At one hundred-three years old, Monsieur Bonté hikes the mountains with his walking stick. He likes how banana leaves brush against his arms. Snakes curled up cooling off on flat rocks don’t hiss at Monsieur Bonté. All of the animals, insects and plants allow him to greet them with a stroke of his index finger. They soften their eyes and body with his touch.

Once, while walking on his daily path, he picked up a bird with a broken wing. Monsieur Bonté stroked his silky blue plumage in his palm for half a day sitting by a mountain stream. By noon, the bird flew into the trees. His vibrant whistle filled the whole land and Monsieur Bonté’s heart.

The villagers named him Monsieur Bonté because his goodness radiates to all. He hasn’t spoken in forty-three years. His silence shocked his village. He decided to stop speaking and pay all of his attention to the fervent land. As he walks his path each day through the mountains with his tall stick, all the villagers enjoy catching a glimpse of his healing presence.