His shoes and clothes were old and worn from overuse. His pace was slow, and the bag he carried seemed too heavy for his frail health. He would take a few steps properly, then his feet would drag across the hot footpath along the old road.
By looking at his condition, one would assume he was a poor young man who had traveled a long way on foot. He was of medium height, with broad shoulders and sleepy eyes. Not very muscular, but an average build. A thin white cloth was draped over his head to shield him from the intense heat of high noon.
Dragging and stumbling, he entered the old town and collapsed on the main street. With a dying voice, he uttered, “Water… please.”
A barber sitting outside his shop saw the stranger fall. He leapt up from his wooden chair, ran inside, filled a glass of water from a clay pot, and came rushing back.
He held the man’s head in his lap and shouted, “Oye, poor fellow! Open your eyes!”
He poured a little water on the stranger’s face. Slowly, the man’s eyes opened, and he began drinking as though he had been thirsty for centuries.
“Drink it slowly,” the barber warned, pulling the glass away for a moment before letting him sip again.
Once steadier, the barber helped him to his feet and guided him to the shaded seat outside his shop—the one he himself had been using earlier. He went back inside and returned with another glass of water, which the stranger gulped down.
Feeling better, the man looked at him and whispered, “Thank you.”
“Who are you, young man? And where are you coming from?” the barber asked curiously.
“I am from Greyland. I’m looking for a cure—a poison cure. I don’t have much time,” he said in a hurry, attempting to rise.
The barber caught his arm and pressed him back into the chair. “Rest a little. Poison, you say? Well, as far as I know, there isn’t a single healer in this forsaken place. Why are you looking here?”
“I was sent in this direction a few days ago by a wandering man. He told me what I’m searching for can be found in this area,” the stranger explained weakly, sinking deeper into the chair.
A flicker of worry crossed the barber’s eyes. “Can you describe this wandering man?” he asked.
“Sure. He was short, with a big hanging belly. He carried a strange umbrella, rode a mule, seemed kind enough… Oh, and he had a black eyepatch and wore a funny dress,” the stranger replied quickly.
The barber sighed. “I’m afraid you’ve been misled, my poor friend. The man you describe is Dudy Brude. Mischievous fellow. Always looking for thrills, and tricking people is one of his hobbies. If it’s any comfort, you’re not the first he’s deceived,” he said in a low, sad tone.
Suddenly, the stranger collapsed from the chair to the floor. Perhaps he had been starving for days.
“Poor guy…” the barber muttered. He hurried inside his shop, opened the back door that led to another hall with a wooden floor and a staircase, and shouted, “Oye, Selor! Come down quickly!” Then he rushed back to the stranger.
A tall, muscular young man came running from the back door. He saw his father struggling to lift the stranger and quickly helped, slinging the man’s arm over his own shoulder. Together, they carried him through the shop into their home, located just behind it.
They opened a room on the ground floor, near the stairs, and laid him on a bed. After splashing water on his face, the man stirred faintly. The barber turned to his son. “Bring him something to eat, Selor. He looks like he’s been starving for days.”
Selor hurried upstairs to the kitchen and returned with bread, milk, and butter. The stranger ate greedily, as if he hadn’t seen food in weeks. He finished everything, drank the milk, and instantly fell asleep.
The barber studied him closely, then shut the door.
“Who is this guy, Father?” Selor asked.
“I’ve not the slightest idea,” the barber replied thoughtfully. “But I feel he isn’t a bad person. We’ll ask him when he wakes up.”
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