The lost wizard

⏱ ~5 min reading

In an old house with a blue chimney, on the very edge of a small town, lived a wizard. His name was Znatonya - and the name suited him as an old starry cap suits his gray head.

The wise man knew everything. All the roads of the world were drawn in his head, as if on a big, very big map. Do you want to go to Paris? He will show you - the third turn after the old mill, then across the bridge where the troll with a kind heart lives, then along the river past the walnut grove. Do you want to go to Africa? Please - turn south, pass the mountain with three peaks, then follow the wind that smells of cinnamon and warm sand for seven days. Do you want to go to the stars? And there is a way there - through a cloud that looks like a sleeping kitten, up the steps of moonlight, holding on to a thin ray with your right hand.

People came to him from all over. Merchants, travelers, curious children, even birds that had lost their way in the thicket. The scholar treated everyone to tea with thyme and drew paths on parchment in a thin, spidery hand. And he was never—not once—wrong.

Then one warm morning, something strange happened.

The wise man went out into his garden to cut some roses for the table. The garden was small—just enough for the old wizard: a raspberry bush by the fence, a bench under an apple tree, a path of white stones winding between the flowerbeds.

He walked a few steps. He cut one rose. Another. And when he raised his head, he didn't understand where he was.

“Hmm,” said Znatonya out loud. “Just a minute.”.

He looked around. Everywhere were the same flowers. The same stones. The same smell of sun-warmed mint. But where was the path to the house?

“Turn left,” the wizard ordered himself. “Then right.”.

He turned around. He walked ten steps. And found himself again near the same rose bush from which he had just started.

"What an indecency," muttered Znatonya. "I paved this path myself. I laid these stones with my own hands. There can be no mystery here.".

He tried again. And again. And again. Each time — the same bush. The same rose, which seemed to look at him with a silent reproach.

The wise man sat down on the bench, a little confused. A small mint leaf was tangled in his long beard. He didn't even notice.

"How did this happen?" he whispered. "I know the way to the stars. I know the way to Africa. But to my own door—have I forgotten?"

He closed his eyes and tried to remember the map of his garden. Lines, arrows, and markings appeared in his mind. But the longer he thought, the more confused the lines became. The arrows spun. The markings changed places. The map fell apart like petals in the wind.

And then Znatonya — old, wise, tired — did something he hadn't done in a very long time.

He stopped thinking.

Just sat. Breathed. Listened.

Somewhere above the flowerbed, a bumblebee was humming lowly—a fat one in a striped coat, hurrying from flower to flower. Somewhere, a lizard was rustling in the grass. Somewhere, a bee was buzzing. Somewhere, it smelled—it really smelled—of warm rose leaves, heated stone, distant smoke from someone's kitchen.

The wise man took a deeper breath. He closed his eyes. And he felt something strange - as if the garden greeted him. As if every stalk nodded: "Here you are. We see you.".

He sat there for five minutes. Maybe ten. Time stopped mattering.

And when he opened his eyes, he saw a way out.

It was right in front of him. Three steps away. A small wooden gate with a copper handle, leading to the porch of his house. It had been there the whole time. Znatonya just hadn't seen it—because he was thinking too much.

The wizard laughed. A quiet, kind laugh—the way old grandfathers laugh when they recognize a little boy in themselves.

"Oh, you," he said aloud, stroking his beard. "Sometimes knowledge gets in the way of simplicity. Here's to you wisdom for old age.".

He picked up the roses, carefully shook the leaf from his beard, and went into the house. The door opened lightly, as if it had been waiting for him. On the table shone a teapot of thyme—the same as always. The window was open, and a thin draft carried the scent of the garden—roses, mint, sun-warmed pebbles.

Znatonya poured himself a cup, sat down by the window, and looked out into the garden. Now he saw it not as a map with arrows, but as a living being. Wherever you look, there is a road. Wherever your heart leads, there is a path.

From that day on, he developed a new habit.

Every day, after lunch, he would go out into the garden and sit on the same bench. Not to find his way. Not to remember the map. But simply to be. Without a hat, without a beard braided in thought. Just an old man on a bench.

The bumblebee was buzzing. The lizard was rustling. The sun was rolling across the sky like a golden nut. And Znatonya was sitting—quietly, quietly—and learning the most difficult thing.

Silence inside.

People still came to him - for roads to Paris, to Africa, to the stars. He drew paths for everyone in a thin spidery handwriting. But when a very young traveler asked:

— Master, what is the most difficult road in the world?

The wise man smiled into his beard and answered:

"The one that goes from the head to the heart, son. Because it's short—only fifteen centimeters. But sometimes it takes a lifetime to do it. And neither a map nor a starry cap will help. Only silence and a little patience.".

And the young traveler nodded, not quite understanding. But somewhere, deep in his chest, something warm resonated. Because wisdom is like a rose. It is not explained. It is simply heard. If it is quiet.