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.
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