Pridesbane

In the midst of the valley a forest.

At the heart of the forest a clearing.

He'd been living in the clearing for fifty years, now. Men and women came from the farthest reaches of the province just to hear him speak, or to offer their sorrows for his perusal. He seldom provided them with solutions, but it lessened their burdens to share with him.

"I bet you're a goddamn fraud."

He didn't bother to look up. The young man who'd spoken had been peremptorily loud as he made his way across the clearing, and the air had long been curdled by the dirty looks being cast his way.

"Are you listening to me, you phony freak?"

He finally looked up at the young man. His jaw continued to work up and down on its relentless journey of mastication.

"Look at you wallowing about in the filth." The young man seemed to be warming to his subject. "I bet you love living caked under a layer of dirt, don't you?"

The crowd in the clearing had turned into a giant circle of spectators. He was as aware of their unease as he was of the young man's discomfort. He continued to say nothing.

A couple of hours passed. The young man followed a regular pattern, like clockwork: a couple of laps of the darkening enclosure, a few insults spat at him, and then waiting around for a response that never came.

After the evening gave way to night the young man finally stopped. The clearing was completely empty - most of the spectators had given up in disgust, carving their ways out of the forest and back into their lives.

The young man was in the middle of a sentence when he lost steam. His hands fell limply to his sides, and he stood staring blankly at the older man.

"What ails you?" The ascetic finally asked him. To give him due credit the young man didn't really need to think before answering.

"Jealousy," he said. "It eats me up on the inside. It corrodes me. I see the world going about its business, uncaring of my existence, and I feel jealous."

"The whole world or just some bits in particular?"

The young man looked at him, startled. There was a wry smile beneath the hermit's beard. His jaw never stopped working.

"Your jealousy comes from a sense of being wronged," said the older man. "And that feeling of injustice, in turn, arises from false pride."

"What do you mean, false pride? I'm-"

"All pride is false pride. Why should your existence make a difference to anybody else's? You are meant to live and breathe free of obligation."

"Easy for you to say."

The hermit's smile widened slightly. "Nobody owns anyone else. It is not possible. We'd be fools to try. What we can do instead is destroy this false pride."

"And how can one do that?"

"Here." The hermit opened a knobbly fist. A bunch of spindly leaves unfolded in the moonlight. They seemed to have a purple tinge to them.

"What is this?"

"Pridesbane," said the hermit. "Help yourself."

The young man took a couple of leaves and put them in his mouth. He chewed for a moment or two. He spat them out in disgust.

"Yuck! These are bitter!"

"Yes. That is because they are meant to be."

The young man stared at the older man for a bit.

The knobbly palm never wavered.

The young man helped himself again.

This time he concentrated on the chewing.

"How long do I have to do this?" he asked with his mouth full.

"As long as it takes."

"And when can I stop?"

"When you have conquered your pride," said the hermit. "Or when the leaves stop tasting bitter. Whichever comes first."

The young man looked around for a moment.

The older man pulled a spare rug from under his own and spread it next to himself.

The young man sat down cross-legged.

The forest was silent except for the rhythmic tide of two pairs of teeth working in the darkness.