Gar winced again, and Alea wondered.
“It is the pearl within the oyster.” The old man beamed. “But if the oyster never opens his shell, how can we tell if the pearl is within?”
“Do you not mean that the pearl is within the lotus?” Gar asked with a smile.
“Or is the lotus within the pearl?” the old man returned.
Alea glared at Gar and reminded herself to find out what a lotus was when they were back aboard his ship.
“If the lotus never opens its petals,” Gar said, “you can never tell if the pearl is within.”
“But if the pearl’s surface never clears,” the old man riposted, “how can you tell if there is a lotus inside it?”
Gar frowned. “You mean we must have faith.”
“Well, you must at least see the sheen of the pearl first,” the old man demurred, “to be sure that there is a pearl, or at least a lotus. But then, yes, you must have faith in the pearl.”
Alea suddenly realized what they were talking about. “And that faith is trust!”
The old man turned and beamed at her. “Exactly. Faith in another human being is trust.”
Alea eyed Gar speculatively, found him gazing at her in the same way. Both of them turned away on the instant—so it was just as well that they rounded a curve and saw a broad terrace before them with a thatched but and half a dozen people in front of it who cried out.
“There he is! The sage!”
“Hail, O Wise One!”
“Give us wisdom to ease our pain, holy man!” They all bowed and one or two knelt.
“Come, come, now, stand straight and tall, be proud of yourselves!” the old man scolded. “What nonsense is this to kneel to me, who knows no more than a deer or a wolf!”
They straightened up at once, the kneeling ones leaping to their feet.
Alea and Gar stared at the old man with amazement. Then Gar said, with deference, “By your leave, good sir, anyone who can speak of the courage to trust knows considerably more than a deer or a wolf.”
“What nonsense!” the old man scoffed. “A deer knows exactly whom it can trust—and whom it cannot.”
“You mean the wolf,” Gar said.
“Among others. But the wolf, too, knows whom it can trust.”
“And whom it cannot?” one of the people asked tentatively.
“Of course.”
“But whom can a wolf not trust, O Sage?”
“Other wolves,” Gar said slowly.
“And the deer,” Alea finished.
The old man’s smile was as bright as the sun. “There now, my friends! You knew it all along!”
“Oh, certainly,” Gar said softly but with immense sarcasm. “We only needed someone to remind us of it.”
“You see?” the old man asked. “I told you I wasn’t wise.” He turned to the people, who stood waiting eagerly. “What troubles you, my friends?” He pointed at a woman who still looked young. “Your distress is greatest, good woman. What is its cause?”
“I … I don’t want to talk about it in front of other people, O Sage,” the woman said hesitantly.
“Then come into my hut—the walls are thick enough to swallow our voices if we talk softly.” The old man beckoned as he went through the doorway. The woman glanced apologetically at the others, then followed.
Gar and Alea stood uncomfortably, shifting their weight from foot to foot and glancing at the others. Finally, to break the silence, Alea asked, “How did he know who was in the most pain?”
“That is a part of his wisdom, of course,” a village woman said with a smile. “That is why he is a sage.” Conversation lapsed; after a few minutes, the other people started talking among themselves in low tones. Alea frowned and nudged Gar. “See those sacks and jugs?”
Gar looked and nodded. “They have brought him gifts.”
“We should think about that, too,” Alea said slowly. “We should indeed,” Gar agreed, “if for no other reason than that he has given us a place where General Malachi will never think to look.”
After a while, the woman came out, looking shaken but resolved. She turned to the old man, saying, “Thank you, O Sage!” She started to bow, then caught herself.
“I thank you, too, for sharing some little part of your life with me,” the old man said with a smile. “Go now with an open mind and an open heart, and never stop learning from the world about you.”
She nodded, tears in her eyes, and turned to hurry away.
The old man scanned the other petitioners, then pointed at a man and said, “What troubles you?”
“The woman that I love has died in sickbed,” the man said, eyes bright with tears. “Why should I go on living?”
“Ah, then,” the old man said softly, “that is pain indeed.” He sat, folding his legs. “Come, let us recline, for this needs long talk. Tell me, my friends, why you embraced life before you fell in love.”
The people looked at one another wide-eyed, then turned back to the sage and sat slowly. The bereaved man said, “I suppose I lived in hope of finding love, O Sage.”
“Only in hope?” the old man asked. “Was there nothing to enjoy in life in those days?”
“Food,” one person said slowly. “Festivals,” another said. “Friends,” said a third.
Thus it began, and when all the people unrolled their blankets and went to sleep that night, none of them could say that the sage had explained anything, but all of them fell asleep content with their answers. He is a master of illusion, Gar thought.
Isn’t that the same as saying that he knows how to live? Alea returned, and fell asleep.
They breakfasted with the other petitioners, then followed them down the mountainside—but Gar and Alea fell back far enough to talk in low tones as they went.
“So the priestesses and priests aren’t the only ones guiding the people,” Gar said.
Alea saw where he was heading. “That’s not a government! There’s a big difference between ruling them and guiding them!”
“Yes,” Gar said, “the difference between being driven someplace whether you want to go there or not, and following someone because you want to go where he’s going.”
“It’s a matter of choice,” Alea insisted.
“Yes—but if everybody chooses to live in harmony with one another, it has the same effect as government.”
“The same effect from a very different cause!”
“True,” Gar agreed, “and you’re right, it isn’t a government but it does make me wonder why the priests don’t object. If there are lots of sages like this one, they’re competing with the clergy for control of people’s hearts and minds.”
Alea frowned, trying to find words to fit her objection. “I never heard him say anything religious.”
“True again,” Gar admitted, “but it does lessen the priests’ control over their people—and if they don’t mind that, they’re not like any other priests I’ve ever encountered.”
Alea stiffened. “Soldiers coming!”
Gar lifted his head, gazing off into space, and nodded. “Another patrol. At least they’re still thinking about the giant half-wit and his sister instead of the old peddler and his daughter.”
Alea stood very straight, eyes glazing as she listened to the thoughts below. “They know we’re on this mountain but they don’t want to come up after us.”
“I don’t blame them,” Gar said. “It’s not exactly good terrain for horses.”
“They’ll have us bottled up here!” Alea protested. “If we don’t come down, sooner or later they’ll come up!”
“Then we’ll have to go down, won’t we?” Gar grinned at her.
“How?” she cried, exasperated. “Do you think we can just stroll past them?”
“No,” Gar said, “I think we’re going to leave the road.” He turned aside and ducked into the underbrush.