†
The afternoon, as D’ata had suspected it would be, was beautiful, clear, and warm. His mood, however, was not. Disturbed but strangely excited by the morning’s events at the church, he could not remove thoughts of her from his mind. He even considered the possibility that she was not human at all, that she was sent from the devil himself to destroy the sanctity of his world or perhaps to test him. He’d heard the monsignor speak of such things before. Of course, now would be the perfect time for evil to strike such discourse—before he was ordained.
If this was the case, Satan had made great strides toward accomplishing his purpose, for the young priest was, since this morning, unsure of anything. All he knew was that he must never see her again. The massive machine of the Cezanne estate groaned, the gears fractured. To see her again would be critically unwise. The Church would never tolerate this.
D’ata’s normally serene life was severely shaken. First, once the church was cleared, he’d been rebuked by the senior monsignor. Later, once at home, his father had flown into a rage.
“What were you thinking,” the Earl yelled. “Such a display in front of the entire congregation, after all that has been done for you! What did you mean to do? Compromise everything—your priesthood, your status, the status of our family? What might this do for your standing in the township, not to mention the very trade industry that propels the entire Cezanne dynasty?”
The more his father ranted, the more angered he seemed to become. Finally, his father had done something he'd never done before. In his fury, as his rhetoric spewed and his passion mounted, he lost control. With a level backhand, he struck D’ata hard across the face. It shocked both of them to their cores and rocked the very foundation of the Cezanne Empire.
D’ata stumbled back, never in his wildest dreams anticipating such a thing from his father. He fell hard, backwards onto the floor. Stunned and staggered by his father’s reaction, he was speechless. His cheek was turning an awful crimson from the blow. He no longer recognized the ruddy-faced man, clenching his hands and towering over him. The only sound was the labored breathing the tirade had forced upon the Baron. His father stared mutely down at his son—sitting on the floor, dazed by the sudden violent turn of events.
Without moving, D’ata stared back, eyes wide. When he spoke, his words were as honest and sincere as his heart was broken. “But father…what if I love her?” The question was one of pure dilemma, and carried with it the raw emotion he felt.
What D’ata asked was heartfelt, genuine, and…totally beyond the comprehension of his father. The Earl stormed from the library, leaving his son completely dumbstruck.
Now, as the afternoon swung upon him in all its warmth and lovely exhibition, all the young priest knew was that he could not get her out of his mind. It wasn’t the horrible event in the library he ruminated about; it was her. Over and over, he turned her vision around in his head, remembering every detail of her face, her soulful eyes, her unusual carriage. He remembered how the earthen perfume of dust in her hair had drifted up into his nostrils when he leaned over to speak to her. If Satan were playing with him, he'd certainly chosen a heavenly creature with which to do so.
After his father left him, D’ata retreated to his room. A terrible, unfamiliar heaviness rested in his stomach—a sensation he could not recall ever having before. With his mood darkening, he decided to escape for a while. He was getting no closer to resolving the situation; he couldn’t even properly identify it.
This was an utterly unfamiliar landscape to him, and the walls of the mansion closed in on him. He slipped out the back way to the stables.
* * *
Henri was perplexed at the young man’s foul mood. D’ata was never ill tempered; he’d always been a gracious and kind boy. The young man hardly spoke as he pulled the big bay from its stall.
Henri had not been in the congregation this morning, going to mass instead in the smaller church on the estate. Monsieur Cezanne and his family had taken one of the finest carriages into town to take mass there and to observe D’ata’s progress.
He'd heard the rumors though. Staff had overheard the abuse as the Earl rebuked his son behind the closed library doors. Rumors spread like wildfire, but Henri thought it better to say nothing as D’ata slapped a saddle on the big gelding’s back. The animal stepped nervously in place, sensing the urgency of the moment. The stable master noticed the deepening bruise on the face of his friend and watched the young man tighten the cinch too roughly.
It occurred to him that D’ata appeared older today. He hesitated before handing him a bridle with a ringed snaffle bit, suspecting that in his black mood D’ata may be too severe with the animal’s soft mouth. The snaffle would be gentler than the shanked, double reined bit D’ata normally rode with.
The young priest seemed not to even notice, murmuring a “Merci,” hardly aware of Henri's presence.
In the courtyard, Henri gave the young master a leg up onto the animal, bade him safe journey, and as he suspected, watched as D’ata yanked the horse’s head severely about and galloped from the yard.
* * *
D’ata tossed the reins to the gelding, giving it its head. And doing what it was born to do, the creature bolted to a thunderous gallop. The quiet country road along the river was earthen and solid, and the hooves of the beast assaulted the clay, sending up furious divots as they galloped blindly on.
The wind whipped tears from D’ata’s eyes, and his hair flew behind as he buried his face in the flying mane of the magnificent animal, encouraging it onward. It was as though he hoped to outrun the torturous and consuming thoughts that plagued his every moment—the vile uncertainty that was now his life.
The bay seemed to sense the disturbed frenzy of its rider and ran as though mad, carrying D’ata recklessly across the countryside. It would have been a striking image to behold, should anyone have seen them—a dangerous and beautiful sight.
Finally, horse and rider turned the bend that would bring them to the hidden meadow. The overlook granted a most spectacular view of the countryside, the river winding quicksilver through it. It was one of D’ata’s favorite places, and the horse was also familiar with the stop. He pulled the animal to a skidding halt and leapt from its back.
The gelding was lathered from the long gallop and stood, head against its master, heaving immense lungfuls of air. It snorted froth from its nostrils, the pinks appearing and disappearing with each breath like a crimson butterfly flexing its wings. The animal was winded, and its flank quivered as it blew.
D’ata bent over, his hands on his knees, head hanging. He let the blood rush to his head, allowing rational thought to return. Noticing the exhausted breathing of the horse, a pang of heavy guilt stabbed at him for allowing it to run so hard. He was familiar with the gelding for it was one of his favorites.
Henri had taught D’ata from very young about the disposition of a horse. It was a very cautiously and deliberately nurtured relationship of trust. It could be difficult to attain, but done properly with precise reinforcement and commitment, a horse would develop with its master a partnership of unfailing trust.
“Your horse, if you succeed in ultimately commanding his respect and trust,” D’ata could hear Henri’s words, “he will run for you until his heart bursts. None other of God’s creatures will do such a thing for you—not even a man.”
D’ata shook his head hard. What has gotten into me? This is ridiculous! Enough of this madness!
He was suddenly glad he’d taken the afternoon to escape and ride. It had brought sense and rationalization to him. Now he could see more clearly—things could become normal again. He knew he must walk the animal down. Passing a gloved hand up and down the forehead of the beast, he ran his fingers along the heaving flanks of the animal.
“I’m sorry my friend,” he murmured. “I’ve gone mad and have no good explanation. Let’s walk until you are cool, and then a nice long drink.” He turned and started toward the grove of trees that lined the river. He was still frustrated that he'd allowed his passion to overcome him and permitted the horse to run too hard. Patting the animal on the neck, he said out loud, “A slow trip back and a good rubdown. I promise.”
But then, he thought of her again, cautiously, and wondered if his anxiety was directed more at the possibility of not knowing her. It was all so ridiculous! He didn’t even know her name. Perhaps his fear was more at the thought of being trapped eternally within the confines of the church, a prospect that until now had seemed totally acceptable. Today, for the first time, this thought gave him a strong discomfort in the pit in his stomach.
A path wound down to a sandy, little beach, a favorite spot of his where a fallen tree had offered him a wonderful resting place in the past. The river slowed here and arced, creating a large and deep eddy. It murmured like a sleeping giant, hiding its dangerous currents. The sand was brilliant, soft, and warm if you were barefoot, and stretched out straight away from the tree line. Enormous beech trees reclusively lined the tiny bay. It was calm and quiet—a sheltered haven and utterly private.
It was good to be here, and he suspected it would give him great opportunity to sort things out. Relaxing somewhat, he strode purposefully down the path, the animal hugging his heels. Everything would be all right, he told himself. He would figure out these troubling thoughts, and things would be as they were. It was the sensible thing to do and a very safe course to take.
Breathing out a deep sigh of resignation, he stepped suddenly from the trees into the openness of the beach, his boots sinking into the fine, velvety sand. Blinking from the bright glare of the sun, he held his hand up to his eyes.
Once, as a child, D’ata had sat upon the second story ledge of an unfinished church in Marseille, peering down at the gentle grassy slope twenty feet below, feeling the thrill of danger at such an incredible height. He'd crouched there, his toes close to the edge of the eave while his best friend, Belone, squatted slightly behind and near to him.
Belone, in a moment of not so rare stupidity, chose to startle his friend from behind—not pushing him, really, but grasping him suddenly as to make him think he might fall from the dangerous height. What Belone did not anticipate was D’ata’s reaction, that he would startle so reflexively and leap, accidentally throwing himself from the already precarious perch he held. Down, down, down D’ata fell. He was stunned at how almost instantly he struck the soft hillside, flat on his back. The slope of the hill broke his fall, and except for a few bruises, he was remarkably unscathed.
There could not have been a greater surprise the very moment that D’ata hurtled from the rooftop, striking the gently sloping hillside, than the shock that confronted him as he stepped onto the beach just now.
God appreciates comedy; D’ata thought this on occasion. He also thought God even sometimes allowed life to become complicated for humor’s sake alone. Now was one of those times for there, sitting on his fallen tree, on this afternoon, in his hidden spot, was the girl who’d so captivated him. His breath caught in his chest.
Her head was bent down, a book in her lap as she sat boy-style, cross-legged on the tree. Her simple dress was bunched up in her lap allowing the warm sun onto her bare legs, her stockings and shoes were tossed carelessly into the sand.
Her thin legs were tan as though she had done this before, and her skin was beautifully warm against the gray of the dead fallen tree trunk upon which she perched. She sat as still as stone, the only indication of life was the way her hair lifted and fell in the breeze; she was that absorbed in her reading.
D’ata stopped dead in his tracks, his mouth falling open. He could not take his eyes from her. The sight of her sitting so uninhibited upon his favorite resting place was such sweet irony. His primary instinct was to flee—to turn around quickly before she saw them—and quietly escape. He was certain he’d been betrayed by God, or trapped by Satan, whatever the difference if there was one. Recently he had begun to have doubts, and such an awful trick this was.
She hadn’t seemed to notice him at all. Her bangs fell across her eyes in such a way as to provide a drape from the sun and anything else that might disturb her.
The gelding, perhaps surprised at the sudden halt, perhaps as part of the divine comedy, planted its sweaty head firmly between D’ata’s shoulder blades and shoved hard. Lunging forward, D’ata lost his footing and stumbled, awkwardly flailing about as he attempted to regain his balance in the shifting sand. He fell to his knees as the horse tossed its head up, the whites of its eyes rolling as it startled over its master’s clumsy behavior.
* * *
Julianne, catching movement from the corner of her eye, looked up suddenly from her reading. Seeing someone flailing about with a horse, she jerked her skirts down to cover her bare legs. Jumping up from where she sat, she took a step back from the intruder, clutching her precious volume of poetry to her chest.
Holding a hand up and squinting into the sun, she noticed it was the young priest, the same priest who had so horribly embarrassed her this morning. In fact, his behavior had caused her to be chastised by several of the senior parishioners after the encounter as though she had caused the transgression herself…as though she had done something to prompt attention from the him! That had been only her fifth visit to a new parish. She’d begged Father to allow them to take the horse and cart, and they’d traveled farther than usual to worship in the beautiful cathedral. She and Yvette had begun to look forward to their trips, and today, for the first time, Father had come. But it had all gone horribly wrong! And, it was all his fault!
For the rest of the morning, she’d been outwardly angry with the priest and anyone else who dared approach her about the event. It had made things difficult with Father. After all, it was she who’d first suggested they visit the other parish.
How dare he put her in this position! Who did he think he was, approaching her as he had, and why had a holy man done such a thing? And that pathetic congregation, as if he were God’s holy gift to them! They had been content to blame her for his indiscretion!
She’d brooded most of the day on this. Most irritating was the notion that, she was subconsciously pleased. There was no denying it; she was on some level drawn to him, with his dark features and striking eyes. It had thoroughly surprised her when she’d first knelt for communion and looked up to see the most unusual priest gazing down at her. How unfair it was, for God to call such a man to the clergy.
It had become a serious object of contention for her, that she hadn’t been able to shake him from her thoughts. This only added to her consternation, and seeing him all of a sudden on the beach only served to bring back her anger and confusion.
Julianne was not one to be easily befuddled by the attractiveness of the opposite sex. She was fiercely independent and strongly devoted to her father and younger brothers and sister. She was also deeply grounded in her religious convictions and knew this morning’s events to be a dangerous path on which to stumble. She was not as easily confused about such things as some of the other young women of the congregation were—stupid cows.
She had finally escaped this afternoon to read poetry at her favorite, secret place along the river. It was a wonderful, rare book of women’s poems a friend had given to her. A count’s daughter, Babette, had snuck the volume to her at church. Thrilled, she’d fled the farmhouse with the uncommon treasure tucked under her arm. The poems were scandalous, forbidden, and adventuresome. The women were pioneers, and Julianne very much idolized her fictitious heroines. Their tales had helped to ease her mind and distract her from the morning. Things had started to feel right again, and she’d convinced herself never to return to that parish.
And now look at him, stumbling into her haven, stumbling into her mind again. Standing there, looking all ridiculous and…and anyway, how dare he indeed!
* * *
The horse foiled D’ata’s plans to turn and flee by thrusting him more into the open. He inadvertently yanked hard on the reins when he lost his footing which only served to make the situation worse. The horse threw its nose into the air and flailed its head back and forth. D’ata was yanked back to his feet abruptly and shushed the animal too loudly in an effort to calm it. It was too late; he was discovered.
Now that she'd seen him, it would be entirely unacceptable to simply turn and leave without excusing himself. He turned and struggled awkwardly to hold the fidgeting animal still as it circled around him.
Clearing his throat, he said, “I’m sorry. I-I…it seems I have disturbed you. I didn’t realize…” He stumbled over what to say.
Her gray eyes darkened as she squinted to peer at him, her uneven hair falling carelessly around her face and neck. Without hesitation, she shoved it roughly behind her ear again, then clutching her volume with both hands to her chest, she asked, “Did you follow me here?”
This startled and silenced him at the same time. Once again overcome by her presence, he could not bring his eyes from her face. He thought he'd imagined how breathtaking she really was—the extent of it. He realized that, in fact, he had not. Reaching forward, he stepped toward her then stopped himself, not sure what to say. It was almost too much to comprehend that they were having a real conversation.
“Well? Did you?” She demanded an answer.
“No! I wouldn’t do such a thing.” He appealed to her sensibility. “It’s just that I sometimes come here to think about things.” He paused, realizing that he was sounding very much the liar as he carried on. “I see I’m not the only one who finds this place particularly inviting.” Smiling awkwardly, he tried to lighten the situation. It came across as entirely contrived.
Setting her book carefully on the tree trunk, Julianne reached down to gather up her stockings and shoes from the sand. She stood facing him, shaking the sand from them, her head leaned to one side, eyes narrowed and frowning at him.
As he continued to just stand there, staring at her, she glared at him. “Do you mind?”
“Oh, I beg your pardon.” He hastily turned away, stroking the horse on the nose so it would not circle him again, forcing him to turn and see her, putting on her… He swallowed thickly.
He succeeded in keeping his back to her, acutely aware of the rustle of her gowns. He did not succeed in blocking the mental vision of her pulling the stockings up those lovely, slender legs. It was a sin that he had seen those long, bare legs, and he closed his eyes.
He pictured her with less than her stockings on and was suddenly very warm. It was an ephemeral and imperfect vision, shrouded and obscured in his mind. D’ata had only once ever seen a woman's body naked. He'd accidentally walked in on a young woman as she was changing in Raphael’s quarters, an event which had burned itself into his young mind. Only later had he summed up the purpose of the woman’s visit.
His face flushed, and he loosened the catch on the collar of his linen shift, allowing the breeze to cool him as he cleared his throat. “I wish to apologize. I don’t know what came over me this morning. It’s just that it seemed you were…I had never…” he paused, awkwardly trying to create a meaningful and honest explanation. Finally, he just hung his head and explained honestly, “I just wish to say I’m sorry. I hope that I hope I haven’t caused you any trouble. Please forgive me.” He stared down at his hands, twisting the reins about in them. “I’m sorry that I disturbed you, and I’ll go.”
“Wait!” Julianne called as though she was afraid he might leave. “Wait…I want to ask you something. You don’t have to go yet.” She walked up softly behind him.
By the time he realized she was so close to him, he turned to find her mere inches away, gazing up into his eyes.
“I’ve been meaning to speak to you about this morning,” she said as though serious about wishing to put right the transgressions which occurred, now that the opportunity presented itself so nicely for both of them.
Urgency threatened to overcome him, and he could hardly bear to be so near to her. Her scent drifted delicately up to his nostrils, and her large, smoky eyes sparkled clear and bright. That unfamiliar pull in his belly returned and his chest ached. He couldn’t breathe. Suddenly, his greatest fear was that he might awaken from a dream.
The look on her face was one of confusion. She peered quizzically into his eyes, as if trying to determine his sincerity. Her brow furrowed, her fairy eyebrows arching. “Of which are you most sorry? That you have disturbed me here, or that you defiled me in mass this morning?” She peered at him, eyes narrowed, obviously suspicious of his intentions. Very slowly, she allowed her eyes to travel the distance of him, although she seemed completely unaware of the effect this had on him. Then she glanced at the gelding. “You shouldn’t ride him so hard when he’s not used to it. We should walk him, or he may be ill.” She stroked the horse’s shoulder and gave D’ata no option to walk him alone.
“You’re…right,” he stammered. “We should.” He hurriedly added, “I don’t usually ride him this hard. I was just,” his voice trailed off. There was no reasonable explanation in his mind.
She looked over her shoulder at him again, her eyes inquisitive but cautious. She seemed unprepared to leave, almost drawn to D’ata. “You don’t exactly fit the mold of a man destined for life as a priest.”
Her comment struck him thoroughly. Fidgeting with the bridle, D’ata pretended to adjust it not sure what to say. His story was much too complicated, and he didn’t want to share the tale of his being found on the steps of the church.
She reached for the reins and pulled them from his grasp. “My name is Julianne. I live not far from here with my father, two brothers, and sister. I come to the river every so often when the weather permits. It’s so private—a secret getaway I suppose.” Before he could assemble a response, she continued, “So what brings you here today, Monsieur Le Priest, since you say you weren’t following me?”
He let her pull the reins from his hands as she guided the big bay around, heading back to the path, up toward the meadow. D’ata concentrated very hard to answer her question. “This probably sounds contrived, but I come here to get away too. It’s very beautiful, as you say. But today…”
Julianne's expression remained one of doubtful intrigue, as though he was not yet to be trusted. “So you come here to pray?”
Suddenly, it appeared that she enjoyed provoking him a bit. Then, she did what appeared to be a very calculating thing. She passed her volume to him, allowing her hand to momentarily brush his, turning as though she wanted to see the reaction on his face. Her own expression remained dead serious, although her eyes danced.
“I pray in the church, but I love the river. I come here to hear the voice of God,” D’ata answered truthfully.
She seemed surprised and pleased. “And what does God tell you today?”
They topped the little ridge and turned to lead the horse across the meadow. She walked easily beside him, comfortable with his proximity.
“He told me to come here—rather he didn’t. I felt compelled to.” He paused, suddenly impatient. “Julianne…” Reaching out, he took her abruptly by the arm, turned her to face him, and forced her to stop. “Tell me, why did you cut your hair?”
“What?” She seemed very surprised by this question. “How dare you! It is mine to do with as I please, which is exactly why I cut it! You presume to—”
“No, that’s not what I meant. It’s…” he shook his head, interrupting her before she could finish. “Julianne, I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I’d never seen you before a few months ago, and all I know is that since I first saw you, I can think of nothing else!” He pulled his eyes from hers, looking instead over her shoulder to the meadow beyond. “I can’t seem to think of anything but you. And I don’t mean that as some strange sort of flattery, or that I’m insane and obsessed. It’s just the-the awful truth.”
She yanked her arm free of his hand, which now surprised him. She was instantly outraged, her eyes burning. “I suppose God told you that would be all right?” She shocked him with her outburst. “How pretentious of you! And what made you think you could do this to me—place me in such a position with my family, and the parish? Do you presume this has only to do with you?” Her fury seemed to mount as she spoke, and she stomped her foot. It made her appear strangely vulnerable in the wild expanse of the meadow. He thought she was more beautiful than anything he’d ever seen, even in her anger.
Now, D’ata experienced an emotion very new to him. It was an odd mixture of excitement, aggravation, and fear—fear that she might reject him. It hadn’t occurred to him until now that he would ever even see her again, that he would feel so suddenly and completely possessive of her. Struggling greatly with this notion, he didn’t like the way the conversation was going and instinctively approached the situation with raw honesty, taking a step toward her.
D’ata was entirely unprepared for these feelings, consumed with his sudden need to be with her. Logic and rationality were gone, the universe was chaos—bits flying about in disorder. There was no God, no ordainment, no plan. There existed only this moment. He was fragile as glass, and she could easily shatter him if she chose to; of only this was he certain.
He reacted without thought, taking her suddenly by the arms, pulling her roughly to him, pressing his lips awkwardly to hers in an attempt to kiss her. Her eyes shot open, enormous with surprise. Having never done this before, he was rough—clumsy.
It lasted for only mere fleeting seconds before she slapped both hands upon his chest, pushing him away. She shoved hard at him, at his chest, against the linen shirt that hung loosely in the spring breeze.
Julianne appeared stunned, as though suddenly lacking the self assurance she possessed just moments before. She said nothing, but he saw that the amusement was gone from her eyes, a look of explicit anger now on her face. This was obviously an unexpected turn of events for her, and she’d evidently grossly misjudged him!
She stared at him, wide eyed and with the back of one hand against her lips. She was breathtaking. Wisps of her chopped hair clung damp and elegant to her neck. D’ata’s breathing had become deep and ragged. He stepped toward her again.
Julianne reacted instantly. She struck him, sudden and hard, as if it were a reflex. D’ata’s head jerked to the side, and he closed his eyes, her blow landing squarely across the bruise his father had left that morning.
Her eyes shot open with surprise, apparently at how hard she’d hit him. Staggering backwards to regain her balance, she shook her hand as though from the burning impact of the blow. Tears threatened as she winced, letting go a short sob.
He was frozen in place. There was an awful amount of time where everything stood still. Then, slowly, he turned to look again into her eyes. There was a new expression on Julianne’s face now, as though she saw for the first time something else in his eyes.
She whispered, “No…” and stepped backwards.
Both were speechless for a few brief seconds, eyes locked onto one another. Then, reading her mind and before she could speak, he snatched at her, grasping her wrist so that she couldn’t run. He pulled her again to him, breathing in the all of her. Julianne struggled against him, began to object. He wrapped his arms about her, pulling her waist against his groin, pinning her arms against his chest. Twining his fingers into her short hair, he pulled her head back so that he could bury his face into hers. Pressing his lips against hers, this time he fully committed to the kiss.
Fighting angrily, she pressed her lips tightly together to deny him, arched her body away from his. The rough stubble of his beard scratched her chin. She struggled, trying to release her arms, to twist away from him. Tears escaped the corners of her eyes, catching on her lashes.
In mere seconds, she went from being outraged to confused, and then to a blankness as she remained unmoving in his arms. He could make no sense of what was coming over her, but then he found her succumbing to him. D’ata was uncertain whether she softened from desire or from relief and safety. She allowed him to pull her closely, relaxed so that his strong arms molded her against him.
Oh, to hold her this way, it was glorious!
She breathed in. Her soft lips parted as his tongue pressed against them. He thrilled as she submitted to his passion, allowing his kiss to consume her. Then, quite unexpectedly, she kissed him back, her hand reaching up to his bruised face, gently caressing his jaw.
Then something dreadful happened. Somewhere, somehow, a sliver of his ordained destiny threaded its nasty hook into him and tugged. As abruptly as he’d advanced upon her, he released her, shoving her too roughly away.
She stumbled backwards, shaken, obviously stunned by his unpredictability and by her own inability to maintain control. Her fury was unmistakable. Saying nothing, she only stood there, hand to her mouth, tears streaming from her eyes, visibly unsteady on her feet.
The horse, nervous from the humans’ erratic behavior, threw up its head, yanking the reins from her hands. Recognizing its sudden freedom, the animal bolted away. Across the meadow it charged, holding its head high to keep from entangling its legs in the reins, and galloped eagerly for home.
“No!” D’ata cried as he lunged after the gelding. Then, realizing the futility of chasing it, turned back to Julianne.
Years ago, when D’ata’s voice had first squeaked his adolescent changes and his body had taken on that youthful, awkward, gangly appearance, he’d experienced the first of those mystifying dreams that young men have. Those dreams had embarrassed him and yet left his body quenched. Afterwards, he thought it dirty and sinful, and he innocently questioned his eligibility to pursue his quest to be a disciple of God. However, there was another part of him that secretly marveled at those dreams.
Eventually, as he matured and his voice stabilized to a throaty baritone, he came to accept those dreams as a gift from God. After all, he could purify his thoughts during his waking hours and walk a holy path. Then, in his slumber, his soul could enter that limbo plane beyond his control, and the smoky, vague images could stir. He knew in this state he could be vulnerable to the whims of God or Satan. It just seemed much easier to accept those dreams as gifts from God rather