The traveller reached the walled city at dusk, tired from the long road. The great gate was shut. From a slit above it, the gatekeeper called down: "I open for no one who cannot answer me truthfully, and in full. There are two questions. Answer both, each on its own, or the gate stays closed."
"Ask," said the traveller, setting down her pack. She knew that half an answer would be no answer at all.
"First: why do you travel?" She did not rush. "I travel to learn," she said. "At home I knew only my own valley. On the road I have crossed rivers, argued with strangers and slept under stars I had never named. I travel because a mind, like a field, grows only when it is turned over."
"Good," said the gatekeeper. "Now the second, and do not let it lean on the first: has your journey made you wiser or poorer?" She thought carefully, for this question wanted a verdict. "Wiser," she answered plainly. "My purse is lighter, yes — but I once healed a fevered child with a herb I learned three villages back. What I carry now cannot be stolen."
The gatekeeper was quiet a moment. "You answered both," he said, "and neither borrowed from the other." The bolts slid back, and the gate swung wide.