The Return Of The Prodigal Son

The cloaked figure stood in front of the gate, looking at it intently. The gate was just as he had remembered it: old, evidenced by the different marks and scratches on it. Back then, when he was just a child really, he couldn’t understand how something could last so long. Now the gate felt like a reflection of himself. He was no longer a child, but a man with his fair share of marks and scratches. 

He pushed the gate opened, and walked into the empty temple. Not a single one of the brothers were there to greet him. He knew immediately where they must have been. Before he went off to find them, he looked around the temple, remembering his time here. Coming here was a dream come true back then, and every day the dream became more and more amazing. But now he saw the temple for what it is. Just another place. 

He walked, his footsteps echoing in the empty room. He went through a door, and was met with a long tunnel lit by rows of torches. The trek inside the tunnel felt like it would go on forever, but he saw the light at the end and reached the exit. Now he heard a familiar voice, the one that had been the last he heard before he left years ago.

He walked through the door and saw brothers- all younger than he was- sitting in desks and receiving instruction from a much older man in the front of the classroom. The teacher’s hair had gone gray, but besides that, the years hadn’t done much to change him. As he was teaching his class, he saw the cloaked man at the door. The teacher’s face gave away nothing. 

He said, “That’s the end of today’s lesson. Remember to practice the exercises I gave you.”

And with that the students left the room. They all noticed the cloaked man, but didn’t bothering stopping to stare at him. Even with the cloaked man’s age and unkempt beard, it was plainly obvious that he was or had been a brother of the temple. The last student to leave closed the door behind him, and the cloaked man and the teacher were alone.

“Isaac,” the teacher said, “you’ve come back.”

“Yes, master,” the cloaked man replied.

“You know only a brother is allowed in the temple. Does that mean you wish to become a student again?”

“Yes, master. I desire to finish my education.”

“And why should I let you?” the master asked, not sounding cruel but not sounding kind either. “Why should I let you become a student again after your disobedience and abrupt exit the last time you were here?”

“I’ve learned from my mistakes, master,” he said truthfully. “I know now that what you said was right. I was young and foolish, and I hope you can forgive me.”

The master nodded. Staring out the classroom windows, he said, “You were the best of them, Isaac. I still haven’t taught a student as gifted as you since then. For a time, I thought you would be the one to succeed me.” He said all of this like he was muttering to himself instead of talking to Isaac. Turning back to face him, he said, “Okay, I’ll let you back into the temple, but I’m not going to treat you any differently from the other students. You’ll have to take the test again, and you’ll have to start from scratch.”

“I understand.”

The test began immediately. Sitting in one of the chairs, Isaac wrote so furiously that his parchment almost seemed ready to rip under the pressure. The master, while appearing to be unconcerned, stared at Isaac while he wrote, never once looking away. After nearly an hour passed, Isaac put down his quill and looked back at his teacher.

“You’re done?” the master asked.

“Yes, master.”

“Are you sure? You have another hour left you can use.”

“That won’t be necessary, master.”

Isaac walked up to the master’s desk and handed him his parchment. The master took it. Putting on his spectacles, he began to read. The master was traditionally a stoic man, but even he couldn’t contain his emotions from reading Isaac’s story. It was excellent, and the master could tell that Isaac had been honing his skills in the time he had left, for this story was far better than anything he had written in his time at the temple. 

After he was done, the master put the parchment down on his desk and took his spectacles off, closing his eyes to think. After a moment of thought, he asked, “Did you really come up with this in only an hour? You didn’t prepare this beforehand?”

The old Isaac would have exploded with anger at such an accusation. But he wasn’t that foolish young boy anymore. He said, “I swear on my father and his father that I wrote this in the hour you gave me, and I did not prepare this story before the test.”

“I see,” the master said, his tone indecipherable. He stared at the parchment in front of him. “This story...is one of the finest I’ve read in all my years. It even surpasses the works of masters. I change my mind. Instead of starting your education from the beginning, we’ll continue from where we left off.”

Isaac bowed and said, “Thank you, master.”

“But there is one little issue in the story.”

“And what issue is that?” Isaac asked, confused.

“Well, there’s a line in the story where you describe the ass as the ‘finest part of the fairer sex.’”

Isaac stared blankly at him. “I don’t see the problem.”

The master sighed. “Isaac, how many times do we have to go over this? It is not the ass, but the breast that is the finest part of a woman! That has been the truth that the temple has passed on for generations!”

Isaac rolled his eyes. “Not this again. How many times do I have to tell you, the ass is clearly superior to the breasts!”

The master stood up, his face reddening from frustration. “Don’t do this again, Isaac! You were kicked out of the temple for this blasphemy last time. I’m willing to give you a second chance, but only if you renounce this foolish idea of yours!”

“It is not foolish!” Isaac shouted. “What is foolish is the temple’s insistence of staying in the past! Maybe our ancestors thought the breasts to be superior to the ass, but I refuse to preach lies.”

“Lies?” the master said, his whole body shaking with anger. “Is tradition a lie to you? Tradition that is built on years of masters and the brotherhood?”

“It is when the tradition spouts nonsense.”

“Get out,” the master said coldly. “Get out and never show your face here again.”

Isaac turned around and walked away from his master.

“You could have been the best, Isaac! You could have been the best writer of erotica the world has ever known! Remember my words when you die forgotten by history!”