Date: Sat, 27 Nov 2010 08:54:09 +0100
From: A.K. <andrej@andrejkoymasky.com>
Subject: The Mercenary and the Friar 05/14 (Adult Youth)

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THE MERCENARY AND THE FRIAR
By Andrej Koymasky © 2010
Written on January 20th, 2003
Translated by the Author
English text kindly revised by Ed, a reader

-----------------------------

USUAL DISCLAIMER

"THE MERCENARY AND THE FRIAR" is a gay story, with some parts containing
graphic scenes of sex between males. So, if in your land, religion,
family, opinion and so on this is not good for you, it will be better
not to read this story. But if you really want, or because YOU don't
care, or because you think you really want to read it, please be my
welcomed guest.

-----------------------------

FIVE - The battle and the journey of the two novices

The mercenaries caravan stopped to take the stock of their postion.
While the two soldiers expert in topography were consulting the maps on
the jeep bonnet, several men got off their vehicles to stretch their
legs or to empty themselves amongst the trees, while others, their
weapons in hand, were on watch all around.

Joe went near Neil and sat at his side, leaning his back on the tree
trunk like his comrade. He took a pack of cigarettes out of his breast
pocket and offered one to Neil. They lit them and Neil watched his puff
of smoke thin out in the clear air of the sierra.

"Fucking shit, I would like to have here Isidro and take him into those
bushes for a quickie..." Joe murmured, without looking at his friend.

"Oh, really?" Neil dryly asked.

"Aren't you missing your Augustin?"

"No, I'm not missing him. I knew that he was just a temporary
distraction..." the soldier lied.

"I instead am missing my little friar and, you know... I really think I am
like you..." the young Californian murmured.

"Like me? How is that?" Neil asked, even though he had understood at
once what his companion was meaning.

"Yes, a faggot like you. I am not able to erase from my mind the nice
little ass of Isidro... and how willingly he let me take him..."

"An ass is an ass, isn't it?" Neil insisted.

"But also his cock... I liked his cock also... even though I never had the
courage to let him take me... But I liked even touching it, sucking it...
And if this is not enough to say that I too am a fag..."

"Why are you telling me these things?" Neil asked him, slightly curious.

"To whom if not to you? Can't you guess how much our companions will
mock me if I told them... these things?"

"Nobody mocks me for being a faggot." Neil laconically noted.

"But you always admitted it. I instead, passed for a womanizer..."

"And you are no more interested in the cunt, now?"

"I don't know, possibly I am, but if before I got aroused just thinking
of two nice breasts and of a spread cunt... now I get aroused thinking of
a hard cock and the ass of a nice boy..."

"Paul on the Damascus road?"

"Paul who? Are you referring to Paul Reeves?"

"No, the Paul of the Bible. His sudden conversion. What's that, did you
convert too?"

"I don't know, but I'm afraid I did, fucking hell!"

"Well, and does it scare you?"

"Not really, but if I were told just a week ago, I would have burst out
laughing as if it was a joke told. Me, a faggot? Come on! And on the
contrary..."

"I told you, you can just be bisexual... and anyway, even if you were a
faggot like me, what the fucking shit does it change? You are just you
anyway, aren't you? And if possibly at first our mates can do some idiot
ragging on you, then they will accept you as they accepted me, wouldn't
they? You know that our captain would never accept any kind of
discrimination amongst us anyway, and on such subjects."

"Be that as it may, I would like to have Isidro here and fuck him." the
young man concluded. "Christ, it's hard like a bayonet, just at the
thought."

Neil threw a glance between his friend's legs and with a small smile,
noticed, "I can't see anything, you don't have to worry."

"But I can feel it, Christ! It pushes as if it wanted to pierce all my
clothes! At times I think that my cock has a life and a will of his
own."

"Surely it's not enough to tell him 'lie down!' to make it go down. No,
it's really impossible." Neil giggled.

"And possibly right at this moment Isidro is taking it in his ass from
that brother Carlos or who knows who else..." Joe murmured, frowning.

"What's that, are you jealous?" his friend asked him.

"Fuck yourself!" Joe retorted in a forceful merry tone, "To me... he can
go and be screwed by whomever he wants. He is not my wife, or my
girlfriend. Even though... I liked his ass..."

"And also his cock..." his friend somewhat slyly reminded him.

"And also his cock, yes..." the young man admitted with an almost
disconsolate expression.

"Well... if you too are really a faggot... welcome to the family. Once a
young professor that I fucked in San Gil's school, told me that one in
ten men is a faggot, therefore amongst us there should be some more..."

"But who can the others be? They all seem to be so macho..."

"A mask. Like yours was. Who knows? Anyway I don't give a shit about it.
Here, the more each of us minds his own business, the better it is."

The captain gathered his men. He told them they had to be quite close to
the rebels' column that they had been sent to flush out, therefore they
had to be ready. The communications unit informed him that the enemy had
to be about a hundred men, therefore just a few more than them, but that
they were less well armed and trained, so the captain's men had a sure
superiority, especially if they were able to catch them by surprise.

The thought of the coming combat had the power to dissipate the bored
expression from the faces of the men - they were born to fight, it was
bred in them, they were paid for that, they chose that hard, Spartan
life for that. Finally, the action was coming close. Max once declared
to his comrades that often, after a battle, he found his underpants wet,
because he came just from the excitement and the enjoyment of the fight.
Others had nodded in assent.

"I almost enjoy killing one of those bastards more than coming in a
chicken!" Max said.

No, it was not so for Neil. He neither enjoyed nor felt remorse when he
killed during a battle. "Mors tua vita mea,(your death, my life)" he
would have said if he knew something of Latin. No, he was not amused by
killing, and anyway, he would never kill outside of a fight. The fact
was that they could not usually take prisoners, so therefore the
guerrillas against whom they fought were either able to escape or they
were killed.

All summed up, Neil thought it was fair to be fighting against those men
in the service of the drug cartels. He was not interested in politics,
he didn't give a shit if they were of the left or of the right wing. But
people who get rich peddling drugs and ruining the lives of so many
young people, killing them with an over-dose or making them become more
similar to robots or to zombies that to men... disgusted him. It may have
been because when he was a boy, the lives of many of his friends had
been cut short by drugs. A couple of them suffered and died in his arms...
and he felt powerless. No, it was not a question of morality or of
justice for him, but of revenge. He was honest enough with himself to
acknowledge it.

The first one was when he was sixteen years old, was a boy with whom he
shared a room, one who sold his sex like him. God, he was not able to
erase from his memory the image of Michael who, while he was dying,
beseeched him with his eyes not to let him die. And he was able to do
nothing for Michael, absolutely nothing. Thereafter he had no problem
killing whoever had anything to do with drug peddling.

He killed the first one in cold blood, a few weeks after Michael's
death. He was one of the drug peddlers on the area where they went to
sell their bodies, to offer some sex for money. He then had to leave the
city, to move elsewhere before the police could find him.

When then, five years later, he enlisted in a mercenary group, he was no
longer thinking of that problem. But when he was told that they would be
paid by the government to fight against the guerrillas in the pay of the
drug lords, rage again rose up inside him, and he decided he was more
than willing to go and fight them.

Suddenly and unexpectedly his thoughts took another turn.

"Who knows what is happening at this moment with Augustin? Perhaps He is
really praying for me, as he promised me. But I think that if his god
really exists, the boy can wear out his knees to the end of his days,
and I will end in hell anyway." He plundered, killed, raped boys... and
felt that not even if the entire abbey prayed for him, would he have a
small hope not to end in hell. But after all, he didn't believe in any
god, or in a heaven or a hell... therefore...

The thought of the beautiful novice stirred him at once to a strong
hard-on. The little friar was so different from anybody he met in all
his life... For the little time they had been together, for the little he
got to know him, that boy seemed to him someone special and precious. He
could be wrong - it is possible he saw only the best aspect of that boy,
that further getting to know him better he would even grow tired of him...
Who knows why he told Joe that he didn't think any more about that
little friar?

At that same moment, Augustin was also thinking of him and was asking
himself a similar question, "Who knows why I said to Isidro that I don't
think of Neil anymore?"

He looked at his companion who, engrossed in his thoughts, was turning a
little flower between his fingers, a little flower which he had just
picked up from between his feet, and looked at it, was absorbed in who
knows what thoughts. Isidro felt he was being observed and turned to
look at him.

"Well, let's go." Augustin said, standing up.

"Where?"

"Down the valley, for the moment. Where this road leads us." the novice
answered, determined.

They again began to go down. The column of mercenaries was no longer in
sight anywhere. Far down in the valley several campesi–os were bent over
in their fields, working them, placing hope in the meagre harvest that
would barely give them something to feed their families. They almost
resembled the small nativity statues that the fathers prepared for
Christmas. But the personages of the nativity, even the shepherds and
the farmers, were all chubby and infinitely better clothed than any
campesi–o, they seemed to always wear their Sunday clothes, such as a
real campesi–o didn't even dream of having.

When his father and mother had been killed during a clash between the
guerrillas and the government's forces, and God know from which part
came the bullets that had slaughtered them, he, with his brothers and
sister, had been taken in the home of his aunt, his mother's sister, who
lived in the nearby village. But the uncle and aunt had already too many
mouths to feed, so they decided to take Augustin to the abbey, and sent
his elder sister to serve down in the city. They kept with them only the
three older brothers, as they were already strong enough to go and toil
in the fields and take home something to eat. His little brother, a baby
still tied at his mother's back, died too, pierced by the bullets of the
machine guns.

No, he would never again go back to work the fields. Almost eight years
of studies in the abbey, gave him an instruction he could possibly put
to a good use. Possibly by going to the city, he could find a job, who
knows?

They passed near a field where several men and women, thin like
scarecrows, were working.

"Sorry, could you give us some water, please?" Augustin asked them,
stopping to look at them.

"And possibly a piece of bread also, if you have some?" Isidro readily
added.

One of the men straightened up from his work, "Yes, padrecitos, come
here, we will willingly share with you the little we have..."

Augustin understood that it was a message - we have little food, so help
yourself, but don't take too much. We too are hungry... They went into the
field, took a small piece of bread, and drank from the jugs.

"God bless and reward you, people!" Isidro shouted them while they
resumed their road.

"God? It seems that he has forgotten about us..." a woman grumbled,
looking at them and frowning, but without animosity in her Indian eyes.

"Poor people are always more generous that the rich ones!" Isidro
murmured to Augustin.

"Of course, that's why the rich ones become even richer. Because they
don't care at all about the others and keep everything for themselves."
Augustin dryly commented.

"And then, to get forgiveness for their sins, they give gold chalices to
the church." Isidro added.

"But God cannot be bought, even if they forget it." Augustin concluded.

"Who knows what God thinks of us?" all of a sudden his companion asked.

"That we are two hot-headed guys." Augustin answered.

Isidro giggled, "I, to tell the truth, am feeling hot down here..." he
said putting a hand on his bottom and the other on his groin through the
frock.

"Isidro! Is it possible that you can't think of anything else, you?"
Augustin scolded him, but in a gentle tone.

"The fact is that he..." the boy answered with a mischievous smile,
pointing at his groin, "doesn't want to cool down! He raised his head
when we sat the first time for that short rest, and it seems he doesn't
want to lower it any more. What can I do?"

"Nothing." his companion agreed, shrugging his shoulders.

"Well, possibly... possibly I could do something... possibly with you... don't
you like the idea?"

"No." Augustin answered dryly.

"Well then... by myself... Let's stop, come on, I will go behind that rock
and... I will be fast..."

"Stop it! Who's in command in your home, you or... or your cock? Wait at
least until this night, can't you? You will have all the time you need
to make him lower his head. Now walk and stop with such speeches."

"Anyway Joe was good at giving head..."

"Stop it."

"What's it, are you bothered by these speeches?"

"No, they are just useless." Augustin cut short.

No, they really didn't annoy him, but he really thought they were
useless speeches that was all. Augustin had always been honest with
himself and sincere with others... besides the lie he said to Isidro that
he wasn't thinking of Neil anymore. But a lie that doesn't harm anybody
is not a sin. Only a lie said to harm others or to get an undue
advantage is really a sin, the boy said to himself. But... why had he said
that, even though light, useless lie?

Possibly because he didn't like to talk about himself and Neil to the
others, not even with his road companion. Neil had been his first man
and possibly this was why he was over-valuating what happened with that
mercenary. Neil took his virginity and made him discover the pleasure of
sex. Neil was... Neil.

Would he ever forget him? No, he could feel it. Would he meet him again?
Who knows? For now anyway, he was walking with a determined pace in the
direction where the mercenary column had disappeared. Was there,
therefore, a hint of hope in the bottom of his heart? But even if their
paths would cross again, what could he say to the man? What could he do?
At most... another fuck, but then? And what could he give to Neil?

When they parted, they told each other, more with their glances than
with words, "I will never forget you" and he knew that both were
sincere. But they both also knew that what happened between them was
only a fortuitous parenthesis in two lives that didn't have, don't have,
can't have anything in common - two totally different lives.

"The mercenary and the friar"... it almost seems like the title of a
novel, the former novice said to himself, amused. Yes, he could possibly
write a novel with that title some day. He would have liked to become a
writer. Was this hope possibly a reflex of his love for books? A writer,
why not? Augustin Urdaneta, half Spanish half Indian Quimbaya, former
friar, a to be writer! The Nobel prize for literature... Augustin smiled
to himself - he certainly was not lacking in fantasy.

The two boys had covered several kilometres; the abbey, with its quiet,
regular life and its episodes of secret sexuality, was now far away. The
sun was setting. They had to find a place where they could pass the
night. They had walked to a lower altitude, but even there the night
could be rather cold.

The sky was darkening, when they saw an isolated hut, a poor building,
characteristic of the campesi–os of that area. Not a wisp of smoke was
rising from the hut, but the presence of a few farmyard chickens showed
that it was inhabited. Isidro pointed it out to Augustin, without a
word. The former novice nodded and the two boys went towards it with
renewed energy.

When they were at the door, they called using the typical monks'
greeting, "May God assist you, people!"

Almost at once a man appeared at the door, moving aside the old cloth
that was the door. "And may he assist you too, padrecitos!" the man
answered scanning them.

"We are travelling and the road is still long... Could you let us spend
the night in your home?" Augustin asked.

"We are many, in my family; but squeezing... there can be room also for
you, if you adapt yourselves to sleeping on the ground. We have nothing
more than a mat to offer you."

"How you are used to sleeping will be good for us too, good man."

"Come in, padrecitos."

The hut was really crowded - besides two old women, the man and his wife
or his companion, there were at least nine children. They were all
sitting on the ground around a meagre little fire and they were taking
handfuls of rice from a common bowl, seasoned with a few herbs and rare
and almost invisible pieces of chicken.

The man made them sit down, making his children move aside. The wife
said, pointing at the slightly smoking bowl, "You should be hungry,
padrecitos... if you want to share our poor food..."

"Just a little bit, to make our stomachs stop grumbling..." Isidro
answered.

"Where are you going, padrecitos, to the sanctuary of Our Lady of the
Pilar?" one of the two old women asked, mumbling through the few teeth
she still had.

"Yes." Isidro readily answered.

Almost at the same time, Augustin said, "No..."

Several faces raised to look at them with a silent question in their
eyes.

"Yes." Isidro insisted immediately, "But we will not stop there, it is
not our goal. We have to go to the abbey of our order at the capital
city."

"You are not Franciscan fathers, are you?" the man asked, and put a
handful of rice in his mouth.

"No, we are reformed Benedictines." Augustin answered.

They finished eating in silence. Then the women spread the mats and
settled the children so that there were two places free for the guests.
When everybody was lying down, the man blew out the lantern and the
darkness fell in the small hut. Only the rustle of the children who were
turning on their mats, and a few short and dry coughs broke the silence.
The two novices were tired for the long walk and fell into a deep sleep
at once.

The sun had not yet risen when the mercenaries moved out by foot,
without making the least noise. They had clearly singled out the
location where the unaware guerrillas camped, and Captain Sanders had
carefully prepared the attack plans. First of all, they had to eliminate
the sentries in the fastest and most silent way possible. Several of the
men were equipped with infrared night visors so that, in spite of the
dark night without a moon, they could clearly see the silhouettes of the
men on watch, in red against the flickering green of the screen.

At the signal of Sanders, the mercenaries brandishing knives began all
together and all the sentries fell without emitting the single yell. The
first part was done. The way to the camp was free. The mercenaries
surrounded it and, at a new signal, they attacked it screaming and
shouting. The guerrillas answer was almost immediate, but before the sun
rose, the battle was already finished - on the ground remained about
seventy dead guerrillas, and about twenty managed to escape. Only four
of the mercenaries were wounded and only one of them seriously.

At the first light of dawn Neil took off the bulletproof vest, wiped
away the sweat that in spite of the cold of the early morning was
beading his forehead. He started to tour the camp looking for guerrillas
who were yet alive, to give them the finishing stroke. No prisoners, as
usual.

Here and there he heard the sharp shots of pistols and rifles. Neil,
reached the limit of the camp, heard a death rattle coming from amongst
the bushes. He went to check. On the ground there was a guerrilla, lying
on his back, a knife planted on his chest, He was one of the sentries
hit at the beginning of the operation.

The body of the guerrilla jerked and trembled and the death rattle was
going on unceasingly. Neil aimed at him with his rifle. He was about to
press the trigger, when the fallen guerrilla raised his head and looked
at him - Neil froze for a moment; it was a boy and his face was
identical to that of Augustin, just thinner and dirty, and he had a
despairing and beseeching expression in his wide eyes. The boy slowly
raised an arm towards him. Neil for the first time in his life, closed
his eyes and shot three bullets in a fast succession.

When he opened his eyes, the boy had his head bent backward, so that
Neil didn't see his features any more. His body was moving no more, the
death rattle had ceased. And, again for the first time in his life, Neil
turned back, leaned with his head against the thin trunk of a tree and
threw up. He was used to looking in the face the death without emotion,
but that incredible likeness to Augustin's face shook him deeply, He
knew that the boy couldn't be the little friar, and yet...

Back at the camp, as the light of the day became increasingly intense,
he passed Max. His comrade in arms had a satisfied smile on his face. He
looked at him more carefully and saw a dampish stain around the fly of
his combat dress - his comrade did really ejaculate on himself because
of the excitement of the battle! Neil was again assailed by nausea, but
this time managed not to vomit. He drew away from his comrade without a
word.

Serge was bandaging the last of their wounded comrades. Neil looked
around for Joe. He saw him drinking from an aluminium canteen. He drew
near to him. His friend looked at him and handed him the canteen. Neil
drank.

"What's up? You are as pale as a ghost..." his friend told him looking in
his face, when Neil gave him back the flask.

"Nothing... I'm all right." Neil dryly answered.

"All right, you? I never saw you so... What's up? Come on, open up! You
can, with me, you know it..." Joe insisted.

"Nothing, I said." the mercenary insisted sharply.

"If you say so..." his friend answered going on to study his expression.

"Will you stop looking at me like that?" Neil asked in a belligerent
tone, that, however, seemed more a prayer than a menace.

"If you keep it inside... it will worsen, won't it?" Joe murmured looking
in his eyes.

Neil was about refute, but then let out a sigh, almost if he was
deflating, and said in a low voice, "Back there... where I shot the
finishing stroke to a boy... he seemed almost the twin of Augustin..."

"But he wasn't..." Joe said girdling his shoulders with an arm.

"How do you know? How can I know? He could really be."

"But he wasn't Augustin..." his friend insisted.

"But even if he was... I should have done it all the same." Neil retorted,
then repeated in a lower voice, "I should have done it all the same."

Joe understood he had better to keep silent. The only thing he could
offer to his friend was his closeness, more than some inadequate word.
He wouldn't have expected that Neil could get so upset by a simple
coincidence. Then the young soldier asked himself if he would have
killed without qualms the seeming twin of Isidro... and answered to
himself that, yes, he would possibly have done it, but that he too
definitely wouldn't feel proud or unmoved about it.

Raoul took to the captain a bundle of papers he found near the corpse of
the guerrillas' commander. Sanders rapidly checked them. Then, he
gathered his men and they abandoned that charnel place taking with them
only the weapons and ammunition of the guerrillas - The wild animals
would take care to clean up the corpses of the place.

They reached their vehicles, bodily transporting their only seriously
wounded comrade. Sanders told his men that they had exactly thirty
minutes to relax and take care of their bodily needs, then they would
get off. He knew from experience that after an action, as short it could
be and as successful, there was nothing better to make the men relax
than to make them empty their bowels. He meanwhile got in touch with the
command group to inform them that the operation had been carried out
successfully, he told them the number of guerrillas they killed and the
number of wounded amongst his men, and asked for new orders.

Neil had apparently recovered. He was a strong man who just had a moment
of weakness. "I'm possibly becoming too old for this job..." he mentally
told himself to justify that weakness. Even though he knew that some of
his comrades were much older than him.

While they were getting into their trucks and jeeps, not many kilometres
far from there, Augustin and Isidro were waking up, restored by their
sleep. They could not wash themselves, as the inhabitants of the hut
barely had water to drink. They would wash themselves at the first brook
they crossed along their way. They thanked their hosts and resumed their
march going further down valley.

Surpassing another rise, they saw that beyond it there was a small
village. They decided to go to it. Isidro seemed merry. Augustin asked
himself what could make his companion seem so joyful.

"Last night I dreamed that Joe was telling me to go with them. And that
he fucked me again like a rabbit in heat." the boy told him after a
while, unveiling the reason for his light-heartedness.

"You aren't believing in dreams, are you?" the friend asked him.

"No, of course not, but... but it had been an agreeable dream."

Augustin didn't have any dream, or likely better say he didn't remember
any if he had. He slept and that was all. But as soon as he woke up, in
his mind at once burst that short and resounding name, like the ring of
the silver little bell of the mass - Neil!

Neil. Was it possible that it entered so much in his blood? After all,
what did he know about that man, besides that he was a mercenary, a
gringo, a man who for his job and for money killed other men... and who
without any scruples, although with gentleness, took his virginity?

"The mercenary and the friar"... a really unlikely pairing. Really just
like in a novel, and not even one of the best. The devil and the holy
water. Well, no, he was not really holy water, and neither, likely was
Neil the devil. Once, when they had accompanied Father Celestin de
Velasco to a village for the Lent preaching, the aged monk had thundered
from the pulpit against the promiscuity of the sexes.

"The girls? Holy Land! The boys? Holy Water! But... mix them up together
and what you will get will always and only be... MUD!"

Augustin smiled to himself - that image was undoubtedly suggestive, and
expressed clearly the point of view of the monk, of the church... But
mixing up holy water with holy water, what would you get? A boy who
makes love with another boy, or a man, like Neil and he, what did they
become? Of course not mud. Evidently the good father never reflected
about this...

No matter what he was thinking about, his mind always came back again to
Neil...

"What are you thinking?" Isidro asked him, seeing him so engrossed.

"About father Celestin and one of his sermons."

"Oh, really? And what sermon?"

Augustin repeated to him the father's witticism then his considerations
about sex between two men. Isidro laughed with gusto, then said, "Holy
water and holy water mixed... make brandy! Yes, it was really strong and
agreeable like brandy, when Joe fucked me!"

Augustin smiled - he couldn't deny that Isidro was right this time.
Brandy, was also called water of life... It had certainly been so for him.
He got drunk with it, as long as the flask was emptied.

Neil. It really was a beautiful name. And he was really a beautiful man.
And he was skilled, in bed. Neil. Yet, in spite of all, Neil respected
him, even though he had the whip hand and could take profit from and use
him when and however he chose, as the majority of the other mercenaries
did even with the youngest of them, with the postulants. Neil, Neil,
Neil... at the Elevation of the Host during the mass, the little bell
rings three times, doesn't it? Neil, Neil, Neil...

"What will we do once we are at the village?" Isidro asked him,
interrupting the course of his thoughts.

"We will see. If we can't wash before, we will wash ourselves. I'm
feeling filthy like a... Am I not stinking, by chance?"

"I don't think so... or possibly I too stink so much that I can't smell if
you do." Isidro answered shrugging his shoulders.

But they were lucky. They found a brook that crossed the dirty road.
They went to the untilled land, took off their clothes and, for the
first time totally naked, side by side, infringing the abbey rules of
common agreement without needing to say it, shuddering from the cold,
almost icy water, they washed themselves.

Augustin became aware that Isidro, stealthily, was exploring his
nakedness, mainly there between his legs. He in his turn looked at his
companion.

All of a sudden Isidro, still dripping, turned towards him, "You don't
really feel like doing something with me?" he asked him while his penis
was slowly rising and hardening.

"No..." Augustin murmured.

"Nobody can see us here. And after we did it with the mercenaries, one
more or one less time, what difference can it make?" his companion
insisted.

"No..." Augustin repeated, but he was starting to feel slightly aroused.

"I would like to feel all of your tool inside my bottom." Isidro said,
now openly looking between his companion's legs.

Augustin turned and bent down to pick up his clothes, his frock, "Let's
get dressed, come on! Don't insist."

"You also have a nice little ass..." his companion said from his back.

Augustin turned a little and threw him a short glance. "Let's dress." he
repeated simply.

Isidro emitted a sigh but gave up, in spite of the yen he was feeling.
They dressed, went back to the road and went towards the village. When
they reached it, the sun was already high on the sky, it had to be more
or lees noon.

The voice of a child, high pitched and shrill, announced their arrival,
"Los padrecitos, los padrecitos!"

Several people came out of the houses that were around a well and a tall
cross. They were poor people, all Indians, for the most part women and
children, dressed in a dignified way. Their faces, almost impassive,
were yet showing friendly expressions.

"Los padrecitos, los padrecitos." a chorus of half naked children called
out, as they escorted them towards the small church of the village.

At its door appeared an old man. Isidro asked him, "Is the parish priest
at home?"

"No, padrecitos, we see him just once each month... but come in, the house
of God is your house." Then, turning towards one of the women, he
yelled, "Agnes! And you women, prepare something for the padrecitos to
eat, hurry up!"

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CONTINUES IN CHAPTER 6

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In my home page I've put some more of my stories. If someone wants to
read them, the URL is

http://andrejkoymasky.com

If you want to send me feed-back, or desire to help revising my English
translations, so that I can put on-line more of my  stories in English
please e-mail at

andrej@andrejkoymasky.com

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