The Hermit and the Master

Craig Morey
1 May 2026


* * * * 1 * * * *


"Excuse me, how much further is it to the Conservatory from here?"

The old hermit wore a tired face but studied the traveler with bright and thoughtful eyes. "Are you a musician, then? It's not much further at all really, just down the hill." The face loosened into a smile. "Is that a case for a zither that you're carrying there? If you don't mind, I'd love to hear you sit and play for a minute, assuming you're not in any rush. I can get you something to drink, I'm sure you're thirsty from being on the road."

The traveler looked amused. "I suppose, living here, you must have plenty of musicians passing by you all the time on their way into town, no? But certainly, I'd be happy to stop and play for a bit."

He sat down and unpacked an ornate wooden zither from its leather case. He began tuning its many different strings, a procedure which had become so routine for him that he sometimes felt he could do it in his sleep. The old hermit came and sat next to him, holding two clay mugs. "I don't suppose, then, that you've come out here to the Conservatory hoping to audition with the Master Zitherist?"

The traveler nodded absentmindedly, his hands still on the tuning pegs. "I heard the news that he was seeking a new apprentice. You don't happen to know if he's found one yet, do you?" 

"Not as far as I know." The Master Zitherist was the shining star of the Conservatory, the town's small music academy. He was widely believed to be the best zitherist in the world, possibly even the best in history. In his old age, the Master had turned his energies fully toward teaching his craft, although he made a point of only ever taking on one student at a time. Thus far, none of his pupils had distinguished themselves by achieving the virtuosity or the consequent fame enjoyed by the Master.

Having tuned and stretched his hands, the traveler began to play. He started with just solitary notes, plucked quietly, picked out tentatively from the bass strings, then moving up to the melody strings, then finally whole chords came out, strummed one after another until they cautiously settled into a rhythm, and afterwards a melody came through, establishing itself atop the pulsating chords. The tempo gradually increased, the contrabass strings joined in and filled out the sound like a breeze lifting a sail, the music swelled, and the traveler smiled in spite of himself as his fingers flew across the strings.

The hermit drank and watched the zither with rapt attention, a curious look in his eyes. When the song was finished, he handed the traveler the other mug and cleared his throat.

"Yes, well, that really wasn't half bad! It's a good foundation. I think you'd certainly be able to make good use of some time spent at the Conservatory."

"A good foundation??" The traveler looked bewildered. "You can't be serious. Is that really all you have to say about it??"

The hermit chuckled. "My boy, I see musicians coming and going along this road nearly every day. Hundreds of musicians. I don't mean to offend you, your playing really isn't half bad, but you're about to be in the company of some of the best musicians in the world. Why, your zither playing is hardly any better than mine is, to be honest."

The traveler eyed the old man suspiciously. "I'm better at playing the zither than any musician I've ever met. In all my life I've never met anyone who was anywhere close to my level."

The hermit gave a thin smile. "Yes, well, I'm sure that's true out in the provinces. Playing for taverns and country weddings and such. You might very well be better than anything the people out where you're from have ever heard. But look boy, this here is the Conservatory, people are drawn to it from every corner of the continent. Practically everyone who comes here is a prodigy, the best their town had ever heard of. You are skilled, boy, I don't mean to say you aren't, but it's all relative. Out here, you aren't anything special. I'm sorry but that's just the way it is."

The traveler grimaced. "Look, I'm not a 'boy', alright? I've been a professional musician for years already." His shoulders slumped and he looked down miserably at the instrument in his lap. "So... does this mean I don't really have a chance with the Master Zitherist, then?"

"Oh! No, I didn't mean that at all! You really do have potential. Actually," he set his mug down, "could I see that for a second maybe?" He gestured at the zither. "My fingers won't move as fast as yours, but perhaps I could still give you some pointers." The traveler hesitated, then reluctantly handed the instrument over. "And hey look, at my age, boy, practically everyone is a 'boy' to me. Don't take it personally." He made some experimental plucks, then began to repeat portions of the song that had been performed earlier. To the traveler's surprise and horror, the hermit really was as good at playing the zither as he had claimed, nearly as good as the traveler himself was.

After several minutes of critiques and suggestions, with the zither passing back and forth between the players, the hermit set the instrument down and finished off his drink. "Listen." He fidgeted with his mug. "Maybe I can give you some advice." He gazed out at the road winding its way down the hill, his face unreadable. "You see, first impressions are important here. Really important. You only have one opportunity to impress them. Only one chance for an audition with the Master Zitherist." He looked meaningfully at the traveler. "Don't waste it."

"What are you saying?"

"I'm saying practice more. Become as good as you can possibly be, the best you can be, before you go in and present yourself at the Conservatory. Let them judge you only at your best, rather than as what you are now." He set down his mug and stood up. "You really do have potential. I mean it. I don't want to see you get turned away by the Master Zitherist just because you're showing up here in this raw form. My advice to you is, when you go into town, don't go to the Conservatory just yet. Don't play your zither anywhere else in town yet either. Don't waste that first impression. As a matter of fact, I wouldn't even go into any music halls whatsoever. Head into town, by all means, get something to eat, maybe find a room at a boarding house or something. But, if you want my advice, you should come back to me, come back here, and practice some more. Practice until you've gotten as good as you can ever possibly get on your own. I know that I'm not much to look at compared to the teachers at the Conservatory, but I'll try my best to help you as much as I can. Once you've gotten all that you can out of me, and out of your own solitary practice, then you'll truly be ready to audition for the Master."

The traveler frowned. On the one hand, the hermit really did seem to know his way around the zither. And it was undoubtedly true that he had talked with and advised hundreds of prospective musicians passing by along the road. On the other hand though, it had already taken him so long just to get here. Who knew how much longer it would be before the Master settled on a new apprentice? Or, for that matter, how much longer the Master would even be alive for...

"Just, think about it," the hermit went on. "If you believe that you're ready, then go on ahead and present yourself at the Conservatory. But if not, if you think you still have some room for improvement first, then come back here and I'll be happy to host you for as long as you think you need it. You be the judge." And with that, the hermit smiled and walked back up to his cottage. The traveler watched him go, still lost in thought. Eventually, having seemingly come to some sort of conclusion, he let out a small grunt, packed up his zither, and continued down the hill and into the town.


* * * * 2 * * * *


The hermit spied the traveler climbing his way back up the winding road. It had been the traveler's third trip into town since having met the hermit a week ago, his second since having agreed to take the old man up on his offer of hospitality while he continued to practice his zither.

The traveler set down his rucksack and began unloading the food and other supplies he had bought while in town. His face looked ashen.

"The word in town is that the Master Zitherist has decided on an apprentice." He didn't look up at the hermit. "He's apparently gone into seclusion with the bastard. They say he isn't taking any more auditions."

The hermit gave him a small shrug. "Well, that isn't necessarily a bad thing, you know."

"Not a bad thing??" The young man slammed a cabbage down onto the table. "Damn it, do you have any idea how far I traveled just to get here? How long I worked just to prepare myself for the chance to meet with the Master? I really cannot believe I let you talk me into waiting. Now I may never get another chance."

"You decided to wait because you agreed with me that you still have room for improvement, remember? This isn't necessarily a bad thing. Now you'll have time to really practice, to keep at it until you're in the best shape you can possibly be. This new apprentice won't last forever, trust me, and when he's gone you'll be in a much better position than you are now."

"Hmph." The man gazed off into the distance. "Well, at this point, I suppose my only other option now would be to go back home." He waited, but the hermit didn't offer anything further. "Alright, fine. I'll continue practicing I guess. It certainly can't hurt, in any case." And with that, he finished emptying the rucksack, picked up his zither, and began to play.

In less than a minute, all the worry and frustration had evaporated from his face. His thoughts wrapped themselves fully in the music, his concentration was entirely occupied with the movement of fingers and the delicate interplay of harmonies. The hermit, too, lost himself in the traveler's music, and as he listened an irrepressible smile broke out onto his face.


* * * * 3 * * * *


The old hermit was no longer able to get out of his bed unassisted. It had been over a year since the traveler had first arrived at the cottage, and the young man's skill at the zither had improved rather significantly in that time. The hermit had always insisted that this improvement was entirely due to the traveler's own focus and self-discipline, rather than to whatever instruction he might have been able to give. And though the traveler was well aware that his skill was now far beyond that of the hermit's, still he felt that the old man's earnest encouragement, consistent training regimen, and moreover his calming yet driving demeanor had been the key element that had made all the difference.

The hermit had difficulty eating now, difficulty sleeping, difficulty conversing for more than short intervals. The traveler had been forced to spend less and less time practicing and more time caring for his host's deteriorating health. It was tacitly understood by both, though not yet acknowledged aloud, that the hermit was not going to live for much longer.

The traveler practiced his zither inside the cottage, where the hermit could listen and occasionally provide feedback while still lying in bed. After he had finished playing through an exercise, the hermit made a croaking sound and motioned the traveler over to his bedside with a small hand gesture.

"My dear boy," he rasped, before being interrupted by a fit of coughing. "Truly," he continued, "it has been wonderful watching you improve at your zither this past year. More than that, it has been wonderful having you with me here at the end of my life." The traveler stirred as if to object, but the old man stopped him. "I am dying. There is no point denying it. I will be gone soon, and it has been a great burden lifted from my mind to have had you around to help ease my passing." The traveler patiently waited out another fit of coughing. "After I am gone, you must go on to the Conservatory. You are ready now. It is time." The old man reached a shaking hand out to his bedside table and retrieved a sealed envelope. "I've written you a letter of introduction. It's not much, but it might be of some use to you. Take it with you for when you present yourself at the Conservatory."

The hermit closed his eyes for a long while, and just when the traveler had decided that he had fallen asleep, he spoke again. "It has been an honor tutoring you, watching you learn. You are a great musician. You are..." He trailed off, then began to snore weakly. The traveler smiled sadly, then quietly took up his zither and left the room to continue with his exercises.


* * * * 4 * * * *


The traveler had buried the hermit out in the birch grove, near the place where the two of them had first met. He had then lingered around the cottage for a while afterwards, settling affairs, and getting various things in order in the wake of his friend's passing. He no longer felt any sense of urgency, any feeling of time pressing in on him or slipping past him. The days he had spent with the old hermit had taught him patience, and a sense of amor fati. But eventually it was finally time to leave the hermitage, his peaceful refuge from the world, and so he gathered up his rucksack, his zither, and his letter of introduction, and headed down the hill for the Conservatory.

Upon reaching the town, he had been dismayed to learn from the townsfolk about the recent death of the Master Zitherist. After all that practice, it now seemed that the audition he had spent the past year preparing for would never take place. The traveler, carrying on numbly and almost in a daze, had continued on to the Conservatory anyway, not knowing where else he could go or what else he ought to do.

At the Conservatory, he explained to the administrator who met him that he was a zitherist, that he had come to the town in order to audition to study under the late Master Zitherist, and that he had a letter of introduction written for him by another older zitherist who had been living nearby. After handing over the letter, the administrator studied the envelope's seal for a moment with a confused expression before opening and reading it slowly, his eyebrows raised. When he had finished, he gave the traveler an amazed and slightly amused look, then handed him back the letter without a word.

The traveler saw, to his surprise, that the letter was in fact addressed not to the Conservatory or to the Master Zitherist, but to himself.

The letter read as follows:


My Dear Boy,

I hope you can forgive me for my dishonesty. After so many students and auditions over the years, I had become complacent in my old age. It seems I had given up on ever really expecting anything at all. And then you came to me out of nowhere, and when I first heard you play it was all I could do to hide my shock! To think that I could still see such talent, after so much time!

I could see it plainly in your face as you played for me that first day, that you knew you were the best, you knew in your heart that you had already reached the pinnacle of your skill and that you had no further need for practice or room for improvement. It wasn't true of course, it never is, but yet I could see that you knew it with certainty. I've known the same thing of course, known it for most of my life. You really can't understand what it's like, to know with absolute certainty that you are already the best, the best in the world and the best version of yourself. To have people travel to you from all over and yet to have none of them even come close. You don't understand it now, but you will come to understand it soon.

Had I told you the truth back then, that you had already reached and surpassed me all on your own, your journey would have ended right then and there. Further improvement would have been impossible for you, just as it had been impossible for me. A person needs to believe that a further height still exists in order for them to try to reach for it. By telling you that there was still someone better than you out there, that the Master Zitherist was still far above your level, you were then able to go on and reach those otherwise unimaginable levels of skill. Had you been told the truth straight away, that you were already far and away the best zitherist in the world, you would have sat proudly up on your summit just as I did and you would have been unable to achieve anything further.

It has been a great privilege for me to be able to watch you practice and improve your skills over this past year. Working with you has truly deepened my love of music and of the instrument. I only wish that I could somehow hide the truth from you for even longer, that I could go on letting you believe that a better Master Zitherist was still out there somewhere, something for you to have to climb higher for still. But no. I've done all that I can, and it is time now for you to claim your throne. You can rest easy now knowing that you are without a doubt the best zitherist the world has ever seen. Or rather, I should say, you can rest easy knowing it right up until the moment when some young lad eventually strolls out of the woods and proceeds to blow YOU away!

Sincerely Yours,

Master Zitherist


* * * * END * * * *