The wind, which was enjoying the conversation, started to blow with greater force, so that the sun would not blind the boy.
“This is why alchemy exists,” the boy said. “So that everyone will search for his treasure, find it, and then want to be better than he was in his former life. Lead will play its role until the world has no further need for lead; and then lead will have to turn itself into gold.
“That’s what alchemists do. They show that, when we strive to become better than we are, everything around us becomes better, too.”
“Well, why did you say that I don’t know about love?” the sun asked the boy.
“Because it’s not love to be static like the desert, nor is it love to roam the world like the wind. And it’s not love to see everything from a distance, like you do. Love is the force that transforms and improves the Soul of the World. When I first reached through to it, I thought the Soul of the World was perfect. But later, I could see that it was like other aspects of creation, and had its own passions and wars. It is we who nourish the Soul of the World, and the world we live in will be either better or worse, depending on whether we become better or worse. And that’s where the power of love comes in. Because when we love, we always strive to become better than we are.”
“So what do you want of me?” the sun asked.
“I want you to help me turn myself into the wind,” the boy answered.
“Nature knows me as the wisest being in creation,” the sun said.
“But I don’t know how to turn you into the wind.”
“Then, whom should I ask?”
The sun thought for a minute. The wind was listening closely, and wanted to tell every corner of the world that the sun’s wisdom had its limitations. That it was unable to deal with this boy who spoke the Language of the World.
“Speak to the hand that wrote all,” said the sun.
The wind screamed with delight, and blew harder than ever. The tents were being blown from their ties to the earth, and the animals were being freed from their tethers. On the cliff, the men clutched at each other as they sought to keep from being blown away.
The boy turned to the hand that wrote all. As he did so, he sensed that the universe had fallen silent, and he decided not to speak.
A current of love rushed from his heart, and the boy began to pray. It was a prayer that he had never said before, because it was a prayer without words or pleas. His prayer didn’t give thanks for his sheep having found new pastures; it didn’t ask that the boy be able to sell more crystal; and it didn’t beseech that the woman he had met continue to await his return. In the silence, the boy understood that the desert, the wind, and the sun were also trying to understand the signs written by the hand, and were seeking to follow their paths, and to understand what had been written on a single emerald. He saw that omens were scattered throughout the earth and in space, and that there was no reason or significance attached to their appearance; he could see that not the deserts, nor the winds, nor the sun, nor people knew why they had been created.
But that the hand had a reason for all of this, and that only the hand could perform miracles, or transform the sea into a desert…or a man into the wind. Because only the hand understood that it was a larger design that had moved the universe to the point at which six days of creation had evolved into a Master Work.
The boy reached through to the Soul of the World, and saw that it was a part of the Soul of God. And he saw that the Soul of God was his own soul. And that he, a boy, could perform miracles.
THE SIMUM BLEW THAT DAY AS IT HAD NEVER BLOWN before. For generations thereafter, the Arabs recounted the legend of a boy who had turned himself into the wind, almost destroying a military camp, in defiance of the most powerful chief in the desert.
When the simum ceased to blow, everyone looked to the place where the boy had been. But he was no longer there; he was standing next to a sand-covered sentinel, on the far side of the camp.
The men were terrified at his sorcery. But there were two people who were smiling: the alchemist, because he had found his perfect disciple, and the chief, because that disciple had understood the glory of God.
The following day, the general bade the boy and the alchemist farewell, and provided them with an escort party to accompany them as far as they chose.
THEY RODE FOR THE ENTIRE DAY. TOWARD THE END OF the afternoon, they came upon a Coptic monastery. The alchemist dismounted, and told the escorts they could return to the camp.
“From here on, you will be alone,” the alchemist said. “You are only three hours from the Pyramids.”
“Thank you,” said the boy. “You taught me the Language of the World.”
“I only invoked what you already knew.”
The alchemist knocked on the gate of the monastery. A monk dressed in black came to the gates. They spoke for a few minutes in the Coptic tongue, and the alchemist bade the boy enter.
“I asked him to let me use the kitchen for a while,” the alchemist smiled.
They went to the kitchen at the back of the monastery. The alchemist lighted the fire, and the monk brought him some lead, which the alchemist placed in an iron pan. When the lead had become liquid, the alchemist took from his pouch the strange yellow egg. He scraped from it a sliver as thin as a hair, wrapped it in wax, and added it to the pan in which the lead had melted.
The mixture took on a reddish color, almost the color of blood.
The alchemist removed the pan from the fire, and set it aside to cool.
As he did so, he talked with the monk about the tribal wars.
“I think they’re going to last for a long time,” he said to the monk.
The monk was irritated. The caravans had been stopped at Giza for some time, waiting for the wars to end. “But God’s will be done,”
the monk said.
“Exactly,” answered the alchemist.
When the pan had cooled, the monk and the boy looked at it, dazzled. The lead had dried into the shape of the pan, but it was no longer lead. It was gold.
“Will I learn to do that someday?” the boy asked.
“This was my Personal Legend, not yours,” the alchemist answered. “But I wanted to show you that it was possible.”
They returned to the gates of the monastery. There, the alchemist separated the disk into four parts.
“This is for you,” he said, holding one of the parts out to the monk. “It’s for your generosity to the pilgrims.”
