F0108 · The Maroon Kingdom / The Chapel
Farid entered along the road of red earth on his horse, Viento del Diablo. His arrival was an imposing sight, like a portent of secrets and tempests. He was the servant of Jorge, a man with an unfathomable gaze who had brought rumors of distant lands with him. Farid’s face seemed carved by the stories of a thousand storms, but it was his bearing that made everyone present fall silent as he passed.
The road he followed led him to a small chapel on the outskirts of the village, a place steeped in a mysticism that made the villagers speak in whispers. There, the Most Holy filled the walls of the temple with all kinds of images, though none of those images had a concrete form. They were patches of color, as though the painter had decided to paint emotions instead of figures. The vibrant shades of red, gold, and blue seemed to dance between the candlelight and the shadows cast by the Gothic arches. The sensation was overwhelming, and Farid, who was not a man of prayers or confessions, felt something that verged on the sublime.
He had heard stories about alchemists. His confessor had told him they were men who defied the laws of God, who in their arrogance sought the immortality of the body instead of that of the soul. “They are the architects of Babel,” the confessor would say, “people who do not understand that heaven must consume Babel, and not the other way around. They want eternity to be fulfilled here, in this imperfect world, in this corrupt flesh.”
But Farid was not a man of dogmas. He had traveled with Jorge, had met Venetian merchants, Muslim scholars, and Jewish rabbis. He knew the world was much larger than a confessor’s words could encompass. In his innermost perception, an alchemist was not merely a man who sought to turn lead into gold; he was someone who defied imposed limits, someone who dared to look beyond what was permitted.
Inside the chapel, Farid found Jorge sitting before the altar, contemplating the patches of color as though he were trying to decipher them. Jorge was not praying, at least not as the others did. Instead, he held a parchment in his hands, covered with strange symbols and diagrams Farid had seen before. Jorge was a student of the occult, a man who saw in ancient texts answers to questions few would dare to formulate.
—Do you know what an alchemist is, Farid? —Jorge asked without looking up from the parchment. His voice was deep, laden with a mystery that echoed against the chapel walls.
Farid shrugged, with a gesture that conveyed both respect and skepticism.
—A heretic, according to your confessor. A man who seeks to defy God and build his own tower of Babel.
Jorge smiled, but there was no mockery in his expression, only something approaching sadness.
—An alchemist is a man who dares to look chaos in the face. He does not seek to defy God, Farid, but to understand His work. This world is made of contradictions, of light and shadow, of matter and spirit. An alchemist seeks to reconcile those opposites, to find the truth that lies between them.
Farid did not answer at once. He watched Jorge closely, trying to decipher his words. Was Jorge an alchemist? Was that the true purpose of his travels and of the strange texts he always carried with him? The idea did not seem far-fetched to him, but neither could he ignore the warnings he had heard since childhood.
At that moment, the wind blew hard, making the candles flicker and the shadows on the walls seem to dance more vigorously. Jorge closed the parchment and stood up, looking at Farid with a solemn expression.
—Do not fear knowledge, Farid. We fear what we do not understand, but ignorance is not a virtue. If you ever encounter an alchemist, listen to him. He may teach you more about this world than all the sermons you have heard.
Farid nodded, though he was not sure whether he believed those words. As they left the chapel, the sky darkened, presaging a storm. Viento del Diablo whinnied restlessly, as though he too sensed that something momentous had happened in that place.
—Come, Farid. The storm will catch us soon, and there is much to prepare —Jorge said, mounting his horse with agility. Farid followed him, though his master’s words echoed in his mind for the rest of the journey.
As they rode along the path of red earth, Farid could not stop thinking about Jorge’s words. Perhaps, he thought, being an alchemist was less about seeking immortality than about trying to understand the world in its entirety: the shapeless colors in a chapel, the contradictions that made us human, and the balance between the divine and the earthly.
F0108 · The Maroon Kingdom / The Chapel
Farid entered along the road of red earth on his horse, Viento del Diablo. His arrival was an imposing sight, like a portent of secrets and tempests. He was the servant of Jorge, a man with an unfathomable gaze who had brought rumors of distant lands with him. Farid’s face seemed carved by the stories of a thousand storms, but it was his bearing that made everyone present fall silent as he passed.
The road he followed led him to a small chapel on the outskirts of the village, a place steeped in a mysticism that made the villagers speak in whispers. There, the Most Holy filled the walls of the temple with all kinds of images, though none of those images had a concrete form. They were patches of color, as though the painter had decided to paint emotions instead of figures. The vibrant shades of red, gold, and blue seemed to dance between the candlelight and the shadows cast by the Gothic arches. The sensation was overwhelming, and Farid, who was not a man of prayers or confessions, felt something that verged on the sublime.
He had heard stories about alchemists. His confessor had told him they were men who defied the laws of God, who in their arrogance sought the immortality of the body instead of that of the soul. “They are the architects of Babel,” the confessor would say, “people who do not understand that heaven must consume Babel, and not the other way around. They want eternity to be fulfilled here, in this imperfect world, in this corrupt flesh.”
But Farid was not a man of dogmas. He had traveled with Jorge, had met Venetian merchants, Muslim scholars, and Jewish rabbis. He knew the world was much larger than a confessor’s words could encompass. In his innermost perception, an alchemist was not merely a man who sought to turn lead into gold; he was someone who defied imposed limits, someone who dared to look beyond what was permitted.
Inside the chapel, Farid found Jorge sitting before the altar, contemplating the patches of color as though he were trying to decipher them. Jorge was not praying, at least not as the others did. Instead, he held a parchment in his hands, covered with strange symbols and diagrams Farid had seen before. Jorge was a student of the occult, a man who saw in ancient texts answers to questions few would dare to formulate.
—Do you know what an alchemist is, Farid? —Jorge asked without looking up from the parchment. His voice was deep, laden with a mystery that echoed against the chapel walls.
Farid shrugged, with a gesture that conveyed both respect and skepticism.
—A heretic, according to your confessor. A man who seeks to defy God and build his own tower of Babel.
Jorge smiled, but there was no mockery in his expression, only something approaching sadness.
—An alchemist is a man who dares to look chaos in the face. He does not seek to defy God, Farid, but to understand His work. This world is made of contradictions, of light and shadow, of matter and spirit. An alchemist seeks to reconcile those opposites, to find the truth that lies between them.
Farid did not answer at once. He watched Jorge closely, trying to decipher his words. Was Jorge an alchemist? Was that the true purpose of his travels and of the strange texts he always carried with him? The idea did not seem far-fetched to him, but neither could he ignore the warnings he had heard since childhood.
At that moment, the wind blew hard, making the candles flicker and the shadows on the walls seem to dance more vigorously. Jorge closed the parchment and stood up, looking at Farid with a solemn expression.
—Do not fear knowledge, Farid. We fear what we do not understand, but ignorance is not a virtue. If you ever encounter an alchemist, listen to him. He may teach you more about this world than all the sermons you have heard.
Farid nodded, though he was not sure whether he believed those words. As they left the chapel, the sky darkened, presaging a storm. Viento del Diablo whinnied restlessly, as though he too sensed that something momentous had happened in that place.
—Come, Farid. The storm will catch us soon, and there is much to prepare —Jorge said, mounting his horse with agility. Farid followed him, though his master’s words echoed in his mind for the rest of the journey.
As they rode along the path of red earth, Farid could not stop thinking about Jorge’s words. Perhaps, he thought, being an alchemist was less about seeking immortality than about trying to understand the world in its entirety: the shapeless colors in a chapel, the contradictions that made us human, and the balance between the divine and the earthly.
F0108 · El Reino Cimarrón / La capilla
Farid entró por el camino de tierra roja sobre su caballo, Viento del Diablo. La figura de su llegada fue imponente, como un presagio de secretos y tempestades. Era el sirviente de Jorge, un hombre de mirada insondable que había traído consigo rumores de tierras lejanas. Farid portaba un semblante que parecía tallado por las historias de mil tormentas, pero era su porte el que provocaba que todos los presentes guardaran silencio al verlo pasar.
El camino que cruzó lo llevó hasta una pequeña capilla en las afueras de la villa, un lugar cargado de un misticismo que hacía que los aldeanos hablaran en susurros. Allí, el santísimo llenaba de toda clase de imágenes los muros del templo, aunque ninguna de esas imágenes tenía forma concreta. Eran manchas de color, como si el pintor hubiese decidido pintar emociones en lugar de figuras. Los tonos vibrantes de rojo, dorado y azul parecían bailar entre la luz de las velas y las sombras proyectadas por los arcos góticos. La sensación era abrumadora, y Farid, que no era hombre de rezos ni de confesiones, sintió algo que rozaba lo sublime.
Había escuchado historias sobre alquimistas. Su confesor le había dicho que eran hombres que desafiaban las leyes de Dios, que en su soberbia buscaban la inmortalidad del cuerpo en lugar de la del alma. “Son los arquitectos de Babel,” decía el confesor, “gente que no comprende que el cielo debe consumir a Babel, y no al revés. Ellos quieren que la eternidad se cumpla aquí, en este mundo imperfecto, en esta carne corrupta.”
Pero Farid no era hombre de dogmas. Había viajado con Jorge, había conocido a comerciantes venecianos, sabios musulmanes y rabinos judíos. Sabía que el mundo era mucho más grande de lo que las palabras de un confesor podían encerrar. En su íntima percepción, un alquimista no era solo un hombre que buscaba transformar el plomo en oro; era alguien que desafiaba los límites impuestos, alguien que se atrevía a mirar más allá de lo que era permitido.
Dentro de la capilla, Farid encontró a Jorge sentado frente al altar, contemplando las manchas de color como si estuviera intentando descifrarlas. Jorge no rezaba, al menos no como los demás. En lugar de eso, sostenía un pergamino en las manos, lleno de extraños símbolos y diagramas que Farid había visto antes. Jorge era un estudioso de lo oculto, un hombre que veía en los textos antiguos respuestas a preguntas que pocos se atreverían a formular.
—¿Sabes qué es un alquimista, Farid?— preguntó Jorge sin apartar la vista del pergamino. Su voz era grave, cargada de un misterio que hacía eco en las paredes de la capilla.
Farid se encogió de hombros, con un ademán que denotaba tanto respeto como escepticismo.
—Un hereje, según tu confesor. Un hombre que busca desafiar a Dios y construir su propia torre de Babel.
Jorge sonrió, pero no había burla en su expresión, sino algo que se acercaba a la tristeza.
—Un alquimista es un hombre que se atreve a mirar el caos de frente. No busca desafiar a Dios, Farid, sino entender Su obra. Este mundo está hecho de contradicciones, de luces y sombras, de materia y espíritu. Un alquimista busca reconciliar esos opuestos, encontrar la verdad que yace entre ellos.
Farid no respondió de inmediato. Observó a Jorge con atención, tratando de descifrar sus palabras. ¿Era Jorge un alquimista? ¿Era ese el verdadero propósito de sus viajes y de los extraños textos que siempre llevaba consigo? La idea no le resultaba descabellada, pero tampoco podía ignorar las advertencias que había escuchado desde niño.
En ese momento, el viento sopló con fuerza, haciendo que las velas titilasen y que las sombras en las paredes pareciesen danzar con mayor vigor. Jorge cerró el pergamino y se puso de pie, mirando a Farid con una expresión solemne.
—No temas al conocimiento, Farid. Tememos lo que no comprendemos, pero la ignorancia no es una virtud. Si alguna vez encuentras un alquimista, escúchalo. Puede que te enseñe más sobre este mundo que todos los sermones que hayas escuchado.
Farid asintió, aunque no estaba seguro de si creía en esas palabras. Mientras salían de la capilla, el cielo se oscureció, presagiando una tormenta. Viento del Diablo relinchó, inquieto, como si también sintiera que algo trascendental había ocurrido en ese lugar.
—Vamos, Farid. La tormenta nos alcanzará pronto, y hay mucho que preparar.— dijo Jorge, montando su caballo con agilidad. Farid lo siguió, aunque las palabras de su amo resonaron en su mente durante el resto del camino.
Mientras cabalgaban por el sendero de tierra roja, Farid no podía dejar de pensar en las palabras de Jorge. Tal vez, pensó, ser un alquimista no era tanto buscar la inmortalidad como tratar de entender el mundo en su totalidad: los colores sin forma en una capilla, las contradicciones que nos hacían humanos, y el equilibrio entre lo divino y lo terrenal.