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Updated: June 19, 2025
One day, when Dorthe was on the other side of the mountain shooting birds, she would kill none of her friends in the fern forest, he tore dried palm leaves into strips, and setting fire to them singed his hair and beard to the roots. It was a long and tedious task. When it was finished the pool told him that his chin and head were like unto a stubbled field.
Dorthe darted through the hissing waves, undismayed by the darkness or the screaming wind; she and the ocean had been friends since her baby days. When a breaker finally tossed her on the shore, she scrambled to the bank, then stood long endeavouring to pierce the rain for sight of the vessel. But it was far out in the dark. Dorthe was alone on the island. For a time she howled in dismal fashion.
Then something stirred within her, filling her eyes with tears. She went forward and touched the stranger, drawing her hand over his trembling arms. "Do you not remember me, Dorthe?" asked the man, softly. "I am the priest was, for I am not fit for the priesthood now. I have forgotten how to pray." She shook her head, but smiling, the instinct of gregariousness awakening.
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