What interested Max most was what he could not see. The conflicts hidden away behind smiles or flickering eyelids. If it was a desire to remedy these conflicts, he was not sure. He certainly did know that he wished the knowledge, if nothing else.

Now trudging along the side of what passed for a paved road, somewhere in the northern portion of Oregon, Max knew a great deal was hidden to him, and would more than likely remain so for longer than he could comprehend. Having not yet understood himself, he reasoned, there was no reason that he should expect to understand others. Or was there? Some contradiction of a self-defeating mind? Unknown.

The journey had been less harsh than he had wished for when left home. After years of stewing in his quiet suburban home in the center of Michigan, Max had slowly, and yet so abruptly to a witness, set out for a trek across the country in search of something that he could not name, and yet knew of all the same. Childhood was supposed to be a period of discovery, but Max could not recall discovering anything that really made him gape at the world around him, or cry tears of joy. His parents were good people, they had provided for him, but what had they truly given him? He had failed to discover himself in what was supposed to be the most nurturing surrounding he could be given, and so he had fled to the open but uncaring arms of the world. This sometimes frightened him, for he was not certain of the nature of his journey. He also feared that if he were to discover his nameless fear, it might be a truly terrible realization of something that he had never thought of.

Max had not been the typical high school student, he had excelled. His grades were looked upon with a sense of awe even by some of his teachers, for Max almost never said anything, he simply listened and produced work of such textbook perfection that he routinely was given letters to take home to his parents, proclaiming his greatness and foretelling of an extremely bright and successful future.

And so it went, year after year. His life might have gone on uneventfully and quietly had not his senior history teacher one day pointed out something to him.

It so happened they were studying the American Revolution, and the teacher asked the students to write a short essay about the events leading up to it. Max spent several hours writing a carefully detailed examination of the British oppression and American spirit, and was quite satisfied that it was one of his finest pieces. He had even included quotes from some of the American newspapers of the era.

The day after the assignment was handed in, his teacher withdrew them from his satchel, lit them aflame, and hurled them out the window.

"Lies," he said, his eyes scanning the class. "Lies."

Max had not been so shocked in a school environment ever before. His work had just been utterly destroyed, his intelligence insulted, and he had no idea what to do about it. He simply sat in silence while other students began to raise protest against the action. Then, the teacher strode over to him and looked him directly in the eye. Leaning over, he said "Do you care that half of what you wrote was nothing but propaganda? Do you care that your primary sources are false?"

He had then straightened, and said quietly, as if Max was the only person in the classroom, "You must look deeper than what people tell you. Life is not just about textbooks."

Max had stared at him, and had not been able to say anything. He was suddenly fearful and hopeful all at once. Had he missed something? Was there something yet to learn? It struck him then that the world might not be as limited as he thought.

His travels were not worthy of being called drama. The people he had met, for the most part, had been quiet and shied away from the ragged man walking purposefully alongside the road. The glances he received were either so full of curiosity or abhorrence that he knew he could not approach these people, who did not see what Max was carrying with him. This did not foster the growth of a hatred for humanity as he had seen it do in so many, it simply increased his insatiable wonder at things, and at himself. Yet, there were always exceptions to the case. Just when he would begin to despair at his nature, some kind being would bring restoration to his endless initiative with a kind word, a bed for the night, or just a small smile. These experiences brought a quite different sensation, one that lit a small flame deep inside him, only to be snuffed by the increasing pointlessness of his life.

Far above, an eagle soared over the break in the trees that characterized the narrow road. Max craned his neck to witness the majestic bird, lingering for a moment as it passed. He then continued on down the dead dirt swathe, cut through the forest many years ago. He knew, that down the road a ways lie the small town of Timber Lake, where he hopefully could seek a meal and bed. Not knowing where his next rest would come gave him a small but constant sense of enjoyment, in the random and yet oddly constant state of his life as it currently was. Certainly better than any quiet existence in the boxes that passed for houses.

He did not notice the cat had wandered off until he took a glance back. Frowning, he shrugged and continued to walk. It would be back, it did tend to head off on it’s own unknown quests, only to return later. If it came only for the scraps of food and the head scratching, Max did not mind. The cat was his only semi-permanent companion on this strange journey. When he had been crossing through Idaho, he had come across what appeared to be a very refined cat sitting on a tree stump, in the middle of what was nothing but open land for several miles around.

The cat’s grayish-brown fur was sleek and well-groomed, and the animal had a generally healthy aura to it. It’s eyes were spheres of jade with wide black globes for pupils, and it’s tail was ringed as the raccoon’s. Max had stopped, mostly out of surprise. He stared at the cat, who stared back, vigilantly enough to impress Max, and then the cat had hopped down and walked away. About a week later, with Max now approaching Washington, the cat had come to him. Almost comically, it simply followed him at a distance of about ten meters, sometimes closer, sometimes farther. When he stopped to rest, the cat would know and sit with him, and both would ponder.

Max now spied a thin column of smoke to the north and smiled. He was now assuredly approaching Timber Lake. Another night in these woods would have been unpleasant, for Fall was now beginning in earnest, and Max’s tattered traveling clothes would not hold up if the weather changed for the worse. His current set of clothes had been from a generous Indian woman outside of Tacoma, who had provided them in exchange for his hauling of firewood for a day. Both had known the work did not match the payment, but neither had said anything, preferring the silent correctness of the trade.

After he had acquired the clothes, she also had pressed a very worn book into his hand as he left. To his surprise, he found it to be a copy of Thoreau’s Walden, which he had never previously read. As he had walked southward from Washington, to Oregon, he had read much of the book, and he had to admit that it had kept him going.

Deciding to go ‘as the crow flies’, Max hopped off the slightly raised road and into the dominion of the trees. He pushed his way through the pine forest, stopping at times to marvel at the width of some of the trunks, or at a passing bird. He was not at all expecting the drop, and when his foot met nothing, he was forced to follow it downwards. Max went crashing down the side of a steep hill, into a creek. Coming to a stop on his side, he quickly pulled himself up, glancing around for the culprit that was himself. After a brief self-examination, he deemed himself only a bit wet from the experience, and turned away from the steep hill, and stepped backwards in surprise.

Before him sat a small log cabin, it’s walls almost as green as the foliage around it. The roof was so covered with mosses and even small flowering plants that it seemed it should collapse inward at any time. There was an air of antiquity about the place, as if it had sat untouched for centuries. Max shuddered involuntarily, suddenly fearing this place greatly. Then, remembering something told to him by someone far away, he took the first steps towards the lonely cabin.

What could be called a porch jutted out from the front of it, and Max could not see how it was staying upright. It should have fallen like a house of cards, and yet it did not. The ancient cedar poles that held it were rotted through and through, the boards were broken in places, and only one piece of furniture remained on the porch, an old chair.

From behind the chair came a faint mewing, and the cat stepped out, looking a bit tired. It took a few steps towards the edge of the porch, and then stopped and sat there, staring expectantly at Max. When Max hesitated, the cat settled itself down, tucking it’s paws under itself, and appeared to be ready for a long stay. The logs that made up the house silently beckoned to Max, speaking volumes. In the window, a single candle burned, and it was obvious it would not burn for much longer. The candle was but two inches high, and was rapidly melting. Max found this odd, for the flame emanating from it was hardly more than a spark, and seemed destined to drown in the very wax it melted around itself.

Despite this odd item, Max turned away from the house, reminding himself that the weather was not going to forgive his lingering in the middle of the forest. He began to walk away, picking his way over fallen trees. Suddenly, the cat was there, as if aware of his intent, and it stood in front of him. It looked up at him and meowed once, and then sat.

"Not now, cat." said Max. "It’s going to be cold tonight."

The cat stood again, and Max was about to follow it over the next tree when it suddenly turned and dashed back towards the house. Turning in surprise, the wanderer saw the cat jump onto the porch, nudge open the old door, and bounce inside.

Max found himself following the cat, and soon he was standing upon the rotted and yet sturdy porch of the cabin. A single shaft of light exited through the door, from the cat’s entrance, and Max pushed the door open the rest of the way, and cautiously stepped inside.

Inside, the place appeared to have been cared for by a carpenter with no equal. Each piece of furniture was exquisitely crafted, and each wall appeared as though it had been built to resist a siege. His eyes flickered over to the corner by the solitary window, and beside it sat a small bed. Wrapped in heavy wool blankets, there lie a man. His face showed that he was clearly quite aged, and his eyes appeared tired as they appraised Max. He then, with no effort, spoke forth. "Come in, come in..don’t just stand there, I say! Please, sit down!"

The man now sat up and stretched his long arms, and then gestured to a small wicker chair that sat near the bed. It, also, was in perfect condition. Max slowly walked to it and sat down. The cat now appeared, jumping onto the bed and sitting at its foot. For a moment, there was an odd silence as the old man studied Max.

"You’re a long way from home, friend," spoke the man, "and I’ll wager you could use a decent meal. Please, take some of the bread I’ve left on the table over there."

Max sat for a moment longer, and then stood again and strode over to a small cherry-oak table, where there sat half a loaf of rye bread. Breaking a small chunk off, he returned to sit by the man.

"Thank you, sir," said Max gratefully, pocketing the bread for later. The man chuckled at this, and his eyes sparkled briefly.

Another moment of quiet passed, and then the old man turned from the window to Max and spoke directly to him. "I know what you’re out here for, son. You’re looking for your place in this world. You’ve been rejected at some point along the line, and you’re out here looking for an answer to the question that you couldn’t answer. Well, listen. This isn’t about questions and answers, that’s not what life is." He paused and considered the cat for a moment before continuing. "Life," he said, "Is about dealing with things, and finding meaning in them. All of them." He nodded to himself at this point, and stroked the cat’s ears.

Max looked up, and then spoke. "But... what I have been taught... is it worthless?"

The man shook his head vigorously. "No, no! It’s how you’ve been taught to interpret what you know. You do know certain things, cut and dry, no matter what anyone tells you, my friend. Truth is not open to interpretation."

Now feeling very young and alone, Max cast his eyes downward, fighting the tears of utter confusion that were fighting their way forward. Seeing this, the man spoke again, resting a hand on Max’s shoulder. "You cannot walk away forever. Life is not all about wandering around waiting to stumble over the truth. You must believe in yourself, and all else will come in time. You have such great potential...such true potential."

Solid quiet rang out through the room as Max was thrown into a brick wall of realization. Why had he not thought this before? It seemed ludicrous, but it all made an odd sort of fateful sense.

The man watched him, and then turned away. "Thank you for bringing my cat back to me. He is getting nearly as old and tired as I, you know," he said with a wink. The cat stirred, but did not awaken. "Now," stated the man, "You must go, and return to where you came from. Your destiny may not lie there, but it is the beginning of what you seek."

Max glanced up at the man. "You’re quite an interesting fellow, you know."

The man chuckled. "Yes, and so shall you be one day!" He then stood, and taking Max’s arm, walked him to the door. Max then took a last glance at the cat, who remained asleep on the bed, and strode out the door, and back into the forest.

From behind him, he suddenly heard the man call: "Go forth not in quiet desperation, go forth trusting in yourself, my friend!"

He turned and saw the man standing in the doorway, clutching a small book of some sort. The mysterious man then turned and disappeared into his cabin. Max stared for a moment, knowing now who his answers had come from. Not from any author, not from any hermit, but from the source of all real enlightenment: Himself.

Max turned, and strode purposefully through the pine forest. He walked over a tall hill, heading east, and was gone. The forest silently became itself once again, the cabin vanishing quietly into the gathering dusk.