To Turn a Blind Eye

 “There she stood, the One-Eyed Doe,” murmured the crusty sailor, “grazing serenely on the steps to the sea. With her one eye, she watchfully gazed toward the forest, wary of the teeth that rend and tear. With her other eye she turned to the sea, the treacherous sea, the traitorous sea, expecting nothing but safety.”

The crusty sailor paused. He sat back in his chair, the low lamplight casting a dreary glow on the misty night, the other sailors milling about with one ear to the old man. He continued:

“And that’s how I came upon her, sailing on toward that great rock face, and seeing my chance. And in coming upon her, I realized that the usually flighty doe was blind in her eye, the eye turned toward the sea, the reckless sea, the deceiving sea. For had she seen me, she would have dashed. And then I shot. That graceful doe fell, and on the air I could have sworn I heard her cry, ‘Fool! Fool! I came out of the woods and to the sea expecting safety, and found the end instead.’

“Lads, be vigilant, for to turn a blind eye on what is always safe is to accept that it may kill you when it is not. Else, you are just a One-Eyed Doe.”