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Tyranny must be stopped, he says. Men like the magistrate must be stopped. But what can you do by yourself? Uncle leans back in anguish, neck craned toward the ceil- ing, as if pleading for an answer, and his servant, fearing a faint is coming on, waddles behind him, arms extended, ready to catch his fall. You're right, the warrior says in a low voice. That was a dream. This is reality. We cannot do it alone. That's why I must go east. To join with others who want the same thing. To create change together. That's not reality, that's just another dream! What do dreams bring but more death? History is nothing but bad dreams! 
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It's only a dream when a single person has it. What do those freedom fighters have? Power? Control? Money? They have each other. They have the people. Then, Uncle concludes sadly, they have nothing. The warrior turns his back on him. I will contact you when I can. Without a further word, he departs his uncle's home. It has stopped raining, but the deepest night swarms the fields, so he sees no gold around him, cannot smell the fine sweetness of spring. Nothing lies ahead but the fragile breaths that escape his mouth in vapor. His feet are wet  |
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