The King and the Cursed Well

This is one of those stories nobody can pin an author to, though most folks point to Rumi, that Persian poet, for starting it. There’s a bunch of versions floating around, but I’m sticking to the one my father told me years back, with my own spin on it.

Once upon a time, there was a King who his people genuinely loved. Fair, wise, and, unlike the hard-ass kings of the day—merciful. His kingdom was thriving so much that other rulers started sweating. They saw him as a threat, a spark that could light up their own people with dangerous ideas. What if our folks start wanting more? they worried. That fear ate at them until they hatched a plan to knock this King off his high horse for good.

A secret meeting went down—the kind that never makes it into history books. These jealous, entitled kings huddled up and hired a sorcerer, a shady master of dark tricks. The deal was simple: he’d slip into the noble King’s lands posing as some nobody, get to the well everyone drank from, and cast a spell. Nothing fancy—just a curse to drive folks mad with one sip. The kings smirked as they gave their orders: Don’t hurt ‘em physically, just turn their smiles and content faces into shadows of bitterness.

The cloaked stranger pulled it off, pocketed a fat stack of gold, and vanished.

It didn’t take long, days maybe, for the madness to spread. The kingdom flipped upside down. People who’d once cheered the King now glared at him with pure hate. He’d roll by in his royal carriage, and they’d chuck rotten tomatoes, screaming the nastiest things you could imagine—no holding back. One time, a baker who’d baked the King’s wedding bread stood in the square, red-faced, hollering that the King was a fraud who’d lost his damn mind.

The King watched it all, stunned, as his world turned against him. He called an emergency meeting with his tight-knit crew—his most trusted advisors, the ones he’d lean on when the stakes were high. One of them had caught wind of the rival kings’ plot and the dark figure's dirty work. The curse was real, and it was working.

The King didn’t hesitate to act. He turned to his youngest guard, a kid barely old enough to shave, and barked, “Fetch me a cup of that cursed water—don’t spill a drop.” The room went dead quiet as the guard hustled back with it, hands trembling. The King faced his council—those loyal, confused faces—and flashed a subtle smile. “I know how to fix this,” he said, then downed the water in one gulp. He handed the cup to his advisors, still grinning. “Drink. Trust me. Trust your wise King.”

They froze. One—the old war chief—muttered, “Your majesty, are you sure?” Another, a scribe with ink-stained fingers, clutched his chest like he’d been stabbed. But they knew him. One by one, they drank, disgusted as the curse slid down their throats.

A week later, the kingdom was calm again. The people were all smiles—happy as hell—because their King had “come to his senses.” He wasn’t mad anymore, for he was one with his people again.

__

Afterword:

I feel at times like the world has gone mad, and maybe that is why this story my father told me came rushing back into my head.

I'm unaware if there's an official version of it somewhere, somehow I doubt it, and as you can probably guess, I've taken quite a few liberties with it, but I kind of like it this way better.

Anyways, although not entirely obvious, this post is political, hence the tags.

MenO