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.
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