The sycamore was still there in the sacristy, and the stars could still be seen through the half-destroyed roof. He remembered the time he had been there with his sheep; it had been a peaceful night . . . except for the dream. Now he was here not with his flock, but with a shovel. He sat looking at the sky for a long time. Then he took from his knapsack a bottle of wine, and drank some. He remembered the night in the desert when he had sat with the alchemist, as they looked at the stars and drank wine together. He thought of the many roads he had traveled, and of the strange way God had chosen to show him his treasure. If he hadn’t believed in the significance of recurrent dreams, he would not have met the Gypsy woman, the king, the thief, or . . . “Well, it’s a long list. But the path was written in the omens, and there was no way I could go wrong,” he said to himself. He fell asleep, and when he awoke the sun was already high. He began to dig at the base of the sycamore. “You old sorcerer,”
