“But that can’t be right,” protested young Heppmurt to the monk. “There must be a logical and correct course of action.”
The monk was perched on his favorite boulder, smiling broadly, wetness standing out at the corners of his eyes. Was he laughing? Was he crying?
“No logic. No correct.” The monk repeated. Heppmurt paced for a time. He had journeyed ten nights and a day to see this old monk, in search of everlasting wisdom. Heppmurt then lost control of himself for a while. He kicked and he screamed. He threw down his pack. His angry cries carried for miles across the mountain range.
The monk carefully slid down his boulder. “Time for dinner,” he said and lurched back into his little hut.
Heppmurt stayed outside in silent protest for several hours. Then he quietly gathered his things and ventured inside the warm, dimly lit, hut.