The boy could see in his father's gaze

Amongst us, the only ones who travel are the shepherds."

Well, then I'll be a shepherd!"

His father said no more. The next day, he gave his son a pouch that held three ancient Spanish gold

coins.

I found these one day in the fields. I wanted them to be a part of your inheritance. But use them to buy

your flock. Take to the fields, and someday you'll learn that our countryside is the best, and our women

the most beautiful.

And he gave the boy his blessing. The boy could see in his father's gaze a desire to be able, himself, to

travel the world—a desire that was still alive, despite his father's having had to bury it, over dozens of

years, under the burden of struggling for water to drink, food to eat, and the same place to sleep every

night of his life.

The horizon was tinged with red, and suddenly the sun appeared. The boy thought back to that

conversation with his father, and felt happy; he had already seen many castles and met many women (but

none the equal of the one who awaited him several days hence). He owned a jacket, a book that he

could trade for another, and a flock of sheep. But, most important, he was able every day to live out his

dream. If he were to tire of the Andalusian fields, he could sell his sheep and go to sea. By the time he

had had enough of the sea, he would already have known other cities, other women, and other chances

to be happy. I couldn't have found God in the seminary, he thought, as he looked at the sunrise.

Whenever he could, he sought out a new road to travel. He had never been to that ruined church before,

in spite of having traveled through those parts many times. The world was huge and inexhaustible; he had

only to allow his sheep to set the route for a while, and he would discover other interesting things. The

problem is that they don't even realize that they're walking a new road every day. They don't see that the

fields are new and the seasons change. All they think about is food and water.

Maybe we're all that way, the boy mused. Even me—I haven't thought of other women since I met the

merchant's daughter. Looking at the sun, he calculated that he would reach Tarifa before midday. There,

he could exchange his book for a thicker one, fill his wine bottle, shave, and have a haircut; he had to

prepare himself for his meeting with the girl, and he didn't want to think about the possibility that some

other shepherd, with a larger flock of sheep, had arrived there before him and asked for her hand.

It's the possibility of having a dream come true that makes life interesting, he thought, as he looked again

at the position of the sun, and hurried his pace. He had suddenly remembered that, in Tarifa, there was an

old woman who interpreted dreams.

The old woman led the boy to a room at the back of her house; it was separated from her living room by

a curtain of colored beads. The room's furnishings consisted of a table, an image of the Sacred Heart of

Jesus, and two chairs.

The woman sat down, and told him to be seated as well. Then she took both of his hands in hers, and

began quietly to pray.