The Monk and the Changing Road

The Monk came down the hill road in the last of the autumn light, and the village was not where he had left it.

It was exactly where he had left it. It had simply grown in every direction at once.

The well had a roof now. The lane where a goat had once argued with him was paved in grey stone, and a row of new houses leaned together like men sharing a secret. Smoke rose from chimneys he did not know.

He stopped at the edge of it, leaning on his staff, and waited to feel something large.

Nothing large arrived. He felt a small ache, a small gladness, and a general wish to sit down.

A woman was sweeping a doorstep that had not existed in his time. She looked at his cloak, his dust, the slow way he walked.

"You are lost," she said kindly.

"I am late," said the Monk. "It is a different thing. Lost is when the road has changed. Late is when you have."

She considered this and went on sweeping.

The tavern, he was relieved to find, was still a tavern, though it had acquired a second door and a younger dog. The bench by the hearth had been replaced. He sat on the new one anyway. It wobbled. He found this encouraging.

An old man at the next table squinted at him. "I remember a monk who came through here, years back. Loud about his opinions."

"Was he right?"

"About half."

"That is a good average for a monk," said the Monk, and the old man laughed.

They sat a while. The old man told him who had married, who had left, whose roof had gone. The Monk listened the way he listened to rain, without trying to stop any of it.

He had expected to grieve the old village. Instead he found he was grateful to have seen it twice. A thing seen once is a memory. A thing seen twice is a road.

Late that night he took out his little book and looked for something wise to write. He had arrived with a page of sayings about change. Reading them now, they seemed the work of a younger man, who had believed change was something that happened to places.

He crossed them out. Beneath, he wrote: The village grew. So did I. Neither of us asked permission.

In the morning the road went on, as roads do. The Monk went with it, a little slower, a little lighter, and wobbling only where the ground gave him reason.

The Monk is always glad of a new road. Visit the Friary's shelves at wobblingmonk.com, or join the Friary and wander with us.

The Monk began years ago as a pencil sketch between two old friends. Today we bring him to life with AI tools, so he's still the same Monk, just with new roads to wander.