After each autumn harvest, the man would gather the olives in large baskets, take them to the cellar of his modest home. Using an oversized mortar and pestle, he would grind down the olive wholes, and then place the pulpy mass in a heavy stone press. The runoff drained out into a long trough, and he'd pour the resulting oil into great wooden casks. This was a deliberate process, and it would often take him several days just to fill one container.

Eventually, spring would come. The oilseller would load the casks into a rickety wheeled cart, and harness it to his aged spotted mare using thick hemp ropes. Then he'd set out on the road, the single dusty ribbon that connected all the villages of his country.

He would travel from town to town, peddling his wares. Indeed, the oilseller was well-known in many local villages - there were those who had become accustomed to his annual visits, extending a warm welcome each time he arrived. His best customers would often feed and lodge him in exchange for a lower price, and then he would be on his way.

The oil was useful for food preparation as well as for lantern fuel, and so he would often run out of his product very quickly. Once his cart was empty, he and his horse would turn around and return home, there along that narrow dirt road. Then he would begin the process again - fertilizing and pruning his olive trees in preparation for another harvest.

But one year, the oilseller found that conducting business was very difficult. There was no clear reason why - it just seemed that fewer and fewer people were interested in buying his olive oil. And so he found himself travelling farther down the road with unsold casks, to villages he had never visited before. But in those towns, the citizens were wary of the oilseller, treated him with suspicion. He did not make many sales in these villages, and moved quickly along.

Soon, he found himself at the edge of the continent. The oilseller had never seen the ocean before, and he found it mysterious and strange. He looked out at the sea, silent and still, and marvelled that it seemed to go on forever. And then he turned around.

But the oilseller's return journey proved to be a difficult one. Outlaws and vandals who had watched him pass on his way to the sea lay in wait behind some trees, and ambushed him as he travelled back along the road. They robbed him of his earnings and all his remaining unsold product, and beat him severely with sticks and clubs.

Undaunted, he continued on. He came upon a village that had burned to the ground - the smoke still rose from the charred huts. "There he is," the residents said. "The one who sold us this fire-oil that has destroyed all our lives." And then they bound him with ropes, doused him with his own oil, and set him ablaze.

But somehow, he was able to survive and move on. He found himself near a town that he had visited many times in the past - as he approached, the villagers brought out their casks and loaded them onto his cart. "This oil is bad," they said. "The casks are infested with insects, and we cannot use them." When the oilseller explained he had no money and could not refund them, they rained rocks and stones upon him. "Never come here anymore," they warned the oilseller. "If we ever see your face again, we will not hesitate to kill you."

Still, he continued down the road, coming closer and closer to his destination - home. But there were storms, bitter cold, disease. At one point, his trusty horse succumbed to fatigue and died. This left the oilseller to pull the cart himself, but as his strength continued to fail, he eventually abandoned it on the roadside and walked the rest of the way.

The oilseller finally returned to his house - empty-handed, broken, old. The doctors in his home village tended to his bruises, burns and shattered bones, but he was far beyond repair. The simple wooden slab where he would rest at night soon became his deathbed. His son, who had become a successful shopkeeper in a neighboring village, rushed to his side.

"Father," he cried out in anguish. "How did this happen? How did you allow this to happen?"

"I had no choice," the oilseller whispered. "There was only one road."