Potatoes have been around since the beginning of time; or so it would seem. They were actually domesticated in Peru between 8000 and 5000 BC. Countless stories from all over the globe speak of their journeys and uses throughout history.

But there is one story, of one particular potato, that has been lost to time. A story so dark, so full of struggle and fear, that most who have been fortunate enough to hear it, have not dared to utter a word of it to anyone else. It’s a story loosely based on myth, legend, and fantasy. A story, unlike any other story that has ever been told.

It starts in a basket. Not just any basket. Alinas basket. A little girl not more than seven years old, who lived on the outskirts of a small farming community in Romania. In a basket made by Alina and her father, just before he left for war. It was her basket. The one she used to gather sticks for the fire. Just her size. Not too big, and not too small. Her basket, that she used to gather flowers in the field; and to put the berries she picked from the bushes. This one basket, that had a very special meaning to her, but to no one else. To everyone else, it was just a basket. Yet, there it was; Alinas basket, forgotten on the bank of a muddy stream.

The stream was unusually high that day. The water moving swiftly. The winter snow pack had brought more melt this year and the water from the surrounding mountains had caused the water in the stream to rise. gradually it kept rising, until eventually, Alinas forgotten basket got caught up in it and began to slowly make its way down stream.

“Bob, bob”, “dip dip”, as her basket drifted along. Occasionally bumping into a snag, only to wait momentarily for the current to build up and release it on its way again. Down it went. Then down some more. The Sun rose then set; then came up again. Days passed. Then weeks. Until finally Alinas basket settled into the side of a bank where the water moved slow and not so much as a breeze could move it.

Marius pushed the cart with all his might. It was heavy. Being about ten years old, Marius had a full days worth of chores to do; and today one of those chores involved pushing a cart full of potatoes along the bank of the river to his village. It was daunting work. The path along the river was worn and the rains had made it slippery for walking, much less for pushing a cart full of potatoes down. But along the bank he went, slow but sure. Resting occasionally, only to be prodded by the thought of his mother wondering why it was taking him so long. Lift and push. Lift and push. The cart dragged along in the mud. Lift, push, slip. His feet were built up in mud. He stopped to rest. Leaving the cart resting on its own. Just for a minute. Just long enough for him to catch his breath. Then slowly, unnoticeably at first, the cart began to slide. The softness of the mud was no match for the weight of the potatoes in the cart. As the cart began to tip, Marius leaped forward to grab the handle, but couldn’t catch it in time. The cart tipped and down the bank the potatoes rolled, one by one. It wasn’t so bad. They didn’t all come out of the cart. He got the cart righted and them all picked up ok. All but one, anyway. The one that had rolled down the bank and landed in Alinas basket. That potato had bumped into that basket just enough to push it on its way down the river again. And down the river it went, gently bouncing along in the currents.

The castle was cold and dark. The only thing that made it feel more foreboding was the entrance to the dungeon. The closer you got to it, the more you could smell the damp, stench of rotting flesh and stale air. Cristian carried the lantern as high as he could. He hated going down there. Things look differently when your eight years old, walking in the dark, by yourself. Shadows grow and then disappear in a blink. Sounds creep out from corners and then fade away with hardly a whisper. He always tried to hurry as he walked to escape the dark as quickly as possible, but also to avoid the whip of the Dungeon Master. Down the hall and to the left, then a right, down the hall again, farther down the steps, to the third door on the left. He knew it. This wasn’t his first time down there. He approached the door slowly. The glow of the lantern showed the latch to open the window. He didn’t utter a word, as he moved his hand to touch it. The cold hard steel seemed to paralyze his fingers as he flipped it open. Releasing the little door to open with a “clank”. He quickly slid the tray in and slammed the door shut.

From within the cell he heard a movement and the tap of the door as the metal clapped from whatever or whoever was on the other side pressing against it. He slowly backed away from the door and started to walk away, holding his breath. “Wait!”, he heard from inside the cell. Cristian froze. Out of fear or curiosity he did not know; but at that moment, not a muscle in his body was willing to move. He just stood there. As the voice from inside the cell called out, “Bread, no more bread….please. Something. Anything. More”. The voice didn’t sound weak. On the contrary. It sounded firm. Strong. As if whatever or whoever in that cell was not broken by the depth in which he lay, or by the cold hard steel that surround him. Silence. Cristian felt the need to speak. Of what he did not know. It simply slipped out. It wasn’t thought about. It wasn’t considered. It was simply, “Yes sir!”; and with that, he ran up the stairs as fast as his little legs could carry him.

Hours passed. Cristian hadn’t told anyone what had happened; but it wouldn’t escape his thoughts, and he began to dread the thought of going back down there with nothing else to give whatever or whoever it was in that cell. Night came, and there was no sleep to be had that night for him. He tossed and turned, only to feel the dread of the dawn quickly approaching. As light came in through his window, he slipped into clothes by his bed and was intent on finding something, anything, other than bread to give whatever or whoever that was in that cell.

His mothers pantry was full of all sorts of things that anyone would want. But he knew the consequences of taking things without asking, and thought better of it. He went to the village market; but the vendors were wise to little boys with no coin, and the jailers wouldn’t hesitate to give him a lashing if he was caught attempting to take food without paying. The sun rose high in the sky. Midday had come and went. Soon he’d be reporting to the Dungeon Master, and answering to whatever or whoever was in that cell. He knew this. His thoughts were fixed on it. As he contemplated his situation his steps had taken him down a path that led to a dock down by the river. By that dock, just resting beneath a pillar, was a basket. A small basket. Within that basket was a potato. One, single, potato. Just small enough to fit into the pants of a little boy, about eight years old, named Cristian. And sure enough, as he looked down, he saw it. He quickly reached down and snatched the little basket out of the water. He held up the potato, eyeing it fully, disbelieving his luck. Then without hesitation, he put the potato into his pant pocket and with a smile on his face, ran up the path towards the castle.

His walk down into the dungeon was a bit easier this time. Down the hall and to the left, then a right, down the hall again, farther down the steps, to the third door on the left. He set down the lantern he was holding and reached deep into his pocket, pulling out the potato. Then he flipped open the latch, releasing the little door with a “clank”. Bending down, he looked, as he rolled the potato through the little door. Then he backed away slowly and waited. Movement. Scuffling. Then he heard, “A potato!”, “Yes, oh yes, a potato. Thank you…..thank you”. “This will do nicely”. Cristian smiled then quickly closed the little door shut and ran up the stairs.

Now, what happened next is hard to say. It’s not that there aren’t stories. There are lots of stories. But what is real, what is true, what is fact or fiction, I assure you I do not know. But what I do know, is that shortly after Cristian rolled that potato into that cell, whatever or whoever that was in that cell, used that potato for a purpose other than eating. What’s been whispered is that during a cell swap, that potato found its way into the latch of one of the cell doors, preventing the bolt in cell latch to close fully; and whatever or whoever that was in that cell, ESCAPED!

Some say that it’s just a myth. Some say it’s a foolish thing to even consider. But some whisper, that there’s a king, back on the throne from exile, who speaks fondly of a little boy who gave him a special gift. One that came from a basket, down by the river.

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