The Fountain of Youth

By Chad Statton

Peter chose a table in the back of the tavern, giving himself a wide view of the entrances. He ordered a drink and instinctively scanned the room. He noted a frail old man watching him across the way. He avoided eye contact, but the man continued to watch him. Was he being followed? The man stood, his bones creaking, and shuffled over to Peter’s table.

“May I join you?” He asked.

Peter did not answer right away.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “I wasn’t trying to intrude. Forgive me…” His voice trailed off and he turned to go.

“No, it’s all right,” Peter said. “Please join me.”

“You’re not from around here,” he said as he sat down.

“I thought I blended in so well,” Peter replied, measuring the willow of a man that sat across from him. Twinkling blue eyes peered at him from deep sockets, gray hair flowing down his forehead onto sun-aged skin. He looked as though a slight breeze might topple him over. Peter wasn’t used to being picked out of a crowd.

“Why are you visiting, if you don’t mind my asking?”

Peter hesitated.

“You could say that I’m a treasure hunter,” he finally said.

“Ah, well I’m sure you don’t want to divulge your secrets then.”

“Well actually I’ve hit a dead end and will be leaving soon.”

“Well don’t be too hasty.” The old man smiled, mysteriously. “You weren’t looking for Abkhazia by chance?”

“Ab—what?” Peter asked.

“A long time ago, a great conqueror came to survey his lands,” he said. “But he found something much more.”

“And what was that?” Peter asked, his curiosity growing.

The man looked around and then leaned in closer. He mouthed the words so that Peter could barely make them out. “The fountain of youth.” He looked around again, but no one took notice. He sat back and described how the conqueror and his servant had explored the foggy mountain valleys just east of the town, sometimes known as the “Land of Endless Night,” or Abkhazia in the native Hanyson tongue. He explained the Hanyson people were the ancient protectors of the fountain and lived in the surrounding mists.

“I could show you,” he whispered.

Peter stared at the old man, considering the odds. He doubted the old man’s story but he hadn’t gained his reputation without taking a few calculated risks.

“How far is it?” Peter asked, getting up from his chair slowly.

“Oh, it is only a mile or two from here.” The old man said. He looked harmless, and Peter always kept his loaded sidearm within easy reach. What could it hurt?

“Okay, let me grab some water.” Peter replied.

“Just bring your bottle with you. You will find the waters of Abkhazia much more satisfying.” The old man rose stiffly from his chair and directed Peter into a side alley. He led him down to an old wooden gate nearly overgrown with shrubbery and pushed it open revealing a winding path beyond. The man beckoned Peter to enter first.

“I’ll just follow you,” he said, pulling his jacket tighter, feeling the reassuring cold steel against his back.

“Of course.” He turned and headed through the gate. Peter could not see the victorious smile spreading across his face.

They headed up the rocky trail, the old man surprisingly agile. The fog and mist enveloped them like night. As the darkness grew, the man pulled a torch from his robes to light their way.

“We are not far now,” he said.

True to his word, they shortly came upon a crest, in the center of which stood a rather plain circular stone fountain. Peter grabbed his bottle, ran to the fountain and filled it to the brim. He threw his head back and raised the bottle, but a gnarled hand stopped him.

“No, we must drink the water drawn by another,” the old man said. “The waters of life should only be given to those who are unselfish. If you draw and drink for yourself, the water will only be poison.” He then pulled a canteen from his robes and knelt by the fountain, filling it. He rose and offered it to Peter.

Peter withdrew the bottle from his lips and handed it over, his hand trembling slightly. “Why don’t you go first?”

“Of course. You are right to be wary.” He lifted the water bottle in a toast and drank deeply until it was empty.

“Your turn,” he said, sitting on the side of the fountain. Peter watched for a moment, then throwing caution to the side, lifted the canteen to his lips, drinking slowly at first then gulping it. The water tasted so sweet. He drained the canteen and knelt for more but stumbled. He sat on the edge of the fountain, terribly weak. He felt a jerk as though the world had shifted slightly. Opening his eyes, he looked toward the man and blinked. He saw not an old man, but himself. Peter gazed at the reflection in the pool and saw the old man’s face looking back at him, moving with his movements, withered hands grabbing a wrinkled face. Laughter—his laughter—came from what used to be his body!

“That look on your face, my face. I have had so many.”

“What…?”

“Here, it should be clearer now.” Peter’s body pointed to the bottom of the fountain. An inscription he hadn’t noticed had been carved in the stone. As the water swirled the indecipherable letters changed mysteriously.

Here lies an ancient water flow,
When drawn with cup of friend or foe,
Will transfer souls between them so,
The one must stay, but the other must go.

Invigorated with his new body it took little effort for the conqueror to hold the graying head under the water. The body shook, convulsed and then went still. He lifted his old corpse and threw it over the cliff into the land of endless night.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Chad Statton has always made stuff up but has only recently started to write these stories and share them. He dreams of a galaxy far far away, but currently resides near Atlanta, Georgia, with his wife Tiffany and their six Padawans. He longs to read the great story that no one has ever read in which every chapter is better than the one before and he suspects that Heaven is a much grander version of The Shire.

---

Author Website | Facebook  | Instagram | Twitter