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<!DOCTYPE html>
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<head>
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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">
“No one can be from many places,” the boy said. “I’m a shepherd,
and I have been to many places, but I come from only one place—
from a city near an ancient castle. That’s where I was born.”
“Well then, we could say that I was born in Salem.”
The boy didn’t know where Salem was, but he didn’t want to ask,
fearing that he would appear ignorant. He looked at the people in
the plaza for a while; they were coming and going, and all of them
seemed to be very busy.
“So, what is Salem like?” he asked, trying to get some sort of clue.
“It’s like it always has been.”
No clue yet. But he knew that Salem wasn’t in Andalusia. If it
were, he would already have heard of it.
“And what do you do in Salem?” he insisted.
“What do I do in Salem?” The old man laughed. “Well, I’m the
king of Salem!”
People say strange things, the boy thought. Sometimes it’s better
to be with the sheep, who don’t say anything. And better still to be
alone with one’s books. They tell their incredible stories at the time
when you want to hear them. But when you’re talking to people,
they say some things that are so strange that you don’t know how to
continue the conversation.
“My name is Melchizedek,” said the old man. “How many sheep
do you have?”
“Enough,” said the boy. He could see that the old man wanted to
know more about his life.
“Well, then, we’ve got a problem. I can’t help you if you feel
you’ve got enough sheep.”
The boy was getting irritated. He wasn’t asking for help. It was
the old man who had asked for a drink of his wine, and had started
the conversation.
“Give me my book,” the boy said. “I have to go and gather my
sheep and get going.”
“Give me one-tenth of your sheep,” said the old man, “and I’ll tell
you how to find the hidden treasure.”
The boy remembered his dream, and suddenly everything was
clear to him. The old woman hadn’t charged him anything, but the
old man—maybe he was her husband—was going to find a way to
get much more money in exchange for information about something
that didn’t even exist. The old man was probably a Gypsy, too.
But before the boy could say anything, the old man leaned over,
picked up a stick, and began to write in the sand of the plaza.
Something bright reflected from his chest with such intensity that
the boy was momentarily blinded. With a movement that was too
quick for someone his age, the man covered whatever it was with
his cape. When his vision returned to normal, the boy was able to
read what the old man had written in the sand.
There, in the sand of the plaza of that small city, the boy read the
names of his father and his mother and the name of the seminary he
had attended. He read the name of the merchant’s daughter, which
he hadn’t even known, and he read things he had never told anyone.
“I’M THE KING OF SALEM,” THE OLD MAN HAD SAID.
“Why would a king be talking with a shepherd?” the boy asked,
awed and embarrassed.
</p>
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<h5 class="pageNumber">Page 8</h5>
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