Lost Creek Hollow the prayer of the apostle paul

the fine muscles around her lips move to form butter-smooth vowels. tongue of silver, he trills back. a strange but beautiful name - he is not sure what to make of it.

when she asks after his God, a fresh wave of joy threatens to sweep him off of his feet. Hayyi Rabbi! his face shines with a new fervor. it dwarfs any notion of the zeal of the convert - his faith is innate and fundamental. there is a brightness in him that leeches through his sharp features as the sun does through stained glass. the Great Life, the creator of all.

she approaches, closer - closer still! yet he does not move to close the gap. minute details coming into plain sight, now: the flutter of eyelashes, the subtle flare of nostrils, the smell of both her and river-clan, nigh indistinguishable.

He has brought me here, he says. her proximity brings him to the cusp of nervous chatter. through the living-water that flows through your land.