The Hermit's Secret

Once upon a time, long before the Kingdom of Rillen became known for its silver trees, there lived a wise old hermit. He dwelled on the Mountain of Three Kings, close to where the Golden River bursts out of the rock and starts its journey to the sea. The old man passed his time quietly tending his animals and garden. Scarcely a day went by that someone did not make a pilgrimage to the humble man.

“Go see the wise man,” was the advice people gave to those who were confused, troubled, grieving, or struggling. “Go. He will help.” A youth by the name of Alath lived at the foot of the mountain, on the Plain of Narra, where the silver trees would one day grow. He watched people start up the path to the hermit’s house with troubled faces. He saw them come back at peace, helped and comforted. What happened on that mountain? Who was this old man who never came down except on the eve of Queen Maris’s Day?

So one morning Alath decided to set out to see the wise old man. “Mother,” he said as he shouldered his pack, “I will return when I know the hermit’s secret.”

The journey was not hard, for the path was well trodden. The second sun had just cleared the highest peak when Alath arrived at the old man’s hut.

“Greetings, young traveler,” the hermit said. His hair and beard were as white as the clouds that rested on the mountains. “What brings you to my humble house?”

“If you please, sir, I would like to learn the secret of how you help the travelers who seek your advice.”

The man laughed. “You are not the first to so desire. I will say to you as I said to them — if you watch well, you will understand.”

So Alath watched. Soon a pilgrim appeared.

“Oh, kind sir!” he said, shaking the hermit’s hand. “Please help me. You must tell me what I should do. I have the chance to buy a field from a neighbor, but it will take every last minna I have. If my other crops do poorly this season, I could lose not only the new field, but my entire farm as well.” The man wrung his hands.

“Mmmm. You might have a good opportunity there,” said the hermit.

“Yes. Sort of. I mean — it’s my family that wants the land. They think it’s my great chance.” The man sat down beside Alath and the old man. “Actually, I don’t want any more land than I already have. It’s as much as I can take care of now.”

“Ah. I understand.” The wise man’s voice was soothing, like a drink of cool water on a hot summer day. He listened while the man shared his problem. After a while, the hermit asked Alath to fetch a honeymelon from the garden. As the three slurped their way through the golden fruit and chewed the sweet red seeds, the farmer talked on. He spoke of his farm and of his desire to live a simple life. Most of all, he spoke of the strangely beautiful seedling trees he had purchased from a stranger during the last Festival of New Harvest.

“You must see them someday, sir. Twelve of them, and silver as a newly minted coin,” he said, his tired eyes lighting with excitement. “I spend much of my time taking care of them.”

Alath kept wondering when the hermit would give the farmer the answer to his problem, but the old man only said, “Perhaps you have a greater treasure in your little trees than your family knows.”

The man flushed. “That I couldn’t say, sir, but I do know I am happiest while gazing on their shining leaves.” He heaved another sigh. “Why should I want more land to take me away from them? Or cause me to lose them…” He fell silent then, his eyebrows moving up and down, now smiling, now frowning, as if carrying on a conversation in his mind. All the while, the old hermit said nothing. He just continued to gaze off over the mountain and eat the sweet red seeds.

When the farmer finished his melon, he rose to go. “I think you are right,” he said. “I do not need the field and would be better off tending my silver trees. I do thank you very much.”

Alath stared at the departing figure. Had the old hermit given some advice while he, Alath, had been fetching the melon? Somehow he didn’t think so, since the farmer had still been talking about the same subject when Alath had returned as when he had left.

Alath’s puzzlement only deepened with each new visitor. Though he listened and watched like an attentive hawk, he heard the wise man give no answers. There were no secret potions or magic powders. Yet most of the folk who trekked up the mountain thanked the hermit for his wise words, as if he had given them sage advice and told them exactly what to do.

Several months passed, but Alath felt no closer to discovering the hermit’s secret. Each pilgrim’s visit was much the same. After a warm welcome, the travelers poured out their problems. The old man listened intently, offering sympathy or letting them know he understood their problem.

Alath was sure he missed no part of the conversations, no motion of the hermit’s hands. Still, by the time the visitors left, they usually offered many thanks for their host’s wise counsel.

Perhaps I should return home, Alath thought in discouragement. I am no closer to learning the hermit’s secret than when I first arrived. Yet he hated to give up. Then one foggy morning the old man became ill and had to stay in bed. As Alath brought him broth made from meadowfern, there came a knock on the door.

“Oh no!” exclaimed Alath. “Someone is here to see you. Shall I tell them to come back another day?”

The man smiled. “No. You go.”

With his heart in his stomach, Alath greeted the newest pilgrim. “Hello, ma’am.”

“Good morning, young man. I am here to see the wise man,” she said as she handed him a loaf of fresh bread.

Alath took the gift and bowed low. “I am truly sorry, but he is sick today. Is there anything I can do to help?” How foolish, Alath thought, to be saying this to a woman more than three times my age.

The woman sighed and sank into a chair. “What answer could you give me? You are so young. You don’t know how it is to have a son who wants to go off to the town to be a merchant and leave the farm he was to inherit.” She sighed.

“How difficult that must be for you,” Alath said, sorry that he had no words of wisdom for the troubled lady.

“Yes, difficult. I desperately need someone to take care of the farm.” By now the woman was dabbing at tears with her handkerchief. “I don’t know why, but my son has never loved the land. All he ever wants to do is buy and sell and make money.”

“Mmmm,” murmured Alath as he handed her a cup of mingberry tea, its multicolored steam swirling and rising like a miniature sunset.

She smiled a grateful smile. “Sometimes I think we’d both be better off if he became a merchant and hired a man to work the farm.”

“It’s hard to know what to do, isn’t it?” Alath said. If only the hermit were here. He would help the poor woman. “Let me serve you some bread,” he added, wanting only to run down the path and leave the hermit and his undiscovered secret far behind.

Alath cut two slices of the fragrant bread the woman had brought. Spreading them with thick yellow butter, he hastened back to the woman, who stared at the hearth fire as if seeing something there.

“Here, your bread will strengthen you for your homeward journey,” he said.

Together they sipped tea, munched the salty-sweet goodness of the bread, and talked of the latest news in the Kingdom of Rillen.

At length the woman stood. “Yes, I think my son would be very happy to be a merchant. He is certainly very unhappy on the farm, and I do want him to be happy. Perhaps if he became a merchant, we could sell the farm, and I could go live with him in the town….” Her voice trailed off to nothing, and she stood motionless for a long while.

Alath waited. What should he say? What a failure he had been with his first pilgrim. As soon as possible, he would head down the path to the valley and leave the hermit’s secret for someone else to discover.

The lady turned to him. “Young man, thank you very much. I thought that I would receive no help because the wise man was not able to see me. But I must say that he has an able assistant. Perhaps my son and I will come someday and tell you how your solution worked.”

She waved a farewell and started off down the mountain in the thinning fog. Alath stared after her for a long while before once more entering the hermit’s hut.

Carrying another cup of mingberry tea and a slice of bread, he went to check on the old man. “Some food for you, sir?” he asked.

“Why, thank you, Alath,” the hermit said. “Tell me how the visit went. Did you know the answers?”

“No. I knew no answers. I just listened.”

“Hm…”

“No wise words,” Alath said. “No great advice.” He stared at the small hearth fire as he thought of the woman’s parting words, then turned to the old man and smiled. “But I’m wondering if sometimes listening isn’t the best answer of all.”

And so it was that as year followed year and pilgrims continued to trek up the mountain, word spread throughout the Kingdom of Rillen that the young man who lived with the hermit was as wise as his mentor.