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had had an anomalous dream. It seemed to him in the dream that it was the anniversary of their festive holiday, The Sentinel. The whole community was gathered about the stone guard at the narrows of the entrance to the Tukholian Trail. The maidens carried wreaths, the youths musical instruments and all were attired in fresh, gala garments. And as befits the oldest member of the community, he was the first to approach the sacred stone, supplicating it with prayer.

A secret, disquieting dread seemed to have taken possession of his heart as he prayed, distressing him to the very depths of his soul. What exactly that fear was he could not explain. He prayed fervently, adding several words and phrases to the old, time-established litany, a new more impassioned prayer flowed from his lips. The people of the community were stirred by it and fell upon their faces while he did the same.

But the words did not stop flowing. It grew darker, the heavens became overcast with threatening purple clouds. It thundered and the lightning flashed across the sky, blinding their eyes; the ground shook under them and at the same time the sacred stone lurched forward from its place and with a terrible crash came falling down upon him.

“What could such a dream mean?” Zakhar kept asking himself over and over again. “Was it a good omen or bad?” But he could find no answer except that the dream had left in its wake an oppressive sense of apprehension which clouded Zakhar Berkut’s fine forehead with a somber expression.