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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">
The boy reached through to the Soul of the World, and saw that
it was a part of the Soul of God. And he saw that the Soul of God was
his own soul. And that he, a boy, could perform miracles.
THE SIMUM BLEW THAT DAY AS IT HAD NEVER BLOWN before. For
generations thereafter, the Arabs recounted the legend of a boy who
had turned himself into the wind, almost destroying a military
camp, in defiance of the most powerful chief in the desert.
When the simum ceased to blow, everyone looked to the place
where the boy had been. But he was no longer there; he was
standing next to a sand-covered sentinel, on the far side of the
camp.
The men were terrified at his sorcery. But there were two
people who were smiling: the alchemist, because he had found his
perfect disciple, and the chief, because that disciple had understood
the glory of God.
The following day, the general bade the boy and the alchemist
farewell, and provided them with an escort party to accompany
them as far as they chose.
THEY RODE FOR THE ENTIRE DAY. TOWARD THE END OF the afternoon, they
came upon a Coptic monastery. The alchemist dismounted, and told
the escorts they could return to the camp.
“From here on, you will be alone,” the alchemist said. “You are
only three hours from the Pyramids.”
“Thank you,” said the boy. “You taught me the Language of the
World.”
“I only invoked what you already knew.”
The alchemist knocked on the gate of the monastery. A monk
dressed in black came to the gates. They spoke for a few minutes in
the Coptic tongue, and the alchemist bade the boy enter.
“I asked him to let me use the kitchen for a while,” the alchemist
smiled.
They went to the kitchen at the back of the monastery. The
alchemist lighted the fire, and the monk brought him some lead,
which the alchemist placed in an iron pan. When the lead had
become liquid, the alchemist took from his pouch the strange yellow
egg. He scraped from it a sliver as thin as a hair, wrapped it in wax,
and added it to the pan in which the lead had melted.
The mixture took on a reddish color, almost the color of blood.
The alchemist removed the pan from the fire, and set it aside to cool.
As he did so, he talked with the monk about the tribal wars.
“I think they’re going to last for a long time,” he said to the monk.
The monk was irritated. The caravans had been stopped at Giza
for some time, waiting for the wars to end. “But God’s will be done,”
the monk said.
“Exactly,” answered the alchemist.
When the pan had cooled, the monk and the boy looked at it,
dazzled. The lead had dried into the shape of the pan, but it was no
longer lead. It was gold.
“Will I learn to do that someday?” the boy asked.
“This was my Personal Legend, not yours,” the alchemist
answered. “But I wanted to show you that it was possible.”
They returned to the gates of the monastery. There, the
alchemist separated the disk into four parts.
“This is for you,” he said, holding one of the parts out to the
monk. “It’s for your generosity to the pilgrims.”
“But this payment goes well beyond my generosity,” the monk
responded.
“Don’t say that again. Life might be listening, and give you less
the next time.”
The alchemist turned to the boy. “This is for you. To make up for
what you gave to the general.”
The boy was about to say that it was much more than he had
given the general. But he kept quiet, because he had heard what the
alchemist said to the monk.
</p>
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<h5 class="pageNumber">Page 58</h5>
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