There was once a small town in the midst of a drought-stricken land. In this town lived a man known to the locals as Old Fool. Every morning Old Fool would emerge from his ramshackle cabin dragging a pickaxe behind him, and he’d spend the day digging a hole. Under the harsh sun for years, his skin had become like cracked leather. His white hair and beard were permanently matted with red dust, and the same hard work that had bent his back double had given his limbs a wiry strength. If anyone ever asked him why he spent his days engaged in such back-breaking labour under the unforgiving glare of the sun, he would give the same answer that he had first given back when he was known as Young Fool. He would tell you that he had heard an Ancient Word which had told him that there was water under the ground, if you would just dig for it.
Every day some of the townsfolk would come and watch Old Fool hard at work, and get some amusement from throwing insults in his direction.
“I’m sure he’ll break the drought any day now!”
“Maybe he forgot where he planted his crops!”
“Foolish redbeard!”
Every day Old Fool would dig and dig, and every evening he would return home even dryer than when he had left. After many years of his digging, the dust bowl was covered in pockets and craters, so many that from the sky it looked like the surface of the moon.
One day Old Fool was out carving the red soil with his pickaxe. As usual, a small crowd of those with nothing better to do had gathered to mock.
“I’m sure he’ll break the drought any day now!”
“Maybe he forgot where he planted his crops!”
“Foolish redbeard!”
Old Fool has been doing this for so long the townsfolk had run out of new insults many years ago. On this morning, as on every other morning before, Old Fool ignored the insults and continued to dig. Just as the sun was reaching its highest point, the mockers were interrupted by a low and threatening rumble beneath their feet.
“What’s that?”
“Feels like an earthquake!”
“Everybody run!”
But before a single soul could move, a huge and violent jet of water gushed forth from the hole that Old Fool was digging. It reached into the sky for at least a hundred metres before showering everything. The ground got wet. The townsfolk got wet. Old Fool got wet.
The topic of conversation changed abruptly. Old Fool didn’t seem so foolish anymore.
“Well I never. He was right after all!”
“Did you see the water? He’ll be rich! He’ll never have to work again!”
“Well, I do remember telling you that we should be nicer to him…”
The next morning the townsfolk gathered in great numbers to see Old Fool’s geyser. The water had continued gushing forth all through the night, and the townsfolk were amazed to see that the holes that Old Fool had dug throughout the years had become pools and ponds, full of fresh life-giving water. Then the door to Old Fool’s cabin opened, and out came Old Fool dragging his trusty pickaxe behind him. He nodded at the townsfolk, then turned and walked off towards the dry and dusty distance.
“What’s he doing?”
“He’s still digging? Even after yesterday?”
“I told you he’d still be Old Fool.”
Many months passed. The water that Old Fool had found continued to flow, and the countryside that he had been digging in had become lush and green. Flowers grew, animals grazed and people came from miles around to drink. Yet Old Fool continued to head off alone each morning, carrying his pickaxe into the desert to keep digging.
One day some of the townsfolk followed him to ask him why he kept going. “Why do you keep digging? You’ve found water. You don’t need to dig anymore.”
Old Fool glared at them and replied, “Your mistake is in thinking that I was digging for my own benefit. I was digging so that others could drink.” The townsfolk shook their heads, shrugged their shoulders and walked off. They did not understand.
Soon after this, Old Fool died and was buried in the dust bowl where he had spent his life digging. His grave is a nondescript plot of dirt in the middle of nowhere, marked only by a headstone that has been crudely formed from a large boulder. People continue to visit his oasis, but no-one bothers to visit his grave. If you ask the townsfolk, not one of them can tell you who buried him or who placed his headstone there. But if you ask, a few of them might be able to tell you what has been engraved on it. An Ancient Word. “His labour was not in vain”.