It wasn’t a time of hope. In those days, a cough could send you to the grave, and living to see thirty winters made you an elder in your village. In those days, war wasn’t as frightening, and a man with a sword was a merciful escape from the pain in your chest. The crows didn’t mind, though. They had their feast either way.

But even in the most hopeless of times, a handful of fools carry a glimmer of hope. They cling on to it like a drowning man to a straw. The story of one such simpleton starts with him climbing a hill. A healer who refused to admit that he couldn’t save his patients.

“Why do they always live in the hardest places to reach?” - he said to himself.

Indeed, lived up to their names and lived in the middle of nowhere. But he didn’t complain out of annoyance. He was running out of time.

An illness, no - a scourge went through his people, taking the lives of many. The knowledge and tools he had at his disposal weren’t enough. In this hour, even educated men turn from science to fairytales. The people spoke of an old woman, a wisdom they called her, who lived in a hut in the forests and had hoarded books of knowledge. Some claimed there was no such place. Others said it was cursed.

The healer was out of options, and that was the last straw of hope he could cling on. After two days of hiking, he found the house. An old, crumbling building with no fence around it that stood upright at the mercy of the wind. If there ever was ever a wisdom that lived here, she was long gone.

The only living souls besides him were the crows - tens of them. Scattered all around the yard. Little black spots moved around him, cawing. They weren’t afraid. They didn’t run away. Just looked at him as he neared the entrance.

He opened the rotten wooden door, and it almost collapsed in his hands. He peeked inside and what he saw astonished him. It was a long hall, lit by candles. Its pillars painted with bright colors, the chandeliers made of gold.

But most importantly - long shelves of books covered the walls.

He was too excited to consider how all of this fits inside the old building. The man ran in, the door slowly closing behind him. He took no notice of the idols on the walls, of the statues, the drawings, and the stained glass. He was here for the books and the knowledge they held.

He spent hours rummaging through all of them. Pulling them by their spine to see the title and then pushing them back. He forgot his hunger and thirst. The truth he sought was somewhere in these tomes. He thought about stealing them, but they were too many. He had to find the right one. The exact symptoms were described in a dusty old book that he barely held together. And it also described a cure - a complex brew made out of plants, herbs, and silver.

He found it.

He could actually save them. The healer ran out of the monastery and screamed of joy, but only a caw came out. Looking at his hands, he saw only black feathers. Looking at his feet, he saw scales and long claws. Where the man stood a moment ago, now only a crow remained. A feeling of powerlessness came over him when he realized he knew everything he needed to help, but he could do nothing.

He screamed and screamed, but the forest echoed with the ugly cawing of a crow. The other birds looked at him. Who knows what they came looking for? Who knows who they left to die? But that’s the curse of great knowledge. Once you gain it, you lose the ability to share it.