Three of them were mak­ing their way through the moun­tains. The paved road made an easy climb, until at last they stopped to rest. Open ground widen­ing like a bay, and farther off the huge boulders of the fam­ous moraine, as though giants had rolled them: uphill? Down­hill? Who could say? To the right the foot­path van­ishes into the depths of the forest. Sun­shine glows through the leaves, and the thou­sand greens of the forest, the gold of the light, the blu­ish grey of the dis­tances make a true sym­phony of col­our.

They are head­ing for a place set apart: a place of vis­ion. Onward, upward, high­er they strive, though they are only fol­low­ing the path. Here it winds, bey­ond the bend it runs arrow-straight for a good stretch, else­where it is rough, or they must pick their way round fallen trees. The light-gold sift­ing through the leaves charms the path into mottled marble: the forest track becomes a Sun-road. Soon they come to a fork where a dozen paths, tracks and roads run togeth­er, tangle into one anoth­er, and then, a few steps on, all unravel again. One turns back, anoth­er leads down into the neigh­bour­ing val­ley, the third across a stream. Their own way climbs to the ridge.

High­er up, on the flank of the next sum­mit, they meet the moraine again. The same huge tumbles of boulders as a little fur­ther down. The path ven­tures very close to the moraine; they have only to clam­ber over its verge, and at once they are stand­ing on the stones. A river of stone, a moun­tain cas­cade of giant boulders. In the middle lies the largest for miles around, and up onto it they climb. The tumble of stone pours down from the heights of the moun­tain, and from there the Sun shines too. Is this, per­haps, the true Sun-road? Squint­ing, they look upwards and, cling­ing to the rays, say their pray­ers; now the uni­verse is theirs. The source of the sun­beam is the Sun, and the Sun is both in the beam and not in it; but the beam is not the source of the Sun, though the Sun is the source of the beam.

With lightened souls, they climb down from the rock and, stum­bling across the smal­ler stones of the moraine, make their way back to the path. It climbs on, unswerving, lead­ing upwards. The see­ing-place is not far now, and they are eager to arrive. They walk on in silence, full of expect­a­tion, each of them long­ing to see, to hear, to exper­i­ence some­thing. It is said that where there is a ques­tion, there will be an answer. Now the path seems to grow gentler, the foliage opens to the light, and provid­ence has set a great stone there for no other pur­pose than that they might settle on it. They have arrived. Noth­ing spe­cial. No music of the spheres, no fairy dance, nor any gob­lins. There is peace. Stand­ing there, they wait, per­haps still hop­ing for some great rev­el­a­tion, but slowly they make their peace with the calm. Per­haps this is the mes­sage here.

Then, as their expect­a­tion sub­sides, they dis­cov­er the magic of the place. Bare patches farther off, on the moun­tain­side – clear-felling. A rise to the left, a clear­ing with a far view to the right. They need not even search, for the see­ing-place is there before their eyes: three trees sprung from a single root. Stout, well-grown trees, their crowns embra­cing high above. The middle one is the strongest, thick-trunked, and it reaches high­er than the oth­ers. On the right the slenderest, like a strip­ling, sways and dances beside the oth­ers. On the left, one stronger than the strip­ling but less well-grown than the middle one. Three – togeth­er. Three trees and three wan­der­ers.

They embrace the trees. First the eld­est, touch­ing their heads to its bark, clasp­ing its trunk tight in their arms. As if it were God… Then comes the one of middle height, and they step up to it gladly – this is the teach­er – and finally, third, they embrace the slender youth, who van­ishes in the crook of their arms. The smal­lest – they them­selves, the etern­al man, the youth, the striv­ing dis­ciple. The three turn round three times, each yield­ing the place of embrace to the next, and every one of them comes to every tree. On their fore­heads is the invis­ible mark, no graze, no wound, but the mark is there, the imprint of the trees. Then they embrace one anoth­er too, with the same cere­mony. They step up to one anoth­er, wait their turn and, lean­ing to the right, embrace, so that the beat­ing of their hearts may ring as one.

Without a word they gath­er their things. The gold of the Sun streams down their fore­heads, bathes their faces in pre­cious light, shines into their hearts. The strength, the belong­ing… Yes, what you seek, O man, exists! The world always wants to attain things, sci­ence thinks in terms of the evol­u­tion of the world, but the wise know that what is needed is not to attain but to return, not to change the world but to bring about apokata­stas­is: the order must be restored. The order of God, of the teach­er and of man…