7th Part

Far away and up on his mountain the hermit found his burden gradually lighten, then rapidly become less, and finally to disappear altogether.

"It's because I've been carrying this extra soul so long," he said. "I don't even feel it anymore."

He went about his work, talking to himself, checking the calendar at the end of each day. Even though it was no longer so heavy, he was anxious to be rid of the second soul, to have nothing but his own to worry about. The day came closer and closer, and he became more and more expectant.

Then the day came when the young man was supposed to arrive, and he never did. "Well," the hermit reasoned. "I was simply mistaken in my timekeeping. He'll be here tomorrow."

The young man didn't show up the next day, either. He didn't show up the week after that, or the following week, or even a month later, and slowly it dawned on the old man that the kid who'd abandoned his soul here had never meant to return. He expected to be angry, but he wasn't angry. He was mostly just sad, and his sadness was mostly expended on the young man. It must be a bad conscience, he thought, that could do such a thing.

"Maybe it's better that I have his soul," he said aloud. "At least I'll take care of it."

Nearly a year passed, and still no wanderer came back for his soul. The hermit almost forgot about him for awhile. He went about his old routines, but he began talking less, and never whistled or sang anymore. Eventually he stopped talking, too.

"I wonder if he found wisdom?" he asked an alder tree one day, breaking long silence.

The tree said nothing.

"Is he sitting on top of a mountain like mine, dispensing wisdom?"

The tree waggled in the breeze, but said nothing.

"Maybe I should find him, and give what is his back to him."

This time the tree opened its mouth, and said, "That's the wisest thing you've said in a long time."

So the old man packed some things in a rucksack and prepared to go in search of the younger man, not knowing where to look and forgetting how far away the city was.

It would be hard to leave the mountain, he knew. His wife and daughter were part of it, now, and staying with them was all he wanted. But if the young man was injured, or lost, or chained up somewhere, unable at any rate to return to the hermit on time, it was the old man's duty to find the Wisdom-seeker and return his soul to him, intact. He spent one last afternoon beside the graves.

"I'm leaving, finally," he told his family who lay underground. "I wish I could have left with you, but I was obstinate and foolish. I'm sorry. If I never return, know that I love you. I'll try to come back, but the world is full of teeth and flames, and few are left unchewed and without burns. I know I'm doing the right thing. Remember me, wherever you've gone to."

Then he stood up, and shouldered his pack, and walked on down the mountain for the first time in far too long.