Remember. Now I remember. A blissful smile on my father’s face as he lifts bloody chunks of flesh in his arms. Decorated handle of a knife sticking from the old-man’s abdomen. And sense of immense dread…

After grandfather died, parent’s took the body to the shed. Being a small kid I never saw a dead man before. Driven by morbid curiosity I sneaked up inside despite my mother’s strict prohibition but the moment my eyes finally adjusted to the darkness the door opened and entered my father. I managed to quickly jump underneath the workbench and hide in shadows.

I saw him leaning over grandfather's body... I saw him drawing the knife… I saw him cutting deadman’s stomach open. I felt like I’ve become complicit into terrible crime, unfathomably shameful act I couldn’t even start to comprehend. I wanted to run away, I wanted to scream but I petrified in fear. I can’t recollect what happened next. My mind didn’t know where to put this image, my memory suppressed it, made it fade away as if it was a feverish nightmare. Only the decorated handle of an old hunting knife on my father’s belt brought me into unease each time I threw a curious look at it. “It belonged to my father” - my dad said to me once - “and before that - to his father… It’s a family heirloom. It's a tradition to pass it to your son. One day it’s going to be yours.”

After grandad’s burial my father went to the city. Two days later he turned back with baskets full of fresh food and new clothing for us all. “Grandfather left us some generous inheritance” - he explained. I knew that the old man lived as poor as we did, and even if he indeed cared much, he managed to amass some sum of money to leave for us - why didn’t he shared with us at moment’s when we even had no piece of bread to put on table? But I was too glad to be warm and feel my stomach full to question those things.

Years were passing. Life seemed to be good to us until one day my little sister went seriously ill. This is when I’ve heard word “Bezoar” for the first time. After all medication proved to be futile to remedy her sickness the physician said, only Bezoar can help her. “But you got to be a king to afford one” - he added giving my sister a compassionate look. He said, she has but a few days left.

The very same day my father took a horse and went to see “the merchant” at the town. He returned late at night. Angry and frustrated. “He already sold them all…” - he said to mom.

After that night my parent’s turned silent, and only the familiar sense of unease was telling me it wasn’t about my sister’s fate, but rather something different, something we all knew had to be done.

This morning my father took a last look at me. “Mother will tell what to do” - he said and left the house. Confused, I ran to my sister’s room where I found my mother barely able to speak because of crying. She only landed me an old hunting knife with decorated handle. Here arms were trembling. The moment I took it the gunshot sounded from outside. I ran out from the house and headed toward the old shed only to find there a breathless body of my father laying on the ground alongside his hunting rifle...

I remember his hands diving into deadman’s innards… searching for something… finding… and bringing it out. Not pieces of flesh - stones.

Bezoars - are gems found in man and animal stomachs. Compacted from pieces of undigested food, petrified. Believed to be magical, believed to cure every known sickness. Every king would want to possess one or better few, ready to pay four times the weight of stone in gold. Rarely can though. Bezoars are extremely scarce to find… but not in our family.

My mother explained everything. It was just a matter of a special diet and patience and our ancestors could provide their children for generations.

I’m squeezing the handle of the knife. I remember a blissful smile on my father’s face as he lifts his hands up to the light. Remember… Now I remember. Now it’s my time to go to the shed.