The Saxèfa Spring
My story flies, flies, and lands on a hunter who had two wives. The first, disabled and forced to walk with crutches, was called Saxèfa. Weak in body but strong in spirit, she was the mother of two children. Her disability kept her from doing domestic chores. Before gaining hunting land, her husband oversaw all her needs: he fetched water for her, did her chores, went to the mill, and ensured, with constant vigilance, that nothing disturbed the peace of their home.
The second wife, Yongnoui, had no disability. She took care of herself but harbored no compassion nor care for her co-wife.
One day, the hunter left on a long expedition. Days passed. In Saxèfa’s water jar, water was running low. The sun was strong, and the two thirsty children begged their mother for water. Helpless, Saxèfa sent her children to Yongnoui to ask for some water.
Yongnoui refused dryly, “If I were like your mother, I wouldn’t have water either. I have nothing to give you.”
The children returned to their mother in tears, telling her the stepmother’s cruel words. Her heart broken, Saxèfa wept over her disability, regretting that she was unable to get up and go to the well herself. Hoping to soften Yongnoui, she sent back her children to beg her a second time for only a calabash of water.
The reply was even harsher, “Go tell your mother to grab a basin and go fetch water herself!”
The kids returned to their mother; their faces wet with tears. This time, Saxèfa cried with them. Then, gathering what strength she had, she began to crawl, dragging her bruised body, her children behind her. Slowly, with difficulty, she reached the bush. In the shade of a large tree, she rested.
Suddenly, a miracle occurred. Saxèfa’s body transformed into rushing water. There, where she lay, a clear and cool stream sprang forth. The children, shocked, drank from this new stream and quenched their thirst. But when they looked up, their mother had disappeared. They cried for a long time on the riverbank, then returned to their village with heavy hearts.
When he returned from his hunt, their father found them silent and grief-stricken. They told him everything: their thirst, Yongnoui’s refusal, their mother’s miraculous transformation. The hunter, shaken, went to find his second wife and ask her why she had refused to give the children water.
Yongnoui replied arrogantly, “If you knew that your children would be thirsty, you should have left them water in their mother’s jar before leaving.”
At these words, the hunter’s blood ran cold. He then asked his children to take him to where their mother had been transformed into water. Arriving there, he looked at the clear stream that rushed beneath the trees for a long time. Then he asked his children to return to the village. He placed his gun on the ground. And then, in solemn silence, he too transformed into water, joining Saxèfa in fluid eternity.
The following day, seeing her husband had not returned, Yongnoui asked the children. They indicated to her the place where their parents had transformed. She went there. There she found two distinct rivers: one, clear and pure, glimmered in the sunlight; the other, darker, mingled with the shadows of the undergrowth. Seized by the power of the miracle and the weight of her guilt, she too transformed into water. But her water was neither clear nor peaceful. It was cloudy, soiled, full of darkness, as if her jealousy had left a mark on it.
Since then, it is said that the river of Saxèfa has become a source of water for the whole village. Its water is clear and generous. Everyone goes there to drink and remember the mother who gave her life to quench her children's thirst. As for the other two bodies of water, they remain separate: one, silent and serious; the other, troubled and somber, reminds us that a hardened heart always bears the mark of its own acts.
And my tale gently takes flight again, leaving behind it a lesson: goodness becomes a source of life, but a hardened heart turns into bitter water.