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The Mentor, which is what he insisted on being called, brought me back to life. He became a father figure to me. He took care of me. I remember I once spent the entire day in the scorching sun working in the vineyard, and in the evening I came down with a fever. He took some cans from the kitchen cupboard and made an absolutely crazy concoction. The smell alone made my eyes water.

“Do not worry, this won’t kill you. It will help you,” he said as he handed me a mug. Indeed, in ten minutes I was back on my feet and ready for my next job. I had never felt so light and cheerful.

“Nature gives us everything we need,” he used to say when talking about his herbs.

The Mentor taught me how, where and when to gather herbs, their types and purpose. And finally, how to make concoctions that not only cured any illness, but also improved strength, courage and even charm. Actually, the Mentor taught me a lot. I don’t recall my real father teaching me anything at all. I thought the Mentor was my friend. He never lectured me or tried to probe into my soul. He didn’t ask too many questions. He accepted me for who I was without trying to fix me or make me less “difficult”. He didn’t even think I was difficult. He encouraged me if there was something I couldn’t do and never scolded if I made mistakes. However, I couldn’t really call him a kind man. He rarely expressed any emotion and rarely smiled. If only I knew who he really was. On the other hand, it wouldn’t have changed anything if I did know.