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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">
And he gave the boy his blessing. The boy could see in his
father’s gaze a desire to be able, himself, to travel the world—a
desire that was still alive, despite his father’s having had to bury it,
over dozens of years, under the burden of struggling for water to
drink, food to eat, and the same place to sleep every night of his life.
THE HORIZON WAS TINGED WITH RED, AND SUDDENLY THE sun appeared.
The boy thought back to that conversation with his father, and felt
happy; he had already seen many castles and met many women (but
none the equal of the one who awaited him several days hence). He
owned a jacket, a book that he could trade for another, and a flock of
sheep. But, most important, he was able every day to live out his
dream. If he were to tire of the Andalusian fields, he could sell his
sheep and go to sea. By the time he had had enough of the sea, he
would already have known other cities, other women, and other
chances to be happy. I couldn’t have found God in the seminary, he
thought, as he looked at the sunrise.
Whenever he could, he sought out a new road to travel. He had
never been to that ruined church before, in spite of having traveled
through those parts many times. The world was huge and
inexhaustible; he had only to allow his sheep to set the route for a
while, and he would discover other interesting things. The problem
is that they don’t even realize that they’re walking a new road every
day. They don’t see that the fields are new and the seasons change.
All they think about is food and water.<!---->
Maybe we’re all that way, the boy mused. Even me—I haven’t
thought of other women since I met the merchant’s daughter.
Looking at the sun, he calculated that he would reach Tarifa before
midday. There, he could exchange his book for a thicker one, fill his
wine bottle, shave, and have a haircut; he had to prepare himself for
his meeting with the girl, and he didn’t want to think about the
possibility that some other shepherd, with a larger flock of sheep,
had arrived there before him and asked for her hand.
It’s the possibility of having a dream come true that makes life
interesting, he thought, as he looked again at the position of the sun,
and hurried his pace. He had suddenly remembered that, in Tarifa,
there was an old woman who interpreted dreams.
THE OLD WOMAN LED THE BOY TO A ROOM AT THE BACK of her house; it was
separated from her living room by a curtain of colored beads. The
room’s furnishings consisted of a table, an image of the Sacred Heart
of Jesus, and two chairs.
The woman sat down, and told him to be seated as well. Then
she took both of his hands in hers, and began quietly to pray.
It sounded like a Gypsy prayer. The boy had already had
experience on the road with Gypsies; they also traveled, but they
had no flocks of sheep. People said that Gypsies spent their lives
tricking others. It was also said that they had a pact with the devil,
and that they kidnapped children and, taking them away to their
mysterious camps, made them their slaves. As a child, the boy had
always been frightened to death that he would be captured by
Gypsies, and this childhood fear returned when the old woman took
his hands in hers.
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<h5 class="pageNumber">Page 4</h5>
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