The Alchemist
Paulo Coelho
Translated by Alan R. Clarke.
Published 1992. ISBN 0-7225-3293-8.
PART ONE
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 the most
...
szafran87