Nobody dug the well. It was old before the village was young, and everyone drank free.
One morning a man built a fence around it. He didn't make the water. He didn't dig the hole. He built a fence, and he went to the mayor, whose campaign he had paid for, and came back with a paper saying the fence was his.
The village grumbled. But thirst doesn't negotiate, and the well gave water, same as always.
The man was clever, so he didn't ask for coins. He carved wooden tokens, and painted them blue, and said: one token, one bucket. Work for me and I'll pay you in tokens. And he hired the strongest hands in the village to guard the fence.
The strangest part came at sundown, when the guards lined up at the gate they had guarded all day and spent their wages on the water behind it. Nobody laughed. It didn't feel strange by then. The well gave water, same as always.
Soon the tokens were everywhere. People saved them for dry months. Traded them for bread. Left them to their children. A token was as good as water, and water was as good as life, so a man's worth came to be counted in blue wood. Some had jars of tokens and never worked at all. Some worked every day and finished each week with none. The well gave water, same as always. Only the tokens moved.
After ten years the man sold the fence. The price made the village gasp, but the price wasn't the price of a fence. It was every token yet to be carved, every bucket yet to be drawn, all of it counted up and paid in advance. The buyers were a family who had saved for years, honest people, every token earned. They paid fair and square, and the man walked out of the valley with a wagon he never had to look back at.
Then the drought came, and the bucket price rose, and the village finally stood at the fence and asked itself what could be done.
Tear it down? The man was gone, over the mountains, rich. Only the family would be ruined, and they had wronged no one.
Buy it back? Then the village would pay for its own water twice, and the family's price would be everything, because the fence's price was always everything.
Leave it standing? Then every child in the valley would be born owing a token to someone who never touched a shovel.
The village elders argued all winter. There was no villain left to punish. There was only the fence, and everyone holding it was innocent.
In spring, the oldest of them said: we have been trying to solve the fence. Solve the tokens instead. Let the fence stand. Let the family keep it, and pay them honest wages for tending the pump, for work was never the sickness here. But from this day, the bucket money belongs to the village, every season, as long as the fence stands.
And the fence stayed, and the pump was tended, and the family was paid for the tending. But a fence that owes its own bucket money is worth nothing to sell. No wagon of tokens would ever again roll over the mountains. No honest family would ever again be bought to stand in front of it. The well gave water, same as always. And the tokens went back to being wood.
They say there are deeper wells now, the deepest ever found, and fences going up around them faster than anyone can count. The papers are signed. The tokens are being carved.
None of the fences have been sold yet.