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<title>the alchemist</title>
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<h6>Author</h6>
<h1>Paulo Coelho</h1>
<h6>Brazilian lyricist</h6>
<p id="paragraph">
I left my father, my mother, and the town castle behind. They
have gotten used to my being away, and so have I. The sheep will get
used to my not being there, too, the boy thought.
From where he sat, he could observe the plaza. People continued
to come and go from the baker’s shop. A young couple sat on the
bench where he had talked with the old man, and they kissed.
“That baker…” he said to himself, without completing the
thought. The levanter was still getting stronger, and he felt its force
on his face. That wind had brought the Moors, yes, but it had also
brought the smell of the desert and of veiled women. It had brought
with it the sweat and the dreams of men who had once left to search
for the unknown, and for gold and adventure—and for the
Pyramids. The boy felt jealous of the freedom of the wind, and saw
that he could have the same freedom. There was nothing to hold
him back except himself. The sheep, the merchant’s daughter, and
the fields of Andalusia were only steps along the way to his Personal
Legend.
The next day, the boy met the old man at noon. He brought six
sheep with him.
“I’m surprised,” the boy said. “My friend bought all the other
sheep immediately. He said that he had always dreamed of being a
shepherd, and that it was a good omen.”
“That’s the way it always is,” said the old man. “It’s called the
principle of favorability. When you play cards the first time, you are
almost sure to win. Beginner’s luck.”
“Why is that?”
“Because there is a force that wants you to realize your Personal
Legend; it whets your appetite with a taste of success.”
Then the old man began to inspect the sheep, and he saw that
one was lame. The boy explained that it wasn’t important, since that
sheep was the most intelligent of the flock, and produced the most
wool.
“Where is the treasure?” he asked.
“It’s in Egypt, near the Pyramids.”
The boy was startled. The old woman had said the same thing.
But she hadn’t charged him anything.
“In order to find the treasure, you will have to follow the omens.
God has prepared a path for everyone to follow. You just have to
read the omens that he left for you.”
Before the boy could reply, a butterfly appeared and fluttered
between him and the old man. He remembered something his
grandfather had once told him: that butterflies were a good omen.
Like crickets, and like grasshoppers; like lizards and four-leaf
clovers.
“That’s right,” said the old man, able to read the boy’s thoughts.
“Just as your grandfather taught you. These are good omens.”
The old man opened his cape, and the boy was struck by what he
saw. The old man wore a breastplate of heavy gold, covered with
precious stones. The boy recalled the brilliance he had noticed on
the previous day.
He really was a king! He must be disguised to avoid encounters
with thieves.
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<h5 class="pageNumber">Page 12</h5>
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