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were so many! When had he gotten so behind?
    Brother Jonas had assigned him the simple duty of cleaning the empty seed pots and returning them to their shelves in the monastery. More than twenty unclean pots and a basin of water sat before him—as well as a water jar and ladle to quench the thirst of the laboring monks. Where had the time gone? Had he dreamed it all away?
    Another two pots were delivered to his table by silent monks.
    His shoulders sagged.
    Zarathan absently ran his finger around the rim of the most recent pot. Barley chaff coated his fingertip.
    He thought again of those long nights spent in prayer, and the ecstatic memories left Zarathan feeling light-headed. He—
    â€œZarathan?” The gravelly voice of Brother Jonas surprised him from behind.
    He spun around like a dog caught with a roasted lamb shank in its teeth. “Yes, Brother Jonas?”
    â€œBefore you realize it, that pile of pots will be as tall as you are, and when they fall and crush you to mush, I will be forced to walk into the city—which you know I hate—and tell your wailing parents that it was not an accident. You, in fact, died from slothfulness.”
    The other monks in the field turned to look.

    Zarathan reddened in shame. “Forgive me, brother. I’ll try to concentrate.”
    â€œSee that you do.”
    Jonas, over forty, had wild brown hair, a scraggly beard, and a wrinkled nose that reminded Zarathan of a date left too long in the sun. The old monk just shook his head and picked up his water pot again, pouring it out in a thin stream over the freshly planted barley seeds.
    Zarathan dunked a pot into the water basin and used his linen cloth to swab out the inside. More pots arrived and thunked on the wooden table.
    Zarathan’s heart sank. Beneath his breath, he whispered, “This is a waste of my potential. I should be in my cell, on my knees, seeking divine love—”
    From his right, a deep voice whispered, “First, wash the pots, then seek divine love.”
    Zarathan jumped. “Brother Cyrus! I—I didn’t hear you approach.”
    Cyrus suppressed a smile and leaned against the table. He was tall and muscular. Black curly hair hung to his broad shoulders, and he had a thick beard and mustache. His green eyes always seemed half amused. Zarathan guessed his age at around thirty-five.
    As Cyrus wiped his sweating brow on his dirty white sleeve, he said, “Would you like some help, brother? Jonas sent me to ask. I think he wants you to finish sometime before the plants mature and are harvested.”
    Zarathan frowned, dunked another pot, and said, “Yes, thank you, brother.”
    Cyrus picked up a pot and proceeded to wash it while Zarathan turned his clean pot upside down on the table to drain and dry. The sunlight on this day was painfully bright. When he turned to Cyrus, he squinted against the glare.
    â€œHe’s such a taskmaster, forever watching,” Zarathan whispered. “Has he always been like this?”
    Cyrus smiled. “I can’t say. I’ve been here less than a year, but you must understand that Brother Jonas is in charge of seeing that the fields are planted properly so the monastery has food. Abba Pachomius says we must be self-sufficient. It’s a heavy burden. Jonas needs each one of us to help him if he’s going to succeed.”
    Zarathan studied Cyrus from the corner of his eye. When he was out
of earshot, the other brothers told spectacular stories about Cyrus. They said he’d been a fierce soldier, an archer in the Roman army, and that he’d killed many men.
    Cyrus leaned sideways and whispered, “You’re dreaming again, brother. Come back to our task.”
    â€œWhat?”
    The vision of a thousand archers letting their arrows fly burst, and Zarathan morosely focused on the tall man standing beside him.
    â€œWash pots,” Cyrus repeated, “then seek divine love.”
    Zarathan