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<h6>Author</h6>
<h1>Paulo Coelho</h1>
<h6>Brazilian lyricist</h6>
<p id="paragraph">
The horseman was completely immobile, as was the boy. It
didn’t even occur to the boy to flee. In his heart, he felt a strange
sense of joy: he was about to die in pursuit of his Personal Legend.
And for Fatima. The omens had been true, after all. Here he was,
face-to-face with his enemy, but there was no need to be concerned
about dying—the Soul of the World awaited him, and he would soon
be a part of it. And, tomorrow, his enemy would also be a part of
that Soul.
The stranger continued to hold the sword at the boy’s forehead.
“Why did you read the flight of the birds?”
“I read only what the birds wanted to tell me. They wanted to
save the oasis. Tomorrow all of you will die, because there are more
men at the oasis than you have.”
The sword remained where it was. “Who are you to change what
Allah has willed?”
“Allah created the armies, and he also created the hawks. Allah
taught me the language of the birds. Everything has been written by
the same hand,” the boy said, remembering the camel driver’s
words.
The stranger withdrew the sword from the boy’s forehead, and
the boy felt immensely relieved. But he still couldn’t flee.
“Be careful with your prognostications,” said the stranger.
“When something is written, there is no way to change it.”
“All I saw was an army,” said the boy. “I didn’t see the outcome
of the battle.”
The stranger seemed satisfied with the answer. But he kept the
sword in his hand. “What is a stranger doing in a strange land?”
“I am following my Personal Legend. It’s not something you
would understand.”
The stranger placed his sword in its scabbard, and the boy
relaxed.
“I had to test your courage,” the stranger said. “Courage is the
quality most essential to understanding the Language of the World.”
The boy was surprised. The stranger was speaking of things that
very few people knew about.
“You must not let up, even after having come so far,” he
continued. “You must love the desert, but never trust it completely.
Because the desert tests all men: it challenges every step, and kills
those who become distracted.”
What he said reminded the boy of the old king.
“If the warriors come here, and your head is still on your
shoulders at sunset, come and find me,” said the stranger.
The same hand that had brandished the sword now held a whip.
The horse reared again, raising a cloud of dust.
“Where do you live?” shouted the boy, as the horseman rode
away.
The hand with the whip pointed to the south.
The boy had met the alchemist.
NEXT MORNING, THERE WERE TWO THOUSAND ARMED men scattered
throughout the palm trees at Al-Fayoum. Before the sun had
reached its high point, five hundred tribesmen appeared on the
horizon. The mounted troops entered the oasis from the north; it
appeared to be a peaceful expedition, but they all carried arms
hidden in their robes. When they reached the white tent at the
center of Al-Fayoum, they withdrew their scimitars and rifles. And
they attacked an empty tent.
The men of the oasis surrounded the horsemen from the desert
and within half an hour all but one of the intruders were dead. The
children had been kept at the other side of a grove of palm trees,
and saw nothing of what had happened. The women had remained
in their tents, praying for the safekeeping of their husbands, and
saw nothing of the battle, either. Were it not for the bodies there on
the ground, it would have appeared to be a normal day at the oasis.
The only tribesman spared was the commander of the battalion.
That afternoon, he was brought before the tribal chieftains, who
asked him why he had violated the Tradition. The commander said
that his men had been starving and thirsty, exhausted from many
days of battle, and had decided to take the oasis so as to be able to
return to the war.
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<h5 class="pageNumber">Page 45</h5>
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