At the edge of a dark and dense forest, snuggled into a bentwood chair fashioned from red willow twigs, sat a very old and very wise Wizard.

A pathway, flanked by two large rocks, marked the beginning of a trail that lead into the depths of the forest. Here, strategically positioned between the two massive granite gateposts, the Wizard maintained his role as lone sentry.

“Halt!” The peace and tranquility of the Wizard’s solitary post was suddenly broken, as he called out from the comfort of his chair. His voice was course and raspy from disuse. The forest gateway was rarely traversed, offering little company for the Wizard and equally thin opportunity to bark out orders.

A Traveler had approached the trail head between the two stone pillars, and the Wizard (after struggling to his feet) went into his well-rehearsed but seldom used oratory, “No one shall (cough) shall pass without (cough) without first answering The Question.”

“What is your question, old man?” growled a weathered and grizzled wanderer. He wore an oilcloth cloak that encompassed his body and a wide-brimmed hat that obscured his face, “I am in a hurry with important business to attend to at the far side of the forest. I have neither time nor disposition for trivia. Let me pass.”

“It’s not MY question. It is THE Question.” Although the Wizard did not get to share company with many travelers, he would have rather sat in his chair all day and waited for the shift change, than have to deal with this cranky curmudgeon. Also, there was the natural suspicion he had of anyone hiding behind cloak and cover. “Read the sign,” growled the Wizard.

He pointed to a tarp covered contraption mounted on an orange trailer, parked at the right of the entryway. The intense man on a mission looked at the dust covered tarp, looked back at the Wizard with a scowl that screamed, “Read what? You old…,” when the Wizard grinned, tugged on the tarp, and flicked a switch. 7,000 LED lights on a highway message board burst into a radiant blaze, sending the Traveler staggering blindly back 60 yards, before he could regain focus and read the sign.

“Attention. Passage into the forest is restricted. Applicants for entry must pay an application and document processing fee of $78, fill out the A-1.1 form, and then successfully answer The Question. Failure to successfully answer The Question will result in entry denial. Successful answers are subject to Regulation B2-3. All fees are non-refundable. Enjoy your journey.”

“What, in the name of Logan’s Run, is the bean-spangled question, you old Phardt!” snarled the Traveler. “I have important business to attend to.”

“I get it — big hurry, blah, blah, blah,” taunted the Wizard, as he began to explain the sign’s meaning. “First you have to pay the application and documentation fee, then you fill out form A-1.1, and please be sure to note your big hurry and important business in the ‘comments’ section. Then – and I can’t emphasize this enough – and only then, do you get to hear The Question.”

The Wizard pointed to a stack of A-1.1 forms, sitting on a rickety card table. “Do you have the fee?” he asked, as he stretched out his hand. “We only accept cash. If not, please step to the rear of the line.”

The Traveler begrudgingly handed over $80. The Wizard smiled politely and said, “Sorry, exact change only,” as he slipped the bills into his pocket.

After 15 minutes of filling out a form that made Einstein’s Theory of Relativity seem like a nursery rhyme, the Traveler returned to the Wizard and waited impatiently for The Question. Inside a drum, formally used for mixing LOTTO balls, were a plethora of small slips of paper.

On each of the slips was written a different question — each question held the potential to become THE Question. After a thorough (and dramatic) mixing, the Wizard reached inside, pulled out a slip of paper, and began to read aloud, “What is the shortest distance between this gate and the center of the forest?”

The traveler burst into laughter. “That is The Question?” he bellowed. “The answer is simple. It is the same for any two locations. The shortest distance between any two points is a straight line. Now stand aside and let me pass!”

“Sorry. Read the sign. ‘Successful answers are subject to Regulation B2-3’.”

“What is that?”

“Best two out of three.”

Larry Wilson is a mostly lifelong resident of Niles. His optimistic “glass full to overflowing” view of life shapes his writing. His essays stem from experiences, compilations and recollections from friends and family. Wilson touts himself as “a dubiously licensed teller of tall tales, sworn to uphold the precept of ‘It’s my story; that’s the way I’m telling it.’” He can be reached at wflw@hotmail.com.