these menacing letters for years now. Carved in the stones of the well, warning you like legends do. I fantasized often about the meaning of these runes.

The last man who could read runes died centuries ago, but father assures they are referring to “the three wizards who did no magic” tale, my favorite one as a kid.

“Anciently, in The age of runes, three powerful wizards wandered the earth. They would taste hydromel, talk runes and appreciate the blue in the sky. These wizards were so powerful, that they casted a spell not to do magic ever again”.

The tale was short, but I loved it. I remember the first time I listened to it. I would start drawing made up runes in the dirt. One day I would become a powerful wizard, so powerful, that I would be in need of no magic to enforce my will.

Typically, a frog, a gnome or a spirit on a vivid dream would appear and call me to action. Then, the path would draw itself before me to be walked down. I had become a wizard.”

But years passed by and “the call for magic” did not grow in me as it was intended in fairy tales. I grew up to obligations as any kid in town; there were fields to plant, cows to milk and now, water to carry from the well.

I threw the wooden bucket into the well and heard a dull noise. There was no water. The cold stones from the well suddenly heated up. The runes were glowing. I felt something behind me and turned back. Standing in front of me, a ruthless one-eyed cat with its fangs sticking out.

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