Three Questions

A thin autumn light fell across the hermit’s small garden, carrying the damp scent of turned earth and the distant cry of a hawk. A spade bit into the soil with a steady, rhythmic scrape; the old man’s breath was measured. Nearby, a disguised king watched with a restless heart—seeking certainty where only the present offered answers.

There was a certain king who believed that if he knew the answers to three questions he would never stray in any matter.

The three questions were:

1. What is the right time to begin something?

2. Who are the right people to listen to?

3. What is the most important thing to do?

The king issued a decree throughout his realm, offering a great reward to anyone who could answer these questions. Many came forward.

Some urged elaborate calendars and timetables to calculate the perfect moment to act. Others insisted on constant vigilance and flexibility—watching the world and responding to its signals rather than trusting plans. For the question of whom to trust, opinions ranged from loyal ministers to priests or learned doctors. As for the most important thing to do, answers varied from pursuing knowledge to waging war to devout worship.

None of these answers satisfied him. Convinced that true wisdom lay beyond the courts and councils, the king decided to visit a hermit famed for his insight. The hermit lived alone on a mountain and received only simple people. So the king disguised himself as a common man, left his guards and attendants behind, and climbed to the hermit's hut.

When he arrived, the hermit was bent over a spade, digging in front of his hut. He greeted the newcomer with a single nod and kept working. The king approached and spoke plainly.

"I have come to ask three questions," he said. "How can I know the right time for every action? Who are the most necessary people? And what is the most important thing to do?"

The hermit listened, said nothing, and continued his labor. The king waited, then offered to take the spade. "You are tired," he said. "Let me help."

The hermit handed over the spade and sat down. The king dug steadily, turning the soil into neat beds. When he had finished two, he repeated his questions. The hermit only pointed to the spade, indicating that the king should continue.

Hours passed. The sun sank behind the mountains, and the king, weary and a little impatient, paused. "I came to you for answers," he said. "If you cannot answer, tell me so, and I will return to my kingdom."

"Look!" said the hermit.

The king turned. A figure was stumbling toward them through the trees—clutching his side, blood dark on his garments. He collapsed at their feet, unconscious.

The king and the hermit hurried to him. They bound the wound with what they had: the king's handkerchief and a towel from the hermit's hut. They washed and dressed the injury as best they could.

When the man regained consciousness he asked for water; the king fetched it and held it to his lips. Night settled coldly around the little hut, and with the wounds dressed, the king and hermit carried the stranger inside and laid him on the hermit's bed. Exhausted from toil and care, the king fell asleep on the floor beside him.

When the king awoke the next morning, the wounded man was awake and looking at him. "Forgive me," the man said weakly.

"I do not know you, and there is nothing to forgive," the king answered.

"You do not know me, but I know you," the man replied. "I am your enemy.

I swore to avenge my brother and planned to kill you. I came here to ambush you in this mountain solitude, but your guards saw me and wounded me. I escaped them and would have bled to death if you had not helped me. Now my life is spared because of you. If I live, I will serve you faithfully and try to atone."

The king felt a quiet relief and a surprising warmth. He forgave the man, promised proper care, and ordered his physician and servants to see to the fellow's recovery. The wounded man was carried away to be treated.

Before the party left, the king turned to the hermit one more time. "Now will you answer my questions?" he asked.

"Your questions have been answered," the hermit said simply.

"How so?" the king demanded.

"If you had not pitied my weakness yesterday and taken up the spade, you would have returned untrimmed by that day's labor and walked straight into the ambush," the hermit explained. "Then the most important time was the hour you were digging; the most important person was I, who needed your help; and the most important thing to do was to aid me. Later, when the wounded man came running to us, the most important time was the moment you bound his wound; the most important person was he; and the most important deed was saving his life, which led to peace between you. Do you see?"

The king reflected. The hermit's words were simple but held a steady power.

"Remember," the hermit continued, "there is only one important time: now. It is the only moment in which we have power to act. The most necessary person is the one with whom you are, for you cannot know what dealings you will have with others. And the most important thing is to do good; that is the purpose for which people are sent into this life."

The king stood silently for a long time. He had expected distant, formulaic answers—rules to apply in every circumstance—but instead received a call to attention: to live in the present, to see the person before him as the one who mattered, and to make goodness his immediate work.

He thanked the hermit and returned to the palace. From that day forward, his governance changed. When decisions loomed, he grounded himself in the present moment, considered who stood before him, and chose the action that would do the most good then and there. He listened more, judged less, and engaged directly with his people’s needs. Small acts of kindness became part of his daily practice, and over time those small acts shaped the kingdom's life.

Years passed. As the king grew old he looked back on his reign and understood how deeply that simple lesson had altered his path. His people were healthier, more content; disputes were met with patience and repair. Not fame or riches, he realized, brought him comfort, but the knowledge that he had done good in the moments he could.

The hermit's counsel spread beyond that mountain, traveling on the lips of travelers and in the lessons parents taught their children. The story of the king and the three questions became a parable people told to remind one another that wisdom often appears in the plainest form: the present moment, the person beside you, and the deed of kindness you can perform.

For many, that lesson remained a practical compass—less a rulebook, more a charge to open one’s eyes and hands to do good when it matters most. The king’s legacy endured in quieter ways than monuments: in the lives eased by small mercies, in the disputes settled by a hand extended at the right time, in communities that learned to measure worth by compassion rather than titles.

Thus the king’s quest for wisdom came full circle. He had sought certainty and found instead a practice: to act now, to honor the person with him, and to let goodness be his work. That practice, shared and repeated, kept the kingdom steady and, in time, made it kind.

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