Once upon a time in a far away land, there lived a man who despite all of his dreams and wishes, never amounted to much. Within all of the world’s kingdoms, there were but only a few, perhaps a chosen few, who were garnered with special gifts. These gifts were born to rising kings, could lead to great works found in the hands of artists or to discoveries uncovered by the bravery of explorers. On occasion, sometimes even the defeated were healed of their defeat and bestowed with wonderful gifts of skill and creativity. In the latter, such rare events were the times that a man believed in magic.

 

These were not magical times of dragons and warlocks and there were no demigods in visitation, no luminous finger to touch a soul and transform its condition from dark to light. These were dark times of war and domination, while statues of gold adorned the cities to hide the truth. These were also times when people spoke of democracy but were fathomless of its meaning.

 

The peoples of the many kingdoms were oblivious; going about their days, doing the best they could with what they had and simply trying to make it through. Occasionally they would leave their homes and walk to the majesty of the amazing cities, the hubs of the golden kingdoms and they would look in awe at the magnificent structures, fronted by great marble columns and exquisite statues.

 

These tiny and invisible people, the so-called peasants existing on the outskirts of the kingdoms, would gaze upon the architecture, the art and even occasionally stumble into the presence of those with a gift. Most of the peasants would look at the gifted in awe, wishing that they, too, could exist within the exuberant charm of a gift.

 

On one rare day when the darkness of his mind seemed to vanish and made the man feel clear, he walked apprehensively from his cave of cold stone and damp dirt, to stand beneath a burning sun and a deep blue sky. The man was a hermit and suffered from dark visions he could never escape. He was equal to the peasants but even they looked down on him, for they saw him as unusual and abnormal.

 

The hermit knew he lived within fears that existed only within his mind. His fears had courted him against his will for years and no course or choice had broken him free of their clutches. He believed he should stand and draw a shining sword of courage and vanquish his demons of the darkness but his demons fed upon him with the ease of a babe suckling from the breast.

 

He was not a scholarly man but he entertained a belief that he was not a stupid man. Often he wondered if the man he was, could actually be the man he was meant to be. He did not believe in a fated existence but as the years moved by with rapidity and his days came closer to the grave and further from the womb, more and more he felt he had been little more than a puppet on a string. Somehow that implied something higher, something greater, which to him implied that all was not as it appeared to be. He discovered in that thought a reflection of people. Masks were everywhere but it also seemed to him that nothing in life was as it appeared to be. Was a tree only a tree or was it something more? Did the branches of a tree only seek the warmth and light of the sun or were they stretching, reaching out in some quest of an unseen consciousness.

 

On that day the hermit stood at the opening of his cave and with eyes closed; he pointed his face to the sun. He was not afraid to step outside of his cave because he knew it was well hidden and no one could find him. He did not know why he felt different that day or why he had been drawn out of his dimly lit cave, into enlivening warmth that consumed him. All he knew was that his soul was ravenous and suddenly a burning hunger filled him. The heat of that need within, searing at his soul, inexplicably seemed greater than the heat of the sun. However, while the sun did not threaten him, his hunger did.

 

Uncharacteristically, the hermit wanted to do what so many of the other peasants had done. He wanted to look upon the works of the gifted. He was not in awe of the gifted like so many people were. The gifted were just people after all and he did not see any soul as greater or lesser than any other. He only desired to partake in the manifestations of their gifts.

 

Years previous, when his life had been like those of others, he had heard the works were said to be astonishing, sometimes divine. Now, years later, within his hidden cave, upon the walls he scratched out stories that filled him. He held no illusions that he was gifted. He knew implicitly that his stories would never hold place within the cities of the golden kingdoms but now as he considered it, he wondered what the difference would be between his imaginings scrawled on rock, with those who were given papyrus to cast their tales.

 

In a moment of reverie, as he imagined his gaze falling upon the creative expressions of the gifted, he began to walk unconsciously and when he returned from his mind to the movements of his feet upon the stony path, he was suddenly far from the safety of his cave and walking blindly within an unknown city.

 

He pushed himself to continue despite his fear, passing through markets of imitation and unworthy goods. Food for the hungry was rotting from the inside out. After a time in the market, he shuddered and moved on. The people were either cruel and rude or selfish and intimidating and on some occasions, many forms of approach by these strangers were intrinsically confined to egos fulfilled by insecure lust.

 

The hermit was becoming disheartened and dismayed but then he looked away from the market. A blue haze surrounded an enormous building. Fronting the building were extraordinary archways and slim columns of decorative marble that swirled with grey and white design. It seemed to call to him. His eyes engaged with stairs of gleaming white and then at the top, he saw a man seated, his back leaning against one of the columns.

 

The hermit assumed by the way the man sat so comfortably at the top of the stairs, he must be one of the gifted and this must be his building. Turning his attention to the great open doors of the building, the hermit wondered if he was allowed to enter. He wondered if he went inside, could he find the stories and be able to read them.

 

Again, without reasoned consent, he discovered he was walking, his legs carrying him up the stairs. He looked down at the stairs and there to his amazement was a single sheet of papyrus, filled with the written word. He picked it up and motionless, he began to read the well-structured words.

 

The words carried him with such ease and his mind painted pictures, thick and deeply coloured. They spoke of love and friendship, of pain and insecurity but it was only a single page and too soon, there was no more to read. He saw his teardrops fall onto the words that had lured him into his lonely existence. He had been touched invisibly and his darkness was alive.

 

He felt afraid again and begged for the comfort and sanctuary of his cave. He wondered if whoever had written the words about friends, could he or she possibly be a friend to him? He began to return the papyrus to the step but an accented voice kissed his ears. He looked up and the man at the top of the stairs was looking at him, speaking to him.

 

“The wind must have caught it without my knowledge and carried it there.”

 

The hermit nodded, trepidation filling him, insecurity enveloping him, as an unknown human engaged him. He moved up the final stairs, his hand outstretched to return the property.

 

“I’m sorry, I meant no impertinence and I sought not to intrude.”

 

“Your tears, are they as a consequence of my words?”

 

The hermit nodded yes but at the same time he heard a silent voice within him, telling him not to allow a connection with this man to grow. He wiped the tears from beneath his eyes, pushed the papyrus at the man and then he turned with haste and walked toward the doors. He moved into the building, its interior gilded with gold and silver, paintings as large as mountains and twisting staircases that seemed to reach to the height of clouds. Everything shone, every sound echoed and the air was cool but refreshing.

 

He turned and saw a doorway and on walking to it, he discovered another great room. He walked in to find the written word, sheet after sheet of stories, endless worlds lost in silence and imagination. He walked to a table and standing alone, he began to read the stories that lay before him. Hours passed by as he laughed and cried, experiencing his emotions, which were tightly sealed within him.

 

It simply became too much for him. His emotions and his feelings were bursting forth and he pushed himself away from the table and forced himself to leave the room. Somehow he knew as he walked that what he had visually imbibed was the work of the man from the stairs. Why could that man touch him? How did he know?

 

He stepped out of the building and moved with increased pace towards the stairs. He had to return to his cave, he had to hide, for he knew with even greater certainty that he was not meant to be a part of this world. All that he was meant to be and experience, all the things that everyone else took for granted, were no longer a part of his life. He was alone, he was always alone and despite wishes and dreams, he accepted he would be forever alone. He could never leave his cave and he would never leave his cave again.

 

“You’re still crying,” the man said, still seated in the same position from hours before, whilst the hermit stood frozen at the top of the stairs.

 

The hermit recognised the voice. The voice came softly, inviting. He turned, knowing he should not, knowing the voice within him had warned him not to. It was too hard, though, too hard to ignore a man who could touch him invisibly. He looked at the man, seemingly an average man but he also knew the man had been bestowed with a gift.

 

“Your inked words embrace me,” the hermit explained.

 

“You fill my heart with yours,” the man replied and his smile and gratitude overwhelmed the hermit. “It is sometimes incomprehensible to me that this gift is mine. You see, once I was blind but my sight was restored to me. It was a miracle.”

 

Astonished, the hermit asked, “You were defeated and yet won the battle?”

 

“I was.”

 

“Wisdom was a portion of your gift.”

 

Curiously the gifted man queried, “It was?”

 

“Much of what I was reading was for the lost and fallen, wise words to lift them and give them strength. Gaining your sight showed you more than just the world around you. You were given a second chance to make others see what they were blind to,” the hermit explained.

 

“You are very kind,” the man said.

 

“I like talking to you,” the hermit replied.

 

“You can talk to me anytime,” the man offered.

 

The hermit felt something inside of him breaking. He felt as if something was being released. It was something enticing and yet seemingly so distant and somehow beyond his reach. It scared him and yet called to him.

 

“The people look upon those like you with a worthy respect but many look upon all of the gifted as if you were gods. It is undeserved. It makes me wonder if you are the man you appear to be or if the flooding adoration has turned you into less than the man you were meant to be?”

 

The gifted man stared back, his expression changing but he said nothing. It seemed that when the man did speak, little more than a few words would ever be said. His stories were a history in detail but his spoken word offered little at all.

 

Suddenly the connection between them seemed to the hermit to be faltering. He could feel it like the growth of loss. He wondered if he had said something wrong. The silence that followed from the man was a sharp blade, as he seemed to simply gaze at nothing in particular.

 

The hermit felt the imagined blade, long, slow and damaging cuts over years of fear of connection and loss. He shrank as feelings of inadequacy and insecurity tore at him. An eternity passed as the hermit waited in silence, watching as the gifted man did not even glance his way.

 

The hermit soon decided he had offended the man, though he really did not know how. He decided he should simply leave. He did not want to because instinctively, despite their limited time together, he knew he would like the gifted man. It was a feeling the hermit was unaccustomed to. He looked at him one last time and then he turned away but a moment later, the gifted man spoke.

 

“You are a strange, strange man.”

 

The hermit felt his heart collapse. He knew somehow that the words were not really a weapon but he was filled with hurt and fury. Yet another person, even one of the gifted, did not see him for the man he was but rather, the hermit felt attacked for being unlike everyone else. He turned completely away and all of the pain of years pushed him down the stairs and away from the apparent gentle man, a man whose company he did not want to leave.

 

He ran through the markets, dismissing all in his path and pushing them out of his way.

 

“Am I really so strange? Am I so different from everyone else?”

 

He returned to the stony path and increased his pace, sweating, running and his heart aching. He returned to his cave and for days he could not shift the gifted man from his mind. The hermit argued with himself that the gifted man had done nothing wrong. However, the single word repeated, battered him and continued to break him and lift his anger to infuriating heights.

 

Days later he walked out of his cave again. He needed to breathe and to try to locate an essence of himself that he felt he had lost. He walked again, thinking he would not venture far but his red darkness ate at him and he walked farther than he expected.

 

As he ambled along in silence, he suddenly stopped as his ears caught the sound of distant music. He came upon three women in long, white gowns and flower-decorated hair. They stood by the roadway singing. Their lyrics were powerful and their voices beautiful, recalling loss and blame and resentment. The hermit felt the words so deeply and he fell to his knees in regret.

 

The words disturbed him but soon his anger began to subside and he was filled with understanding. The gifted man had not understood him. It had to be the answer. Perhaps the gifted man was confused and that was why he had called him strange? His tone had not been aggressive or dismissive.

 

The hermit sighed because he realised he had not understood the gifted man either. He had reacted to six words because they had stabbed at the place created by other people. The hermit had reacted rather than reasoned.

 

The hermit thought that where he existed within his heart and mind was his path, regardless of whether it was destined or chosen. Whatever the case, in that regard, he thought the gifted man was not to blame for what had happened. The hermit felt guilty for rushing away like he did and he wanted to apologise. He thought he had reacted like a child instead of the man he was. He wondered if the gifted man even cared or had given him a second thought. He presumed he had probably already forgotten about him.

 

The hermit had not expected anything of the gifted man; at the time he had not thought the gifted man should do or say anything. He only wished the man had spoken more, as opposed to saying practically nothing at all. He was now certain that the man had meant nothing threatening in the use of the word “strange.” Still, strange was the way people treated him because his life was so withdrawn. Some people indirectly inferred that he was strange while others treated him like he was. It was a word he detested in relation to himself. Coming from the gifted man, twice respectively, it had truly crushed him, regardless of its intent or true meaning and now, he wondered what the gifted man’s meaning was.

 

The hermit asked the women to sing the song to him over and over again. His emotions swirled, he felt sad, embarrassed and mistaken but he also felt judged, criticised and justified. He knew the gifted man could not know what and how he was feeling and now, the lyrics of the song made him feel like the gifted man both did and did not care. It was an extraordinary situation and it was eating at him.

 

Resigned, he returned to his cave, returned to his darkness and his ironically disturbing, peace of mind. Time passed and he found himself leaving his cave occasionally, walking to the city and covertly watching the gifted man sitting high on the steps.

 

The hermit had no idea why the gifted man had gotten under his skin so deeply but with each passing day, he just could not shake the event from his mind. His world was changed, as this man continued to interfere with his waking mind. It did not matter, though, because his world would remain viewed from inside his cave. He truly regretted if he had hurt the gifted man. It was never his intent. He had simply wished to know how far removed he was from the gifted. Now he knew.

 

A short time of fine weather was over and in the same way a brief indulgence in the outside world was over as well. The hermit did not know why those random days had pulled him out into the world and brought him into contact with the gifted man, however, now he knew he must retreat. He really did not want to but he simply knew he had to. He could never be the man that people would expect him to be.

 

He wished that he were not a hermit and that he could merge and become invisible within the masses, deaf and blind within the oblivious. Regardless of whether he was at the mercy of puppet strings or not, this was who he was and people saw little beyond the surface. He was here to stay and until death took him, one way or another, so he would remain.

 

Yet again he thought of the gifted man. He knew he would always think of him, always remember him but he also knew he could never know him. He could not see a way that they could connect. The gifted man would always be gifted, respected and open to the world in a way the hermit knew he could not. At the same time, the hermit would always remain on the outskirts of the kingdom, hidden, untrusting and afraid.

 

The hermit believed that in the same way that most people had already proved to him, if he tried to see the gifted man and speak to him again, the gifted man would eventually begin to struggle with the man the hermit was. Those within the lines did not respond well to those outside the lines. The hermit decided he would be too much of a trial for the gifted man and so, though he did not want to make the decision and he wanted to talk with the gifted man again, he knew for the benefit of the gifted man alone, he had to vanish.

 

The hermit smiled a guilty smile. He knew he would still go to the city, he would stand out of sight and he would watch the gifted man, as he sat on the stairs for all to see. It was less than the hermit wanted but for the sake of the gifted man, less was all he could hope for.

 

Each time that he went to the building shrouded in blue, there was nothing more that he wanted than to go to him and speak to him just one last time. He wanted to say sorry but he believed his words would be viewed as unworthy and treated with disdain. There was no fault and there was no blame, it was simply actions and reactions, words and responses or lack thereof and that was the way of life.

 

His decision did not make it easier and his actions made it harder but he believed if the gifted man had been influenced at all, eventually he would forget a few words with a peasant. Life, as the gifted man knew it, would return to normal. In the scheme of things, their time on the steps had been barely a blink of an eye. He would forget if he had not already.

 

The hermit stood back and he held up a flame. He looked at the words he had scratched on the rock wall of his cave. Eventually they would fade into insignificance like everything else. He hated the tale more than any tale he had ever written because it was true. He hated it because it showed his failings and it made him feel vulnerable to attack. It was a despicably accurate portrait. He knew some people would say, “You’re only human” but the hermit felt that was no excuse. He knew better and yet still his thoughts and his feelings and his experiences had betrayed him. There was nothing more he could do. He extinguished the flame and the darkness of his cave devoured him.