On the crest of the hill sat three monks, awaiting enlightenmnet. They waited with such patience that a stranger might have mistaken them as statues, although there were no strangers in these parts. The only inhabitants were the people who farmed the land and the monks.
From their hilltop perch they could see for miles. Billowing clouds rolled through the sky as far as the eye could see, and the land was spread all around like an open book. Behind them rose the mountains, and before them stretched the endless plains from which the people of this land drew their lives.
The storms of the past week had abated. They had come with such force that they might have grasped the earth itself and carried it into oblivion, but now they were past. The trees and rocks still creaked from the fury they had just endured. A few trees had actually been conquered, and could be seen lying about as weeds that had been plucked and thrown to the side. The crops and wildflowers had shorter memories, though, and were once again vibrant with the waters brought by the storm. Deep greens, reds and yellows now stood out against the general dry brown of the land.
In front of the monks, at the base of the hill, was a dirt road. It was the only road connecting the monks' temple on their left to the village on their right. The wind brought the sounds of a villager, still half a mile off, leading his beasts of burden up the path. The monks knew the beasts were laden with foodstuffs of all kinds. Every day a villager brought such supplies to the temple, where the monks lived and prayed.
The monks gazed out on the landscape. A wind came up from behind them, ruffling their clothes. It was a dry breeeze, rolling over the grass and rustling the leaves in the trees, carrying the scent of the end of summer. Suddenly, a tree beside the road creaked loudly, leaned, and crashed to the ground. It completely blocked the path upon which the villager was travelling.
For a long time, the monks sat in silence. Then, without moving any more than the act required, the first monk spoke.
"Is this not how life is?
The man struggles along his alloted path. It is a hard path, an
uphill climb.
Yet God sees fit to throw obstacles in the way, and render even this
task impossible."
"Surely God does not make us stumble," said the second, "but
rather, the Dark One.
Surely it is he who has cast this tree in our poor man's path."
"The road is the only road to our temple," said the third. "It is not just this man's path that is blocked, but ours as well."
"The tree is from God," said the first. "It is a test to our prayers and faith."
The first monk closed his eyes. There was silence. Still the tree blocked the road upon which the villager walked.
"The man has not yet seen the tree," said the third monk. "Is it not like our own troubles, woven for ages, yet we fail to see them until they are upon us?"
"This may be a sign that our own order will soon find trouble," said the second.
"What is man's place, that God should hinder him so?" asked the third.
"What is the place of man?" asked the first. "It is like a whirl
in the waters of the stream of time.
We know not its source, nor its path, nor its end. It is not
our place to say how we live. That we live at all is a miracle
worthy of our praise."
"Lo, the man is upon the tree," said the third. "What will he do?"
Although they did not move, did not even turn their heads so as to better see the confrontation, the monks watched with rapt attention. The farmer approached with his head lowered, watching the ground. His beasts were the first to see the tree — they stopped and looked at it with wide eyed puzzled looks. When his beasts stopped moving, the farmer looked back at them and tugged. When they did not move, he looked forward, and saw the tree. Then he looked down again.
Slowly, just as slowly as he had lead the beasts up the road, he unloaded them where they stood. The monks saw the grain and milk, and were hungry. But they did not move. They simply watched. The farmer removed the ropes that had held the food, and wrapped them around the tree. He harnessed the beasts, and commanded them to pull. They tree rolled slightly, but shifted back. The farmer tried a second time, and a third. The tree was stuck.
The farmer stood back, as if in thought. Finally, he turned, and yelled at the monks. "My beasts and I can't clear the road ourselves! Come give us a hand!"
The monks did not move. That was no way to address holy men. But then, the third monk stood. He walked down the hill, his legs a bit wobbly at first. He looked at the farmer, then looked at the tree.
The monk, the farmer, and the two beasts tried again. The tree rolled, then shifted back. A second time they tried. The tree rolled, but this time, it continued. As the four creatures sweated and strained, the tree slowly slid across the road. In a matter of minutes, the road was cleared. The monk helped the farmer reload his beasts, and the farmer continued on his way.
The sky was now red, as the sun was setting. The hills cast shadows across the plains. It was time to return. The monk on the road looked back at his companions, who were standing now. "Come, we must go back to the temple. It is time for food, and for evening prayers," they said.
"No," said the monk in a strong voice. "You must return alone. I have been enlightened." He turned from his fellows, and started down the path towards the village.
This was for a fiction writing class in college