In a faraway land, in times long ago when your grandfather's grandmother was still just a babe-in-arms, there lived an old man. He dwelt in a small, unremarkable cottage deep in a valley with his dearest friend- a grey mule, named Aisling.
Now, though this man was, to his mind, nothing exceptional in the way of old men, the inhabitants of the nearby village considered him somewhat of an oddity. People have a way of thinking badly of things they do not understand, especially old folks living apart from the upstanding people of society, though this particular fellow was quite pleasant to any person that might cross his path.
"They say he works the Black Arts," the milkmaid would whisper.
"Dun'a set foot within spittin' distance of 'is land," another might say. "He'll turn ye into some nasty creature a' soon a' look at ye!"
Despite the murmured warnings of some of the villages elders, many people went to the old man for counsel, for he was said to be very wise. Young men asked to have their fortunes told, and bonny maids sought his advice as to which among the spirited lads would make the best husband. He would laugh and shake his head, doing what he could to help the seekers but never putting any great merit on his own advice.
But those who sought his direction were always satisfied, and yet more rumors began to spread- the man was a wizard; a wise king who had left the bustle of royal life behind; a healer from a distant land come to the humble valley to retire and live out his years in relative peace.
Until one day, a haughty village boy decided to put an end to this, in his opinion, nonsensical and fanciful gossip.
"Let us prove once and for all that this old man is nothing more than that- a crotchety old man" said he, gathering his young friends around him. "Here I have a bird. I shall ring the old man's doorbell, holding the bird behind me so he cannot see it. I will ask him what I am holding, and if he is truly as wise as they say, he will know that it is a bird. Should he guess at it correctly, I will ask him whether it is alive or dead."
The boy grinned at his own cleverness. "Should he say 'Dead', I will show him the bird, still living. And should he claim that the bird is alive, I shall wring its neck. He will be proven wrong no matter what his choice."
The boys laughed and clamored their approval of the plan, and they set off through the countryside until they reached the cottage where the old man lived. The leader of the group, the boy who had concocted the marvelous plan, hid the bird from sight with his accomplices gathered around him. One of the smaller boys lifted the crude brass doorknocker and slammed it down on the weathered door three times.
Knock, knock, knock.
Within seconds, the old man appeared, smoking a pipe. He smiled kindly through his graying beard. "Ah, what a pleasant surprise. Do come in, children," he said, gesturing. But of course, the youths were not there for a fireside chat.
"We have a question for you," the leader boy said abruptly and not very kindly. If the old man noticed his insolent tone, he did not seem inclined to address the matter.
"Very well," he said, still smiling, "What is it you seek?"
The boy drew himself up proudly, sure he was about to put the old man to shame. "Tell me, if you are so able, what I am holding behind my back," he asked, the scorn plain to see in his eyes.
The old man regarded him for a moment. His expression belied nothing as he said "A bird. A pigeon, if I am not mistaken."
A uncomfortable ripple of surprise shifted through the small crowd of children. The leader cleared his throat, and asked evenly as might be "What color are its feathers?"
"White, as many pigeons tend to be," replied the old man with a slight twinkle in his eye.
The boy froze, then suddenly relaxed, having lit upon a possible explanation for the man's seemingly uncanny knowledge. Oh, this is nothing extraordinary. Surely he saw the bird when we were coming up the walk, he thought. He drew himself up, and looking the man in his bright grey eyes, asked levelly, "This white pigeon…is it alive or dead?"
The old man's expression turned to one of knowing sadness. "That, my child," he said, "is in your hands."