The sun had baked the fields of Evermere into shades of brown and gold.
Kavi, the young crow, hopped along the dry riverbed, counting each cracked stone as he went. The drought had lasted longer than anyone remembered. Trees drooped. Wells ran dry. Even the wind carried dust instead of cool relief.
Kavi’s feathers were dusty. His beak is dry. Hunger pinched his belly, but it was thirst that pressed hardest.
He had tried old spots before: broken jars behind the school, the cracked fountain by the market, the shallow stream near the forest edge. Nothing worked.
Then he saw something unusual.
A tiny wisp of mist rose from a low, overgrown grove, flickering like a candle flame.
No human had been there in months, maybe years. The leaves swayed without wind, as if something was breathing beneath.
Kavi hesitated.
Most crows would have turned back. But Kavi had learned patience, and patience often required courage.
He flew down and landed on a mossy rock, his claws sinking slightly into the damp earth. Beneath him, half-hidden by vines, a stone cover peeked out of the ground.
A well.
Kavi’s heart leapt. But when he tried to look inside, all he saw was darkness. Not a glimmer, not a drop. Only black.
He tapped the stone with his beak. It rattled. Something moved.
Suddenly, a voice hissed. “Who disturbs me?”
Kavi froze.
A shadow slithered along the well’s edge. A small water snake, its scales glittering like wet metal, raised its head.
“This is my home,” it said. “Why do you come here?”
Kavi tilted his head. “I am thirsty,” he said simply. “I need water.”
The snake laughed softly. “Everyone wants something,” it said. “But few give thought to cost.”
Kavi studied the creature. He remembered his lessons: observe first, act carefully, and be patient before impulse.
“I will help,” Kavi said slowly. “Tell me what you need.”
The snake’s eyes gleamed. “I guard this well. Only those who prove clever may drink, but beware, the well is tricky. Not all that looks like water is water.”
Kavi cocked his head. The words were strange, almost playful, but he sensed truth in them.
“I will do my best,” Kavi promised.
The snake slithered to the side. “Then begin.”
Kavi leaned over the well. At first, it seemed empty. Then he noticed patterns: the stones around the rim were arranged strangely, almost like a puzzle. One stone vibrated faintly under his claw.
He dropped a pebble on it. A small clink echoed, and a section of the wall slid inward, revealing a narrow channel leading downward.
Water glimmered inside. But it was trapped behind a glassy barrier of some strange magic. Too shallow to reach, too narrow to enter.
Kavi pecked at the edge.
The barrier rippled.
His heart pounded.
“Clever,” the snake hissed from above. “But you must think further. The well tests more than patience; it tests perspective.”
Kavi closed his eyes. He thought of every trick he had ever tried. Every puddle, jar, container, and stone, then he tried to imagine something different: not reaching for water, but inviting it to come to him.
He took a deep breath, at least as deep as a crow could, and called softly, “I do not need to take. Will you help me drink if I follow your rules?”
The water shimmered. The glassy barrier cracked, and a small fountain shot upward like a silver ribbon. Kavi drank quickly but carefully, savoring each sip.
The snake nodded. “You have learned two things: patience and respect for what guards life.”
Kavi’s beak was wet, his feathers lighter. He had survived.
But the twist came after he stepped away.
The snake said, “You may drink, but you may not tell the others where it is. Not yet.”
Kavi froze. He had expected guidance, not secrecy.
“Why?” he asked.
“Because not everyone sees the puzzle,” the snake replied. “Some will rush. Some will take without thinking. Some will destroy the grove looking for water. You must learn to choose who to teach, or your wisdom will drown under greed.”
Kavi nodded slowly. He had never considered this. Survival alone was not enough. He had to be wise, too.
He returned to the village without telling a single soul. The drought continued, but he did not despair.
Instead, he began teaching the other young crows small lessons: how to watch the sky for clouds, how to gather dew in leaves, how to notice hidden puddles in the mud.
He never gave away the secret well. Not yet.
Weeks later, the rains finally came in soft bursts, soaking the cracked earth. The old river revived. The secret well overflowed, but Kavi still kept it hidden; not out of selfishness, but because he understood the power of choice.
Some lessons were larger than thirst.
Some victories were quiet.
And some crows, like Kavi, learned that cleverness without care can be dangerous. Only patience, wisdom, and respect for hidden truths could survive both drought and temptation.
That night, as he perched atop the tallest tree, the sky full of stars, Kavi whispered to the wind:
“Water is precious, but wisdom is rarer. One must guard it, or all will thirst forever.”
Moral
Survival alone is not enough. True wisdom includes patience, discretion, and understanding the responsibility that comes with knowledge.