The Wizard and the Hopping Pot

There was a kindly old man that lived in a small village.

He was a wizard and he used his magic for the benefit of his
neighbors, but he never spoke about the true source of his
powers.

When this beloved man was so old, he died and all his
belongings were now for his only son. He was a very different
man, because he believed that people who can’t use magic
were worthless. He had discussed with his father so many
times about using magic with the villagers.

After the father’s death, the son found an old cooking pot
with a small package inside it with his name. He expected for
gold, but found instead a soft slipper, too small to wear and
with no pair. Next to the slipper, there was a note that said
“In the fond hope, my son, that you will never need it”.

The son was angry with his father, then threw the slipper
back to the pot. He didn’t like his father softened mind. That
night, a peasant woman knocked on the front door.

“My granddaughter is afflicted by a crop of warts, sir.”

she told him “Your father used to make a special potion in
that old cooking pot –”

“Begone!” screamed the son. “I don’t care of your child’s

warts.” and he slammed the door in the old woman’s face.

That very moment, a strange sound came from the

kitchen. The wizard took his wand and went there to see his
father’s old cooking pot. I had a single foot and was hopping
on the spot, making a terrible noise. The wizard approached a
bit surprise, but felt back when he saw the surface of the pot
covered with warts.

“Disgusting object!” he cried, and he tried to vanish the

pot, then clean it with magic, and finally force it to leave the
house. None of his spells worked and the wizard couldn’t stop
the pot to hop and follow him all night.

Next morning, the pot was still there clanging and

hopping alongside his bed, and then in the kitchen while he
was preparing breakfast. Clang, clang, clang, was the irritable
sound. That very moment, a second knock came on the door.
An old man stood in front of the door.

“My donkey is lost, or maybe was stolen.” said the old

man “Without my donkey I can’t go to the market and my
family will be hungry tonight.”

“And I am hungry now!” screamed loudly the wizard a

slammed the door upon the old man.

Clang, clang, clang, went the old cooking pot’s single foot,
and now its noisy sound was mixed with the brays of a
donkey and groans of human hunger. The wizard hated that
pot even more.

That evening came a third knock and a young woman

stood on the threshold. “My baby is grievously ill,” she said.
“Won’t you please help us? Your father told me came if I –”
but the wizard slammed the door before the woman could
finish to talk.

Now the tormenting pot was filled with salt water, and
slopped tears all over the floor as it hopped, and brayed, and
groaned, and sprouted more warts.
 Though no more villagers came to the wizard’s house, the
pot did not stop to inform him of its many ills. A few days
later, the pot was still braying and hopping and groaning and
slopping and sprouting warts. Just when the wizard couldn’t
sleep or even eat, he decided to help it.

“Bring me all your problems, all your troubles and your

woes!” he screamed to the pot and went with it to the night of
the village. “Come! Let me cure you! I have my father’s
cooking pot, and I shall make you well!” said him with wand
in hand, and started to cast spells in every direction.

Inside one house, the little girl’s warts vanished as she

slept. The lost donkey was summoned in its stable safe and
sound. The sick baby was healed in a matter of seconds. At
every house of sickness and sorrow, the wizard casted his
spells, and little by little the pot became quiet, shiny and
clean.

At the end, the pot burped out its soft slipper, and
permitted the wizard to fit it to its single foot. From that day
forward, the wizard kept helping the villagers, just like his
father, and with the cooking pot beside him remanding him
with his hopping.

THE END