There was a wealthy entrepreneur whose life was coming to its end. Over his life he had accumulated many things and did not wish to let them go. The old man had heard rumors now and then of a fabled spring in a hidden cave high in the Canadian Rockies. The story told that whoever drank its waters would live forever.
He kept his desire to discover the spring secreted from his family for many years until he learned he had a tumor, which would take his life within a year. Finally, he shared his desire with his most prized possession and sole heir- his son, Art.
“My son, my brightest treasure,” the man began. “I have watched you grow into a strong, intelligent young man as I have grown in my own right from fathering you. My last wish is that you fulfill this desire of mine that I might escape Death’s scythe and gain immortality.
Up in Canada, beyond the splendor and wealth of Vancouver, there is a spring of the purest water imaginable. I have heard the water contains the power of everlasting life. Bring some to me so we may drink of it together, continue to build our empire and never fall prey to Death."
Art set out immediately and, guided by his father’s notes, took a jet to Vancouver and a puddle jumper up to Fort Nelson. There, disguised as a poor man making his way to the fisheries in Alaska, he met an old Eskimo in a diner and traded him dinner for information.
The young man addressed him with a certain reverence, for he could feel the wisdom of the old man across the red linoleum table. “Grandfather, I have heard of a spring west of Churchill Peak where water flows with the power to make a man live forever. Information I gathered before I began tis journey has brought me this far, but perhaps you, with your wisdom and knowledge of this land can guide me to the source.”
“You are the son of a wealthy man, and educated, no doubt,” replied the man, not fooled by the simple clothing the younger man had donned to hide his wealth. “The spring you seek is indeed West of Churchill Peak. A full week’s journey on foot.” And he gave the young man more specific directions, as well.
The youth was thrilled. It seemed so easy to have come all this way and have the answer fall into his lap. His journey was less than a month from ending and he could return to the warmth and trappings of his southern California home. “A thousand thanks, honored one. In the morning, I will finish my quest and return with the legendary water to my father.”
For a long moment, the old man gazed into the beaming eyes of the youth. “The cave bird will have words for you. You will do well to heed them,” he commanded, before abruptly leaving his meal, barely touched.
The young man thought it odd a bird would live in a cave, much less a talking bird, but he reasoned that this cave must hold other wonders besides the spring. He would learn the truth soon enough.
He set out early the next morning, hiring a helicopter to take him to the western slope of Churchill Peak with orders to pick him up again at the same spot in two weeks. He had only his camping gear, and an elegant glass vial in which to store the magical water.
In a week he reached the cave. He paused with awe, breathing in the magic of the place. The sun was warm on his face. He slowly turned and entered the cave. At once, he was plunged in darkness. He stood for a moment and allowed his eyes to adjust to the gloom. From the depths of the cave, a light glowed softly. He followed the luminescence to its source: the spring he had sought. Not wanting to contaminate the water, he took out a ladle he brought just for this purpose and dipped it into the pool. As he began to drain its contents into the vial, a strange voice spoke to him form beyond the light.
Startled, he rose and found the eyes of a bedraggled eagle. The great bird’s feathers were so old and worn they seemed as fur. Its wings had become matted to its body.
“Stop!” screeched the bird. “Do not partake of the water until you have heard my story.”
Astounded at the sight of the hideous creature, the youth could not help but be still, the vial and ladle forgotten.
“I had heard from other animals of its potency and magical properties. Thinking I would live forever and be King of the skies, I entered the cave and drank of the water. Now I am condemned to live here, hidden from the sky I love so for all time, rotting like the corpse I should have been many years ago.”
Art’s shock issued forth in words of disbelief. “You mean the water only extends life, but does not rejuvenate it?”
“Yes, it merely does not permit death from claiming its prize altogether. How welcome death would be,” the bird sighed. “Instead, I am trapped here in the dark, with my former splendor and vigor eternally decaying. All of my family and friends have long since passed, and no other eagles will come near me, such an abomination I have become. I am forever dying without the peace of death ever holding me. I have vowed to live this way to warn others of the peril of this promise. We are granted, by the Creator, a certain time to be alive. To tamper with that is to tamper with creation Itself. Each of us, from the lowliest worm to the mightiest king, may only serve his proper allocation of time on Earth.”
Art considered for only a moment before emptying the ladle back into the pool. He thanked the eagle for his dedication and words of his tragedy then began his week-long trek back to Churchill Peak. As he hiked, he hoped his father would also understand the eagle’s lesson: that eternal life, which allowed neither renewal nor eternal paradise, would be a fate far worse than death.
-Adapted from an Afghan tale
10:58:46 PM 
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