by Antonio Napoli

A hornbill—one of those birds with a massive beak adorned by a helmet-like crest, and a natural enemy of venomous snakes—was barely able to fly. Spotting the ruins of a fortress, it perched upon them. Its lament echoed all around, so much so that a serpent, hidden within the crevices, emerged.
“What’s the matter with you?” asked the serpent.
“Do you want to know of my suffering just to take revenge?” replied the hornbill.
“Not at all,” the serpent answered.
“I have a nasty wound on my wing,” the hornbill confessed, “but you will not claim a winged enemy felled by your earthbound bite, neither now nor ever!”
“I could lick your wound until it heals,” proposed the serpent. “I’ll do it for as long as it takes—days, weeks, even months. Those wounds are fatal if left untreated.”
“How can I trust you? Don’t you wish for my death as much as I desire yours?”
“The future is uncertain: anything can happen. But look at the present: here and now, you’re alone. You have no one by your side, between the stingy earth and the indifferent sky.”
“We predators don’t live on the present alone. We hunger for tomorrow and its promises. For us, the future is a necessity. Fear is always one step ahead of hope.”
“And for fear of a harm that may come, you’d accept dying from the harm that already consumes you? Is that your reasoning? It’s hardly logical.”
“Isn’t it wise, then, not to trust one’s enemies?” retorted the hornbill, with a flash of pride.
The serpent sighed and pointed to the fortress. “Look at these ruins. Once, there stood a flourishing, opulent city here. It was the heart of a powerful kingdom, home to a prosperous and peaceful people. But today, only wandering Bedouins remain, desert riders roaming without home or peace, sustained solely by the hope of finding the water of life—the water that sprang at the dawn of time, coaxed from the earth by the golden song of your ancestors. But let’s return to the city,” the serpent continued. “In those glorious years, a mighty yet not very wise king ruled within these walls. Then came the time of war. During one of many sieges, the king fell gravely ill. That’s when something unexpected happened: the commander of the enemy army, who was also a conscientious doctor, offered to treat him on the condition that a truce be signed. But the king, consumed by suspicion and pride, rejected the offer. And so, his life faded away, leaving his people leaderless. The city fell into the hands of the besiegers, and complete ruin followed.”
The hornbill, though hesitant, allowed itself to be convinced, and the serpent, with its thin and delicate tongue, began to treat the wound. Day after day, week after week, month after month, the serpent faithfully carried out its task, never inflicting any harm.
At last, when the wound was fully healed, the hornbill looked at the serpent with a mix of gratitude and disbelief.
“Why did you do it?” it asked, still unable to comprehend such an act.
The serpent raised its head to the sky and replied calmly:
“When I am hunted by my enemies, when the scorching heat burns my skin, when I am wounded and in danger, I’ll only need to look up to the sky—that sky that once was indifferent to me—and remember that things can always get better. Hope hides in gestures that others don’t expect.”
The hornbill remained silent, staring at the serpent.
In that moment, it understood that it wasn’t just its body that had healed, but something deeper: a wound in its soul it never knew it carried.