The days passed quickly without Abu Bakr noticing, consumed by the learning process alongside the village boy under the hermit's guidance. Despite spending so much time with him, Abu Bakr knew very little about the hermit. He was a man of few words, with a perpetual frown on his face. Abu Bakr sometimes wondered if the hermit had forgotten how to smile, or perhaps the solitude of his mountain life had made him forget the warmth of expression.
Occasionally, villagers would arrive seeking answers to their questions. Those days were lost to the villagers' needs, and Abu Bakr would have to read from the many books the hermit owned, books unlike any he had encountered before. Abu Bakr had read extensively and prided himself on never being surprised by a new text, but these books were different. Their content challenged everything he had previously known, and he soon found himself immersed in material that left him bewildered.
Months passed, and Abu Bakr forgot about the sailors waiting for him down the mountain. He had studied at the University of Timbuktu in his kingdom for years, under the kingdom's finest scholars, known for his quick learning. Yet, here he stood, helpless before a language that seemed to have no logical structure, with tangled letters that were almost impossible to pronounce or write.
One day, he asked the hermit for help. The hermit explained that every language began in this complex, tangled form. Over generations, people simplified these languages—refining pronunciation, structure, and writing to make them easier for new learners. But this simplification came at the cost of the language's original depth, with each new generation giving birth to a more accessible version of the old. Abu Bakr realized the challenge ahead of him was not just about learning this new language—it was about understanding its origins and the complex journey it had taken.
As Abu Bakr sat by the hermit, quill in hand, struggling to write the letters, the village boy spoke to the hermit. "Do you still read when people come from far and wide to learn from you?"
The hermit, deeply immersed in a book, responded without looking up. "No one can claim to know everything. There is no such thing as perfection. Perfection is a concept alien to human nature."
"But everyone says you are the most knowledgeable person on this earth," the village boy remarked as he sat down.
The hermit closed the book, and his voice grew serious. "Once, a man gave a sermon to a large audience, speaking for hours, captivating his listeners without tiring them. After the sermon, a person approached him and asked, 'Is there anyone more knowledgeable than you on this earth?' Without hesitation, the man replied, 'I am the most knowledgeable person on this earth.' The Creator then reprimanded him, commanding him to follow a river. Along the way, he encountered a man who asked to be taken as a student for a day. The man was amazed by the depth of his new teacher's knowledge. Despite all that he had learned, this teacher never claimed to be the most knowledgeable person on earth."
Abu Bakr was stunned. The story the hermit had shared was one he had heard before, from his own culture. It was known by the young and old in his kingdom. But how did the hermit, who lived at the ends of the earth, know such a tale? How had it crossed oceans and mountains to reach him?
A week later, the hermit told Abu Bakr that his education was complete. He had learned all he could, and now it was time to leave.