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<h6>Author</h6>
<h1>Paulo Coelho</h1>
<h6>Brazilian lyricist</h6>
<p id="paragraph">
“There’s gold here,” he said.
The moon shone on the face of the Arab who had seized him, and
in the man’s eyes the boy saw death.
“He’s probably got more gold hidden in the ground.”
They made the boy continue digging, but he found nothing. As
the sun rose, the men began to beat the boy. He was bruised and
bleeding, his clothing was torn to shreds, and he felt that death was
near.
“What good is money to you if you’re going to die? It’s not often
that money can save someone’s life,” the alchemist had said. Finally,
the boy screamed at the men, “I’m digging for treasure!” And,
although his mouth was bleeding and swollen, he told his attackers
that he had twice dreamed of a treasure hidden near the Pyramids
of Egypt.
The man who appeared to be the leader of the group spoke to
one of the others: “Leave him. He doesn’t have anything else. He
must have stolen this gold.”
The boy fell to the sand, nearly unconscious. The leader shook
him and said, “We’re leaving.”
But before they left, he came back to the boy and said, “You’re
not going to die. You’ll live, and you’ll learn that a man shouldn’t be
so stupid. Two years ago, right here on this spot, I had a recurrent
dream, too. I dreamed that I should travel to the fields of Spain and
look for a ruined church where shepherds and their sheep slept. In
my dream, there was a sycamore growing out of the ruins of the
sacristy, and I was told that, if I dug at the roots of the sycamore, I
would find a hidden treasure. But I’m not so stupid as to cross an
entire desert just because of a recurrent dream.”
And they disappeared.
The boy stood up shakily, and looked once more at the
Pyramids. They seemed to laugh at him, and he laughed back, his
heart bursting with joy.
Because now he knew where his treasure was.
EPILOGUE
THE BOY REACHED THE SMALL, ABANDONED CHURCH JUST as night was
falling. The sycamore was still there in the sacristy, and the stars
could still be seen through the half-destroyed roof. He remembered
the time he had been there with his sheep; it had been a peaceful
night…except for the dream.
Now he was here not with his flock, but with a shovel.
He sat looking at the sky for a long time. Then he took from his
knapsack a bottle of wine, and drank some. He remembered the
night in the desert when he had sat with the alchemist, as they
looked at the stars and drank wine together. He thought of the many
roads he had traveled, and of the strange way God had chosen to
show him his treasure. If he hadn’t believed in the significance of
recurrent dreams, he would not have met the Gypsy woman, the
king, the thief, or…“Well, it’s a long list. But the path was written in
the omens, and there was no way I could go wrong,” he said to
himself.
</p>
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<h5 class="pageNumber">Page 61</h5>
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