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<!DOCTYPE html>
<html lang="en">
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<meta http-equiv="X-UA-Compatible" content="IE=edge">
<meta name="viewport" content="width=device-width, initial-scale=1.0">
<title>the alchemist</title>
<link rel="stylesheet" href="style.css">
</head>
<body>
<div class="top-container">
<h6>Author</h6>
<h1>Paulo Coelho</h1>
<h6>Brazilian lyricist</h6>
</div>
<div class="container" >
<div id="myHeader" class="header">
<a href="index.html"><button class="home-button">Home</button></a>
<button class="bookmark-button">Bookmark</button>
<div class="wrapper">
<input type="text" id="text-to-search" placeholder="Enter text to search...">
<button onclick="search()">Search</button>
</div>
</div>
<br>
<p id="paragraph">
THE BOY’S NAME WAS SANTIAGO. DUSK WAS FALLING AS the boy arrived
with his herd at an abandoned church. The roof had fallen in long
ago, and an enormous sycamore had grown on the spot where the
sacristy had once stood.
He decided to spend the night there. He saw to it that all the
sheep entered through the ruined gate, and then laid some planks
across it to prevent the flock from wandering away during the night.
There were no wolves in the region, but once an animal had strayed
during the night, and the boy had had to spend the entire next day
searching for it.
He swept the floor with his jacket and lay down, using the book
he had just finished reading as a pillow. He told himself that he
would have to start reading thicker books: they lasted longer, and
made more comfortable pillows.
It was still dark when he awoke, and, looking up, he could see
the stars through the half-destroyed roof.
I wanted to sleep a little longer, he thought. He had had the same
dream that night as a week ago, and once again he had awakened
before it ended.
He arose and, taking up his crook, began to awaken the sheep
that still slept. He had noticed that, as soon as he awoke, most of his
animals also began to stir. It was as if some mysterious energy
bound his life to that of the sheep, with whom he had spent the past
two years, leading them through the countryside in search of food
and water. “They are so used to me that they know my schedule,” he
muttered. Thinking about that for a moment, he realized that it
could be the other way around: that it was he who had become
accustomed to their schedule.
But there were certain of them who took a bit longer to awaken.
The boy prodded them, one by one, with his crook, calling each by
name. He had always believed that the sheep were able to
understand what he said. So there were times when he read them
parts of his books that had made an impression on him, or when he
would tell them of the loneliness or the happiness of a shepherd in
the fields. Sometimes he would comment to them on the things he
had seen in the villages they passed.
But for the past few days he had spoken to them about only one
thing: the girl, the daughter of a merchant who lived in the village
they would reach in about four days. He had been to the village only
once, the year before. The merchant was the proprietor of a dry
goods shop, and he always demanded that the sheep be sheared in
his presence, so that he would not be cheated. A friend had told the
boy about the shop, and he had taken his sheep there.
“I NEED TO SELL SOME WOOL,” THE BOY TOLD THE merchant.
The shop was busy, and the man asked the shepherd to wait
until the afternoon. So the boy sat on the steps of the shop and took
a book from his bag.
“I didn’t know shepherds knew how to read,” said a girl’s voice
behind him.<!---->
The girl was typical of the region of Andalusia, with flowing
black hair, and eyes that vaguely recalled the Moorish conquerors.
“Well, usually I learn more from my sheep than from books,” he
answered. During the two hours that they talked, she told him she
was the merchant’s daughter, and spoke of life in the village, where
each day was like all the others. The shepherd told her of the
Andalusian countryside, and related the news from the other towns
where he had stopped. It was a pleasant change from talking to his
sheep.
“How did you learn to read?” the girl asked at one point.
“Like everybody learns,” he said. “In school.”
“Well, if you know how to read, why are you just a shepherd?”
The boy mumbled an answer that allowed him to avoid
responding to her question. He was sure the girl would never
understand. He went on telling stories about his travels, and her
bright, Moorish eyes went wide with fear and surprise. As the time
passed, the boy found himself wishing that the day would never
end, that her father would stay busy and keep him waiting for three
days. He recognized that he was feeling something he had never
experienced before: the desire to live in one place forever. With the
girl with the raven hair, his days would never be the same again.
But finally the merchant appeared, and asked the boy to shear
four sheep. He paid for the wool and asked the shepherd to come
back the following year.
AND NOW IT WAS ONLY FOUR DAYS BEFORE HE WOULD BE back in that same
village. He was excited, and at the same time uneasy: maybe the girl
had already forgotten him. Lots of shepherds passed through,
selling their wool.
“It doesn’t matter,” he said to his sheep. “I know other girls in
other places.”
But in his heart he knew that it did matter. And he knew that
shepherds, like seamen and like traveling salesmen, always found a
town where there was someone who could make them forget the
joys of carefree wandering.
The day was dawning, and the shepherd urged his sheep in the
direction of the sun. They never have to make any decisions, he
thought. Maybe that’s why they always stay close to me.
The only things that concerned the sheep were food and water.
As long as the boy knew how to find the best pastures in Andalusia,
they would be his friends. Yes, their days were all the same, with the
seemingly endless hours between sunrise and dusk; and they had
never read a book in their young lives, and didn’t understand when
the boy told them about the sights of the cities. They were content
with just food and water, and, in exchange, they generously gave of
their wool, their company, and—once in a while—their meat.
If I became a monster today, and decided to kill them, one by
one, they would become aware only after most of the flock had been
slaughtered, thought the boy. They trust me, and they’ve forgotten
how to rely on their own instincts, because I lead them to
nourishment.<!---->
The boy was surprised at his thoughts. Maybe the church, with
the sycamore growing from within, had been haunted. It had caused
him to have the same dream for a second time, and it was causing
him to feel anger toward his faithful companions. He drank a bit
from the wine that remained from his dinner of the night before,
and he gathered his jacket closer to his body. He knew that a few
hours from now, with the sun at its zenith, the heat would be so
great that he would not be able to lead his flock across the fields. It
was the time of day when all of Spain slept during the summer. The
heat lasted until nightfall, and all that time he had to carry his
jacket. But when he thought to complain about the burden of its
weight, he remembered that, because he had the jacket, he had
withstood the cold of the dawn.
We have to be prepared for change, he thought, and he was
grateful for the jacket’s weight and warmth.
The jacket had a purpose, and so did the boy. His purpose in life
was to travel, and, after two years of walking the Andalusian terrain,
he knew all the cities of the region. He was planning, on this visit, to
explain to the girl how it was that a simple shepherd knew how to
read. That he had attended a seminary until he was sixteen. His
parents had wanted him to become a priest, and thereby a source of
pride for a simple farm family. They worked hard just to have food
and water, like the sheep. He had studied Latin, Spanish, and
theology. But ever since he had been a child, he had wanted to know
the world, and this was much more important to him than knowing
God and learning about man’s sins. One afternoon, on a visit to his
family, he had summoned up the courage to tell his father that he
didn’t want to become a priest. That he wanted to travel.
“PEOPLE FROM ALL OVER THE WORLD HAVE PASSED through this village,
son,” said his father. “They come in search of new things, but when
they leave they are basically the same people they were when they
arrived. They climb the mountain to see the castle, and they wind up
thinking that the past was better than what we have now. They have
blond hair, or dark skin, but basically they’re the same as the people
who live right here.”
“But I’d like to see the castles in the towns where they live,” the
boy explained.
“Those people, when they see our land, say that they would like
to live here forever,” his father continued.
“Well, I’d like to see their land, and see how they live,” said his
son.
“The people who come here have a lot of money to spend, so
they can afford to travel,” his father said. “Amongst us, the only ones
who travel are the shepherds.”
“Well, then I’ll be a shepherd!”
His father said no more. The next day, he gave his son a pouch
that held three ancient Spanish gold coins.
“I found these one day in the fields. I wanted them to be a part of
your inheritance. But use them to buy your flock. Take to the fields,
and someday you’ll learn that our countryside is the best, and our
women are the most beautiful.”<!---->
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.<!---->
But she has the Sacred Heart of Jesus there, he thought, trying to
reassure himself. He didn’t want his hand to begin trembling,
showing the old woman that he was fearful. He recited an Our
Father silently.
“Very interesting,” said the woman, never taking her eyes from
the boy’s hands, and then she fell silent.
The boy was becoming nervous. His hands began to tremble, and
the woman sensed it. He quickly pulled his hands away.
“I didn’t come here to have you read my palm,” he said, already
regretting having come. He thought for a moment that it would be
better to pay her fee and leave without learning a thing, that he was
giving too much importance to his recurrent dream.
“You came so that you could learn about your dreams,” said the
old woman. “And dreams are the language of God. When he speaks
in our language, I can interpret what he has said. But if he speaks in
the language of the soul, it is only you who can understand. But,
whichever it is, I’m going to charge you for the consultation.”
Another trick, the boy thought. But he decided to take a chance.
A shepherd always takes his chances with wolves and with drought,
and that’s what makes a shepherd’s life exciting.
“I have had the same dream twice,” he said. “I dreamed that I
was in a field with my sheep, when a child appeared and began to
play with the animals. I don’t like people to do that, because the
sheep are afraid of strangers. But children always seem to be able to
play with them without frightening them. I don’t know why. I don’t
know how animals know the age of human beings.”
“Tell me more about your dream,” said the woman. “I have to get
back to my cooking, and, since you don’t have much money, I can’t
give you a lot of time.”
“The child went on playing with my sheep for quite a while,”
continued the boy, a bit upset. “And suddenly, the child took me by
both hands and transported me to the Egyptian pyramids.”
He paused for a moment to see if the woman knew what the
Egyptian pyramids were. But she said nothing.
“Then, at the Egyptian pyramids,”—he said the last three words
slowly, so that the old woman would understand—“the child said to
me, ‘If you come here, you will find a hidden treasure.’ And, just as
she was about to show me the exact location, I woke up. Both
times.”
The woman was silent for some time. Then she again took his
hands and studied them carefully.
“I’m not going to charge you anything now,” she said. “But I want
one-tenth of the treasure, if you find it.”
The boy laughed—out of happiness. He was going to be able to
save the little money he had because of a dream about hidden
treasure!
“Well, interpret the dream,” he said.
“First, swear to me. Swear that you will give me one-tenth of
your treasure in exchange for what I am going to tell you.”
The shepherd swore that he would. The old woman asked him to
swear again while looking at the image of the Sacred Heart of Jesus.
“It’s a dream in the language of the world,” she said. “I can
interpret it, but the interpretation is very difficult. That’s why I feel
that I deserve a part of what you find.<!---->
“And this is my interpretation: you must go to the Pyramids in
Egypt. I have never heard of them, but, if it was a child who showed
them to you, they exist. There you will find a treasure that will make
you a rich man.”
The boy was surprised, and then irritated. He didn’t need to seek
out the old woman for this! But then he remembered that he wasn’t
going to have to pay anything.
“I didn’t need to waste my time just for this,” he said.
“I told you that your dream was a difficult one. It’s the simple
things in life that are the most extraordinary; only wise men are
able to understand them. And since I am not wise, I have had to
learn other arts, such as the reading of palms.”
“Well, how am I going to get to Egypt?”
“I only interpret dreams. I don’t know how to turn them into
reality. That’s why I have to live off what my daughters provide me
with.”
“And what if I never get to Egypt?”
“Then I don’t get paid. It wouldn’t be the first time.”
And the woman told the boy to leave, saying she had already
wasted too much time with him.<!---->
So the boy was disappointed; he decided that he would never
again believe in dreams. He remembered that he had a number of
things he had to take care of: he went to the market for something
to eat, he traded his book for one that was thicker, and he found a
bench in the plaza where he could sample the new wine he had
bought. The day was hot, and the wine was refreshing. The sheep
were at the gates of the city, in a stable that belonged to a friend.
The boy knew a lot of people in the city. That was what made
traveling appeal to him—he always made new friends, and he didn’t
need to spend all of his time with them. When someone sees the
same people every day, as had happened with him at the seminary,
they wind up becoming a part of that person’s life. And then they
want the person to change. If someone isn’t what others want them
to be, the others become angry. Everyone seems to have a clear idea
of how other people should lead their lives, but none about his or
her own.
He decided to wait until the sun had sunk a bit lower in the sky
before following his flock back through the fields. Three days from
now, he would be with the merchant’s daughter.
He started to read the book he had bought. On the very first page
it described a burial ceremony. And the names of the people
involved were very difficult to pronounce. If he ever wrote a book,
he thought, he would present one person at a time, so that the
reader wouldn’t have to worry about memorizing a lot of names.
When he was finally able to concentrate on what he was reading,
he liked the book better; the burial was on a snowy day, and he
welcomed the feeling of being cold. As he read on, an old man sat
down at his side and tried to strike up a conversation.
“What are they doing?” the old man asked, pointing at the people
in the plaza.<!---->
“Working,” the boy answered dryly, making it look as if he
wanted to concentrate on his reading.
Actually, he was thinking about shearing his sheep in front of the
merchant’s daughter, so that she could see that he was someone
who was capable of doing difficult things. He had already imagined
the scene many times; every time, the girl became fascinated when
he explained that the sheep had to be sheared from back to front. He
also tried to remember some good stories to relate as he sheared
the sheep. Most of them he had read in books, but he would tell
them as if they were from his personal experience. She would never
know the difference, because she didn’t know how to read.
Meanwhile, the old man persisted in his attempt to strike up a
conversation. He said that he was tired and thirsty, and asked if he
might have a sip of the boy’s wine. The boy offered his bottle,
hoping that the old man would leave him alone.
But the old man wanted to talk, and he asked the boy what book
he was reading. The boy was tempted to be rude, and move to
another bench, but his father had taught him to be respectful of the
elderly. So he held out the book to the man—for two reasons: first,
that he, himself, wasn’t sure how to pronounce the title; and second,
that if the old man didn’t know how to read, he would probably feel
ashamed and decide of his own accord to change benches.
“Hmm…” said the old man, looking at all sides of the book, as if it
were some strange object. “This is an important book, but it’s really
irritating.”
The boy was shocked. The old man knew how to read, and had
already read the book. And if the book was irritating, as the old man
had said, the boy still had time to change it for another.
“It’s a book that says the same thing almost all the other books in
the world say,” continued the old man. “It describes people’s
inability to choose their own Personal Legends. And it ends up
saying that everyone believes the world’s greatest lie.”
“What’s the world’s greatest lie?” the boy asked, completely
surprised.
“It’s this: that at a certain point in our lives, we lose control of
what’s happening to us, and our lives become controlled by fate.
That’s the world’s greatest lie.”
“That’s never happened to me,” the boy said. “They wanted me
to be a priest, but I decided to become a shepherd.”
“Much better,” said the old man. “Because you really like to
travel.”
“He knew what I was thinking,” the boy said to himself. The old
man, meanwhile, was leafing through the book, without seeming to
want to return it at all. The boy noticed that the man’s clothing was
strange. He looked like an Arab, which was not unusual in those
parts. Africa was only a few hours from Tarifa; one had only to cross
the narrow straits by boat. Arabs often appeared in the city,
shopping and chanting their strange prayers several times a day.
“Where are you from?” the boy asked.
“From many places.”<!---->
“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.<!---->
“For several reasons. But let’s say that the most important is that
you have succeeded in discovering your Personal Legend.”
The boy didn’t know what a person’s “Personal Legend” was.
“It’s what you have always wanted to accomplish. Everyone,
when they are young, knows what their Personal Legend is.
“At that point in their lives, everything is clear and everything is
possible. They are not afraid to dream, and to yearn for everything
they would like to see happen to them in their lives. But, as time
passes, a mysterious force begins to convince them that it will be
impossible for them to realize their Personal Legend.”
None of what the old man was saying made much sense to the
boy. But he wanted to know what the “mysterious force” was; the
merchant’s daughter would be impressed when he told her about
that!
“It’s a force that appears to be negative, but actually shows you
how to realize your Personal Legend. It prepares your spirit and
your will, because there is one great truth on this planet: whoever
you are, or whatever it is that you do, when you really want
something, it’s because that desire originated in the soul of the
universe. It’s your mission on earth.”
“Even when all you want to do is travel? Or marry the daughter
of a textile merchant?”
“Yes, or even search for treasure. The Soul of the World is
nourished by people’s happiness. And also by unhappiness, envy,
and jealousy. To realize one’s Personal Legend is a person’s only
real obligation. All things are one.
“And, when you want something, all the universe conspires in
helping you to achieve it.”
They were both silent for a time, observing the plaza and the
townspeople. It was the old man who spoke first.
“Why do you tend a flock of sheep?”
“Because I like to travel.”
The old man pointed to a baker standing in his shop window at
one corner of the plaza. “When he was a child, that man wanted to
travel, too. But he decided first to buy his bakery and put some
money aside. When he’s an old man, he’s going to spend a month in
Africa. He never realized that people are capable, at any time in
their lives, of doing what they dream of.”
“He should have decided to become a shepherd,” the boy said.
“Well, he thought about that,” the old man said. “But bakers are
more important people than shepherds. Bakers have homes, while
shepherds sleep out in the open. Parents would rather see their
children marry bakers than shepherds.”
The boy felt a pang in his heart, thinking about the merchant’s
daughter. There was surely a baker in her town.
The old man continued, “In the long run, what people think
about shepherds and bakers becomes more important for them
than their own Personal Legends.”
The old man leafed through the book, and fell to reading a page
he came to. The boy waited, and then interrupted the old man just
as he himself had been interrupted. “Why are you telling me all
this?”<!---->
“Because you are trying to realize your Personal Legend. And
you are at the point where you’re about to give it all up.”
“And that’s when you always appear on the scene?”
“Not always in this way, but I always appear in one form or
another. Sometimes I appear in the form of a solution, or a good
idea. At other times, at a crucial moment, I make it easier for things
to happen. There are other things I do, too, but most of the time
people don’t realize I’ve done them.”
The old man related that, the week before, he had been forced to
appear before a miner, and had taken the form of a stone. The miner
had abandoned everything to go mining for emeralds. For five years
he had been working a certain river, and had examined hundreds of
thousands of stones looking for an emerald. The miner was about to
give it all up, right at the point when, if he were to examine just one
more stone—just one more—he would find his emerald. Since the
miner had sacrificed everything to his Personal Legend, the old man
decided to become involved. He transformed himself into a stone
that rolled up to the miner’s foot. The miner, with all the anger and
frustration of his five fruitless years, picked up the stone and threw
it aside. But he had thrown it with such force that it broke the stone
it fell upon, and there, embedded in the broken stone, was the most
beautiful emerald in the world.
“People learn, early in their lives, what is their reason for being,”
said the old man, with a certain bitterness. “Maybe that’s why they
give up on it so early, too. But that’s the way it is.”
The boy reminded the old man that he had said something about
hidden treasure.
“Treasure is uncovered by the force of flowing water, and it is
buried by the same currents,” said the old man. “If you want to learn
about your own treasure, you will have to give me one-tenth of your
flock.”
“What about one-tenth of my treasure?”
The old man looked disappointed. “If you start out by promising
what you don’t even have yet, you’ll lose your desire to work
toward getting it.”
The boy told him that he had already promised to give one-tenth
of his treasure to the Gypsy.
“Gypsies are experts at getting people to do that,” sighed the old
man. “In any case, it’s good that you’ve learned that everything in
life has its price. This is what the Warriors of the Light try to teach.”
The old man returned the book to the boy.
“Tomorrow, at this same time, bring me a tenth of your flock.
And I will tell you how to find the hidden treasure. Good afternoon.”
And he vanished around the corner of the plaza.
THE BOY BEGAN AGAIN TO READ HIS BOOK, BUT HE WAS NO longer able to
concentrate. He was tense and upset, because he knew that the old
man was right. He went over to the bakery and bought a loaf of
bread, thinking about whether or not he should tell the baker what
the old man had said about him. Sometimes it’s better to leave
things as they are, he thought to himself, and decided to say nothing.
If he were to say anything, the baker would spend three days
thinking about giving it all up, even though he had gotten used to
the way things were. The boy could certainly resist causing that
kind of anxiety for the baker. So he began to wander through the
city, and found himself at the gates. There was a small building
there, with a window at which people bought tickets to Africa. And
he knew that Egypt was in Africa.<!---->
“Can I help you?” asked the man behind the window.
“Maybe tomorrow,” said the boy, moving away. If he sold just
one of his sheep, he’d have enough to get to the other shore of the
strait. The idea frightened him.
“Another dreamer,” said the ticket seller to his assistant,
watching the boy walk away. “He doesn’t have enough money to
travel.”
While standing at the ticket window, the boy had remembered
his flock, and decided he should go back to being a shepherd. In two
years he had learned everything about shepherding: he knew how
to shear sheep, how to care for pregnant ewes, and how to protect
the sheep from wolves. He knew all the fields and pastures of
Andalusia. And he knew what was the fair price for every one of his
animals.
He decided to return to his friend’s stable by the longest route
possible. As he walked past the city’s castle, he interrupted his
return, and climbed the stone ramp that led to the top of the wall.
From there, he could see Africa in the distance. Someone had once
told him that it was from there that the Moors had come, to occupy
all of Spain.
He could see almost the entire city from where he sat, including
the plaza where he had talked with the old man. Curse the moment I
met that old man, he thought. He had come to the town only to find
a woman who could interpret his dream. Neither the woman nor the
old man was at all impressed by the fact that he was a shepherd.
They were solitary individuals who no longer believed in things,
and didn’t understand that shepherds become attached to their
sheep. He knew everything about each member of his flock: he
knew which ones were lame, which one was to give birth two
months from now, and which were the laziest. He knew how to
shear them, and how to slaughter them. If he ever decided to leave
them, they would suffer.
The wind began to pick up. He knew that wind: people called it
the levanter, because on it the Moors had come from the Levant at
the eastern end of the Mediterranean.
The levanter increased in intensity. Here I am, between my flock
and my treasure, the boy thought. He had to choose between
something he had become accustomed to and something he wanted
to have. There was also the merchant’s daughter, but she wasn’t as
important as his flock, because she didn’t depend on him. Maybe she
didn’t even remember him. He was sure that it made no difference
to her on which day he appeared: for her, every day was the same,
and when each day is the same as the next, it’s because people fail to
recognize the good things that happen in their lives every day that
the sun rises.<!---->
I left my father, my mother, and the town castle behind. They
have gotten used to my being away, and so have I. The sheep will get
used to my not being there, too, the boy thought.
From where he sat, he could observe the plaza. People continued
to come and go from the baker’s shop. A young couple sat on the
bench where he had talked with the old man, and they kissed.
“That baker…” he said to himself, without completing the
thought. The levanter was still getting stronger, and he felt its force
on his face. That wind had brought the Moors, yes, but it had also
brought the smell of the desert and of veiled women. It had brought
with it the sweat and the dreams of men who had once left to search
for the unknown, and for gold and adventure—and for the
Pyramids. The boy felt jealous of the freedom of the wind, and saw
that he could have the same freedom. There was nothing to hold
him back except himself. The sheep, the merchant’s daughter, and
the fields of Andalusia were only steps along the way to his Personal
Legend.
The next day, the boy met the old man at noon. He brought six
sheep with him.
“I’m surprised,” the boy said. “My friend bought all the other
sheep immediately. He said that he had always dreamed of being a
shepherd, and that it was a good omen.”
“That’s the way it always is,” said the old man. “It’s called the
principle of favorability. When you play cards the first time, you are
almost sure to win. Beginner’s luck.”
“Why is that?”
“Because there is a force that wants you to realize your Personal
Legend; it whets your appetite with a taste of success.”
Then the old man began to inspect the sheep, and he saw that
one was lame. The boy explained that it wasn’t important, since that
sheep was the most intelligent of the flock, and produced the most
wool.
“Where is the treasure?” he asked.
“It’s in Egypt, near the Pyramids.”
The boy was startled. The old woman had said the same thing.
But she hadn’t charged him anything.
“In order to find the treasure, you will have to follow the omens.
God has prepared a path for everyone to follow. You just have to
read the omens that he left for you.”
Before the boy could reply, a butterfly appeared and fluttered
between him and the old man. He remembered something his
grandfather had once told him: that butterflies were a good omen.
Like crickets, and like grasshoppers; like lizards and four-leaf
clovers.
“That’s right,” said the old man, able to read the boy’s thoughts.
“Just as your grandfather taught you. These are good omens.”
The old man opened his cape, and the boy was struck by what he
saw. The old man wore a breastplate of heavy gold, covered with
precious stones. The boy recalled the brilliance he had noticed on
the previous day.
He really was a king! He must be disguised to avoid encounters
with thieves. I left my father, my mother, and the town castle behind. They
have gotten used to my being away, and so have I. The sheep will get
used to my not being there, too, the boy thought.
From where he sat, he could observe the plaza. People continued
to come and go from the baker’s shop. A young couple sat on the
bench where he had talked with the old man, and they kissed.
“That baker…” he said to himself, without completing the
thought. The levanter was still getting stronger, and he felt its force
on his face. That wind had brought the Moors, yes, but it had also
brought the smell of the desert and of veiled women. It had brought
with it the sweat and the dreams of men who had once left to search
for the unknown, and for gold and adventure—and for the
Pyramids. The boy felt jealous of the freedom of the wind, and saw
that he could have the same freedom. There was nothing to hold
him back except himself. The sheep, the merchant’s daughter, and
the fields of Andalusia were only steps along the way to his Personal
Legend.
The next day, the boy met the old man at noon. He brought six
sheep with him.
“I’m surprised,” the boy said. “My friend bought all the other
sheep immediately. He said that he had always dreamed of being a
shepherd, and that it was a good omen.”
“That’s the way it always is,” said the old man. “It’s called the
principle of favorability. When you play cards the first time, you are
almost sure to win. Beginner’s luck.”
“Why is that?”
“Because there is a force that wants you to realize your Personal
Legend; it whets your appetite with a taste of success.”
Then the old man began to inspect the sheep, and he saw that
one was lame. The boy explained that it wasn’t important, since that
sheep was the most intelligent of the flock, and produced the most
wool.
“Where is the treasure?” he asked.
“It’s in Egypt, near the Pyramids.”
The boy was startled. The old woman had said the same thing.
But she hadn’t charged him anything.
“In order to find the treasure, you will have to follow the omens.
God has prepared a path for everyone to follow. You just have to
read the omens that he left for you.”
Before the boy could reply, a butterfly appeared and fluttered
between him and the old man. He remembered something his
grandfather had once told him: that butterflies were a good omen.
Like crickets, and like grasshoppers; like lizards and four-leaf
clovers.
“That’s right,” said the old man, able to read the boy’s thoughts.
“Just as your grandfather taught you. These are good omens.”
The old man opened his cape, and the boy was struck by what he
saw. The old man wore a breastplate of heavy gold, covered with
precious stones. The boy recalled the brilliance he had noticed on
the previous day.
He really was a king! He must be disguised to avoid encounters
with thieves.<!---->
“Take these,” said the old man, holding out a white stone and a
black stone that had been embedded at the center of the
breastplate. “They are called Urim and Thummim. The black
signifies ‘yes,’ and the white ‘no.’ When you are unable to read the
omens, they will help you to do so. Always ask an objective
question.
“But, if you can, try to make your own decisions. The treasure is
at the Pyramids; that you already knew. But I had to insist on the
payment of six sheep because I helped you to make your decision.”
The boy put the stones in his pouch. From then on, he would
make his own decisions.
“Don’t forget that everything you deal with is only one thing and
nothing else. And don’t forget the language of omens. And, above all,
don’t forget to follow your Personal Legend through to its
conclusion.
“But before I go, I want to tell you a little story.
“A certain shopkeeper sent his son to learn about the secret of
happiness from the wisest man in the world. The lad wandered
through the desert for forty days, and finally came upon a beautiful
castle, high atop a mountain. It was there that the wise man lived.
“Rather than finding a saintly man, though, our hero, on entering
the main room of the castle, saw a hive of activity: tradesmen came
and went, people were conversing in the corners, a small orchestra
was playing soft music, and there was a table covered with platters
of the most delicious food in that part of the world. The wise man
conversed with everyone, and the boy had to wait for two hours
before it was his turn to be given the man’s attention.
“The wise man listened attentively to the boy’s explanation of
why he had come, but told him that he didn’t have time just then to
explain the secret of happiness. He suggested that the boy look
around the palace and return in two hours.
“‘Meanwhile, I want to ask you to do something,’ said the wise
man, handing the boy a teaspoon that held two drops of oil. ‘As you
wander around, carry this spoon with you without allowing the oil
to spill.’
“The boy began climbing and descending the many stairways of
the palace, keeping his eyes fixed on the spoon. After two hours, he
returned to the room where the wise man was.
“‘Well,’ asked the wise man, ‘did you see the Persian tapestries
that are hanging in my dining hall? Did you see the garden that it
took the master gardener ten years to create? Did you notice the
beautiful parchments in my library?’
“The boy was embarrassed, and confessed that he had observed
nothing. His only concern had been not to spill the oil that the wise
man had entrusted to him.
“‘Then go back and observe the marvels of my world,’ said the
wise man. ‘You cannot trust a man if you don’t know his house.’
“Relieved, the boy picked up the spoon and returned to his
exploration of the palace, this time observing all of the works of art
on the ceilings and the walls. He saw the gardens, the mountains all
around him, the beauty of the flowers, and the taste with which
everything had been selected. Upon returning to the wise man, he
related in detail everything he had seen.
“‘But where are the drops of oil I entrusted to you?’ asked the
wise man.
“Looking down at the spoon he held, the boy saw that the oil was
gone.<!---->
“‘Well, there is only one piece of advice I can give you,’ said the
wisest of wise men. ‘The secret of happiness is to see all the marvels
of the world, and never to forget the drops of oil on the spoon.’”
The shepherd said nothing. He had understood the story the old
king had told him. A shepherd may like to travel, but he should
never forget about his sheep.
The old man looked at the boy and, with his hands held together,
made several strange gestures over the boy’s head. Then, taking his
sheep, he walked away.
AT THE HIGHEST POINT IN TARIFA THERE IS AN OLD FORT, built by the
Moors. From atop its walls, one can catch a glimpse of Africa.
Melchizedek, the king of Salem, sat on the wall of the fort that
afternoon, and felt the levanter blowing in his face. The sheep
fidgeted nearby, uneasy with their new owner and excited by so
much change. All they wanted was food and water.
Melchizedek watched a small ship that was plowing its way out
of the port. He would never again see the boy, just as he had never
seen Abraham again after having charged him his one-tenth fee.
That was his work.
The gods should not have desires, because they don’t have
Personal Legends. But the king of Salem hoped desperately that the
boy would be successful.
It’s too bad that he’s quickly going to forget my name, he
thought. I should have repeated it for him. Then when he spoke
about me he would say that I am Melchizedek, the king of Salem.
He looked to the skies, feeling a bit abashed, and said, “I know
it’s the vanity of vanities, as you said, my Lord. But an old king
sometimes has to take some pride in himself.”
HOW STRANGE AFRICA IS, THOUGHT THE BOY.
He was sitting in a bar very much like the other bars he had seen
along the narrow streets of Tangier. Some men were smoking from
a gigantic pipe that they passed from one to the other. In just a few
hours he had seen men walking hand in hand, women with their
faces covered, and priests that climbed to the tops of towers and
chanted—as everyone about him went to their knees and placed
their foreheads on the ground.
“A practice of infidels,” he said to himself. As a child in church, he
had always looked at the image of Saint Santiago Matamoros on his
white horse, his sword unsheathed, and figures such as these
kneeling at his feet. The boy felt ill and terribly alone. The infidels
had an evil look about them.
Besides this, in the rush of his travels he had forgotten a detail,
just one detail, which could keep him from his treasure for a long
time: only Arabic was spoken in this country.
The owner of the bar approached him, and the boy pointed to a
drink that had been served at the next table. It turned out to be a
bitter tea. The boy preferred wine.<!---->
But he didn’t need to worry about that right now. What he had
to be concerned about was his treasure, and how he was going to go
about getting it. The sale of his sheep had left him with enough
money in his pouch, and the boy knew that in money there was
magic; whoever has money is never really alone. Before long, maybe
in just a few days, he would be at the Pyramids. An old man, with a
breastplate of gold, wouldn’t have lied just to acquire six sheep.
The old man had spoken about signs and omens, and, as the boy
was crossing the strait, he had thought about omens. Yes, the old
man had known what he was talking about: during the time the boy
had spent in the fields of Andalusia, he had become used to learning
which path he should take by observing the ground and the sky. He
had discovered that the presence of a certain bird meant that a
snake was nearby, and that a certain shrub was a sign that there
was water in the area. The sheep had taught him that.
If God leads the sheep so well, he will also lead a man, he
thought, and that made him feel better. The tea seemed less bitter.
“Who are you?” he heard a voice ask him in Spanish.
The boy was relieved. He was thinking about omens, and
someone had appeared.
“How come you speak Spanish?” he asked. The new arrival was a
young man in Western dress, but the color of his skin suggested he
was from this city. He was about the same age and height as the boy.
“Almost everyone here speaks Spanish. We’re only two hours
from Spain.”
“Sit down, and let me treat you to something,” said the boy. “And
ask for a glass of wine for me. I hate this tea.”
“There is no wine in this country,” the young man said. “The
religion here forbids it.”
The boy told him then that he needed to get to the Pyramids. He
almost began to tell about his treasure, but decided not to do so. If
he did, it was possible that the Arab would want a part of it as
payment for taking him there. He remembered what the old man
had said about offering something you didn’t even have yet.
“I’d like you to take me there if you can. I can pay you to serve as
my guide.”
“Do you have any idea how to get there?” the newcomer asked.
The boy noticed that the owner of the bar stood nearby,
listening attentively to their conversation. He felt uneasy at the
man’s presence. But he had found a guide, and didn’t want to miss
out on an opportunity.
“You have to cross the entire Sahara desert,” said the young man.
“And to do that, you need money. I need to know whether you have
enough.”
The boy thought it a strange question. But he trusted in the old
man, who had said that, when you really want something, the
universe always conspires in your favor.
He took his money from his pouch and showed it to the young
man. The owner of the bar came over and looked, as well. The two
men exchanged some words in Arabic, and the bar owner seemed
irritated.
“Let’s get out of here,” said the new arrival. “He wants us to
leave.”<!---->
The boy was relieved. He got up to pay the bill, but the owner
grabbed him and began to speak to him in an angry stream of
words. The boy was strong, and wanted to retaliate, but he was in a
foreign country. His new friend pushed the owner aside, and pulled
the boy outside with him. “He wanted your money,” he said.
“Tangier is not like the rest of Africa. This is a port, and every port
has its thieves.”
The boy trusted his new friend. He had helped him out in a
dangerous situation. He took out his money and counted it.
“We could get to the Pyramids by tomorrow,” said the other,
taking the money. “But I have to buy two camels.”
They walked together through the narrow streets of Tangier.
Everywhere there were stalls with items for sale. They reached the
center of a large plaza where the market was held. There were
thousands of people there, arguing, selling, and buying; vegetables
for sale amongst daggers, and carpets displayed alongside tobacco.
But the boy never took his eye off his new friend. After all, he had all
his money. He thought about asking him to give it back, but decided
that would be unfriendly. He knew nothing about the customs of the
strange land he was in.
“I’ll just watch him,” he said to himself. He knew he was stronger
than his friend.
Suddenly, there in the midst of all that confusion, he saw the
most beautiful sword he had ever seen. The scabbard was embossed
in silver, and the handle was black and encrusted with precious
stones. The boy promised himself that, when he returned from
Egypt, he would buy that sword.
“Ask the owner of that stall how much the sword costs,” he said
to his friend. Then he realized that he had been distracted for a few
moments, looking at the sword. His heart squeezed, as if his chest
had suddenly compressed it. He was afraid to look around, because
he knew what he would find. He continued to look at the beautiful
sword for a bit longer, until he summoned the courage to turn
around.
All around him was the market, with people coming and going,
shouting and buying, and the aroma of strange foods…but nowhere
could he find his new companion.
The boy wanted to believe that his friend had simply become
separated from him by accident. He decided to stay right there and
await his return. As he waited, a priest climbed to the top of a
nearby tower and began his chant; everyone in the market fell to
their knees, touched their foreheads to the ground, and took up the
chant. Then, like a colony of worker ants, they dismantled their
stalls and left.
The sun began its departure, as well. The boy watched it through
its trajectory for some time, until it was hidden behind the white
houses surrounding the plaza. He recalled that when the sun had
risen that morning, he was on another continent, still a shepherd
with sixty sheep, and looking forward to meeting with a girl. That
morning he had known everything that was going to happen to him
as he walked through the familiar fields. But now, as the sun began
to set, he was in a different country, a stranger in a strange land,
where he couldn’t even speak the language. He was no longer a
shepherd, and he had nothing, not even the money to return and
start everything over.<!---->
All this happened between sunrise and sunset, the boy thought.
He was feeling sorry for himself, and lamenting the fact that his life
could have changed so suddenly and so drastically.
He was so ashamed that he wanted to cry. He had never even
wept in front of his own sheep. But the marketplace was empty, and
he was far from home, so he wept. He wept because God was unfair,
and because this was the way God repaid those who believed in
their dreams.
When I had my sheep, I was happy, and I made those around me
happy. People saw me coming and welcomed me, he thought. But
now I’m sad and alone. I’m going to become bitter and distrustful of
people because one person betrayed me. I’m going to hate those
who have found their treasure because I never found mine. And I’m
going to hold on to what little I have, because I’m too insignificant to
conquer the world.
He opened his pouch to see what was left of his possessions;
maybe there was a bit left of the sandwich he had eaten on the ship.
But all he found was the heavy book, his jacket, and the two stones
the old man had given him.
As he looked at the stones, he felt relieved for some reason. He
had exchanged six sheep for two precious stones that had been
taken from a gold breastplate. He could sell the stones and buy a
return ticket. But this time I’ll be smarter, the boy thought,
removing them from the pouch so he could put them in his pocket.
This was a port town, and the only truthful thing his friend had told
him was that port towns are full of thieves.
Now he understood why the owner of the bar had been so upset:
he was trying to tell him not to trust that man. “I’m like everyone
else—I see the world in terms of what I would like to see happen,
not what actually does.”
He ran his fingers slowly over the stones, sensing their
temperature and feeling their surfaces. They were his treasure. Just
handling them made him feel better. They reminded him of the old
man.
“When you want something, all the universe conspires in helping
you to achieve it,” he had said.
The boy was trying to understand the truth of what the old man
had said. There he was in the empty marketplace, without a cent to
his name, and with not a sheep to guard through the night. But the
stones were proof that he had met with a king—a king who knew of
the boy’s past.
“They’re called Urim and Thummim, and they can help you to
read the omens.” The boy put the stones back in the pouch and
decided to do an experiment. The old man had said to ask very clear
questions, and to do that, the boy had to know what he wanted. So,
he asked if the old man’s blessing was still with him.
He took out one of the stones. It was “yes.”
“Am I going to find my treasure?” he asked.<!---->
He stuck his hand into the pouch, and felt around for one of the
stones. As he did so, both of them pushed through a hole in the
pouch and fell to the ground. The boy had never even noticed that
there was a hole in his pouch. He knelt down to find Urim and
Thummim and put them back in the pouch. But as he saw them lying
there on the ground, another phrase came to his mind.
“Learn to recognize omens, and follow them,” the old king had
said.
An omen. The boy smiled to himself. He picked up the two
stones and put them back in his pouch. He didn’t consider mending
the hole—the stones could fall through any time they wanted. He
had learned that there were certain things one shouldn’t ask about,
so as not to flee from one’s own Personal Legend. “I promised that I
would make my own decisions,” he said to himself.
But the stones had told him that the old man was still with him,
and that made him feel more confident. He looked around at the
empty plaza again, feeling less desperate than before. This wasn’t a
strange place; it was a new one.
After all, what he had always wanted was just that: to know new
places. Even if he never got to the Pyramids, he had already traveled
farther than any shepherd he knew. Oh, if they only knew how
different things are just two hours by ship from where they are, he
thought. Although his new world at the moment was just an empty
marketplace, he had already seen it when it was teeming with life,
and he would never forget it. He remembered the sword. It hurt him
a bit to think about it, but he had never seen one like it before. As he
mused about these things, he realized that he had to choose
between thinking of himself as the poor victim of a thief and as an
adventurer in quest of his treasure.
“I’m an adventurer, looking for treasure,” he said to himself.
HE WAS SHAKEN INTO WAKEFULNESS BY SOMEONE. HE had fallen asleep in
the middle of the marketplace, and life in the plaza was about to
resume.
Looking around, he sought his sheep, and then realized that he
was in a new world. But instead of being saddened, he was happy.
He no longer had to seek out food and water for the sheep; he could
go in search of his treasure, instead. He had not a cent in his pocket,
but he had faith. He had decided, the night before, that he would be
as much an adventurer as the ones he had admired in books.
He walked slowly through the market. The merchants were
assembling their stalls, and the boy helped a candy seller to do his.
The candy seller had a smile on his face: he was happy, aware of
what his life was about, and ready to begin a day’s work. His smile
reminded the boy of the old man—the mysterious old king he had
met. “This candy merchant isn’t making candy so that later he can
travel or marry a shopkeeper’s daughter. He’s doing it because it’s
what he wants to do,” thought the boy. He realized that he could do
the same thing the old man had done—sense whether a person was