Fiction Father Joseph woke up from sleep with a tremor running down his spine. His body was drenched with sweat. This had become a routine now: a nightmare would kill his sleep halfway through it. In his nightmares he was a sorcerer, or a witch hunter, or a medieval knight tilting at some mysterious windmills. He dispensed magical potions and panaceas to the people who came and knelt down in front of him with childlike trust. He drove a stake into the heart of every sinner in the parish. He led some amorphous army to he knew not where. Every dream ended with somebody like John the Baptist making a mocking apparition to him and accusing him of cardinal sins of all hues. Often the Baptist had only the head; there was no body. There was fury in his mockery. His words lashed out like lightning and thunder. Father Joseph put on his white soutane as he got ready for his morning meditation. He spent an hour every morning in silent prayer and meditation before the pa
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