9th Part

Even the bravest and most stalwart of us can't pursue a thankless task without end. The old man realized this, and one day he spent the last of his money on food and beer, and walked out of the city forever.

He did not return to his mountain. He went the opposite direction, toward a farther land with water and open fields, a place where wheat grew as tall as houses and the sun was brighter even though the nights were darker. It was like the mountain, but smelled of salt and clouds and growing things.

Was he looking for the young man still? He couldn't say. It seemed he was, but it also seemed there was something else to find now, something more important. He walked without direction, but he kept walking, afraid to stop but also not wanting to.

One night he paid for a room in an inn. The proprietor was kind, and gave him a good bed and fed him hot food fresh from the kitchen. Before going upstairs, the wanderer talked to a farmer who'd never traveled. He grew beets and barley and a few onions. Together they drank wine and talked.

"Where are you going?" asked the farmer. It seemed to the wandering hermit that no answer would surprise this man of the soil. The farmer smiled faintly and gulped his wine.

"I don't know," said the hermit. "The sea, maybe."

"What's at the sea?"

"Nothing that I know of. I've been walking too long to stop, and I've never seen the sea. I think I'm looking for something, but I don't know what it is. Maybe it's the sea."

"Did you know what you were looking for once?" the farmer asked. He knew the answer, but asked anyway.

"Yes." There was no hesitation. "I was looking for a young man. He tendered his soul to me some years ago while he went in search of Wisdom. I couldn't find him, so I gave up."

The farmer stretched his legs. "Well, you didn't give up. You're still looking."

"I don't know. Maybe." The hermit tapped the bottle with his finger. "I was looking for Wisdom, once. I killed my wife and daughter trying to find it."

"Me too," said the farmer. He stopped smiling. "Only it was a son I had, not a daughter. Dead, nonetheless. It was my pride. Or maybe death is the only real wisdom. Anyway, doesn't everyone look for wisdom? No one finds it, and they become frustrated so they stop. Isn't that the way?"

The hermit took a drink. "No," he said. "Not everyone. Many have never even heard of it. Those who look diligently and in the right places find it, I think. That's the wisdom of it: knowing where to look. If you have that, you have wisdom."

Then he sipped the last of his wine and told the farmer good night and went upstairs to his bed. He didn't sleep until early morning, when he'd determined to leave. All night, his only thought was, Where should I look? and, Will I like what I find when I finally look in the right place? It didn't matter, he knew, whether he liked it or not. But the fear of finding what you've never had is sometimes stronger than the desire to find it.

He woke at noon and left the inn, walking a little slower than before, watching his feet rather than the road ahead, smelling always that salt smell that he presumed was the sea, lying against the land like God's hand about to smite. The sea, the sea, the cold calm sea....it was a ghost before him and that was fine, because he knew something about ghosts. He carried them all with him, and now he was ready for one that could carry him. He determined not to rest until he'd reached the sea.