Between dreams, I saw a scene from an ancient battlefield. The sky was crawling with clouds. A priest and a king were standing on top of a hill. They both wore long gray beards and rough robes that fell to their ankles. The men were of about the same age, too. The king’s army was pursuing the army of another king, who was fleeing up a neighboring hill. The priest’s arms were stretched out in front of him. His head hung on his chest, and his eyes were closed. He was directing lightning bolts that were falling at the foot of the neighboring hill. His attack was fierce, but most of the enemy was in safety already. The bulk of the fleeing army was close to the top of the hill by now. “To the right, you fool,” screamed the king, “to the right!” The priest was sweating from his labors, but the lighting bolts kept hitting the foot of the neighboring hill. Revolted, the king walked away and my reverie faded.