The friars had not run in years, they also had not left the monastery for a long time. Falling over their cassocks, their sandals slipped off their feet. Awkwardly and unintentionally they tripped each other up. When they reached the fountain, their tongues were out and their cincture around their ankles. They formed a bowl with the palms of their hands, dipped them in regardless of the greenish bottom, and returned the way they had come, balancing so as not to spill the water.
The monastery was on fire.

By the time they were back the water had been absorbed by the pores of their hands, which just looked sweaty. They waved them at the fire, as if trying to calm it, or perhaps dampen it, transmit humidity, make it wet. The flames kept growing and began to spread at great speed. The straw of an adjoining stable, the humble wooden houses, the town cityhall archive... Everything that could burn, burned, and with joy. They then decided to call more friars from other villages to come to the aid of the building. Fortunately, they were already on their way, the column of smoke could be seen for miles. When they finally arrived, three days later,
the square had been reduced to rubble
and smooth grey cones of ash.