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<h6>Author</h6>
<h1>Paulo Coelho</h1>
<h6>Brazilian lyricist</h6>
<p id="paragraph">
The boy was surprised at his thoughts. Maybe the church, with
the sycamore growing from within, had been haunted. It had caused
him to have the same dream for a second time, and it was causing
him to feel anger toward his faithful companions. He drank a bit
from the wine that remained from his dinner of the night before,
and he gathered his jacket closer to his body. He knew that a few
hours from now, with the sun at its zenith, the heat would be so
great that he would not be able to lead his flock across the fields. It
was the time of day when all of Spain slept during the summer. The
heat lasted until nightfall, and all that time he had to carry his
jacket. But when he thought to complain about the burden of its
weight, he remembered that, because he had the jacket, he had
withstood the cold of the dawn.
We have to be prepared for change, he thought, and he was
grateful for the jacket’s weight and warmth.
The jacket had a purpose, and so did the boy. His purpose in life
was to travel, and, after two years of walking the Andalusian terrain,
he knew all the cities of the region. He was planning, on this visit, to
explain to the girl how it was that a simple shepherd knew how to
read. That he had attended a seminary until he was sixteen. His
parents had wanted him to become a priest, and thereby a source of
pride for a simple farm family. They worked hard just to have food
and water, like the sheep. He had studied Latin, Spanish, and
theology. But ever since he had been a child, he had wanted to know
the world, and this was much more important to him than knowing
God and learning about man’s sins. One afternoon, on a visit to his
family, he had summoned up the courage to tell his father that he
didn’t want to become a priest. That he wanted to travel.
“PEOPLE FROM ALL OVER THE WORLD HAVE PASSED through this village,
son,” said his father. “They come in search of new things, but when
they leave they are basically the same people they were when they
arrived. They climb the mountain to see the castle, and they wind up
thinking that the past was better than what we have now. They have
blond hair, or dark skin, but basically they’re the same as the people
who live right here.”
“But I’d like to see the castles in the towns where they live,” the
boy explained.
“Those people, when they see our land, say that they would like
to live here forever,” his father continued.
“Well, I’d like to see their land, and see how they live,” said his
son.
“The people who come here have a lot of money to spend, so
they can afford to travel,” his father said. “Amongst us, the only ones
who travel are the shepherds.”
“Well, then I’ll be a shepherd!”
His father said no more. The next day, he gave his son a pouch
that held three ancient Spanish gold coins.
“I found these one day in the fields. I wanted them to be a part of
your inheritance. But use them to buy your flock. Take to the fields,
and someday you’ll learn that our countryside is the best, and our
women are the most beautiful.”
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<h5 class="pageNumber">Page 3</h5>
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