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<h6>Author</h6>
<h1>Paulo Coelho</h1>
<h6>Brazilian lyricist</h6>
<p id="paragraph">
There were almost two hundred people gathered there, and four
hundred animals—camels, horses, mules, and fowl. In the crowd
were women, children, and a number of men with swords at their
belts and rifles slung on their shoulders. The Englishman had
several suitcases filled with books. There was a babble of noise, and
the leader had to repeat himself several times for everyone to
understand what he was saying.
“There are a lot of different people here, and each has his own
God. But the only God I serve is Allah, and in his name I swear that I
will do everything possible once again to win out over the desert.
But I want each and every one of you to swear by the God you
believe in that you will follow my orders no matter what. In the
desert, disobedience means death.”
There was a murmur from the crowd. Each was swearing quietly
to his or her own God. The boy swore to Jesus Christ. The
Englishman said nothing. And the murmur lasted longer than a
simple vow would have. The people were also praying to heaven for
protection.
A long note was sounded on a bugle, and everyone mounted up.
The boy and the Englishman had bought camels, and climbed
uncertainly onto their backs. The boy felt sorry for the Englishman’s
camel, loaded down as he was with the cases of books.
“There’s no such thing as coincidence,” said the Englishman,
picking up the conversation where it had been interrupted in the
warehouse. “I’m here because a friend of mine heard of an Arab
who…”
But the caravan began to move, and it was impossible to hear
what the Englishman was saying. The boy knew what he was about
to describe, though: the mysterious chain that links one thing to
another, the same chain that had caused him to become a shepherd,
that had caused his recurring dream, that had brought him to a city
near Africa, to find a king, and to be robbed in order to meet a
crystal merchant, and…
The closer one gets to realizing his Personal Legend, the more
that Personal Legend becomes his true reason for being, thought the
boy.
The caravan moved toward the east. It traveled during the
morning, halted when the sun was at its strongest, and resumed late
in the afternoon. The boy spoke very little with the Englishman, who
spent most of his time with his books.
The boy observed in silence the progress of the animals and
people across the desert. Now everything was quite different from
how it was that day they had set out: then, there had been confusion
and shouting, the cries of children and the whinnying of animals, all
mixed with the nervous orders of the guides and the merchants.
But, in the desert, there was only the sound of the eternal wind,
and of the hoofbeats of the animals. Even the guides spoke very
little to one another.
“I’ve crossed these sands many times,” said one of the camel
drivers one night. “But the desert is so huge, and the horizons so
distant, that they make a person feel small, and as if he should
remain silent.”
The boy understood intuitively what he meant, even without
ever having set foot in the desert before. Whenever he saw the sea,
or a fire, he fell silent, impressed by their elemental force.
I’ve learned things from the sheep, and I’ve learned things from
crystal, he thought. I can learn something from the desert, too. It
seems old and wise.
The wind never stopped, and the boy remembered the day he
had sat at the fort in Tarifa with this same wind blowing in his face.
It reminded him of the wool from his sheep…his sheep who were
now seeking food and water in the fields of Andalusia, as they
always had.
</p>
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<h5 class="pageNumber">Page 30</h5>
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