The dream was older than anything he possessed – older than the few articles of worn clothing that lay in a pile in the corner of his bamboo hut; older than most any memory of his family; and certainly older than his vocation to the priesthood.  In a way, the dream seemed to define Father Clement Becherelle’s very being, even as his life – through his own volition – confined this dream to the chambers of his imagination nunc et semper et in saecula saeculorum.  Yet, in spite of its perpetual confinement – or perhaps because of it – the dream was his constant companion.