He was twenty minutes from his tent, and began to make his way there. He was alarmed by what had happened.
He had succeeded in reaching through to the Soul of the World, and now the price for having done so might be his life.
It was a frightening bet. But he had been making risky bets ever since the day he had sold his sheep to pursue his Personal Legend.
And, as the camel driver had said, to die tomorrow was no worse than dying on any other day.
Every day was there to be lived or to mark one’s departure from this world. Everything depended on one word: “Maktub.”
Walking along in the silence, he had no regrets. If he died tomorrow, it would be because God was not willing to change the future.
He would at least have died after having crossed the strait, after having worked in a crystal shop,
and after having known the silence of the desert and Fatima’s eyes.
He had lived every one of his days intensely since he had left home so long ago.
If he died tomorrow, he would already have seen more than other shepherds, and he was proud of that.
Suddenly he heard a thundering sound, and he was thrown to the ground by a wind such as he had never known.
The area was swirling in dust so intense that it hid the moon from view.
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