The Priest arose from the wooden bench outside his small hut and stood to wait. Beside him, a crooked wooden pole had been driven into the ground. Narrow, red and purple flags flew from its top, flapping and cracking in the scouring mountain wind.
“You have come far, my friend?”
The old man stopped abruptly and was silent for a moment, as if he hadn"t expected the interruption. Those bright eyes focused on him sharply but also, it seemed to the priest, with something of a smile about them.
“When I set out, I was half my age.”
“Ah,” said the Priest. “Will you drink with me?” Beside the bench, a beaten metal pot over an open fire bubbled with boiling water. He went into the hut and returned with two small clay pots the colour of mud. He dipped each into the boiling water, filling the
