The Sorcerer

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Typographic rustic ISBN: 9788498163247

SKU: 9788498979473 Category: Tags: ,

The sorcerer. Juan Valera

The castle was on the top of the hill; And, although on the outside it seemed semi-ruined, it was said that on the inside it still had a very elegant and comfortable dwelling, although not very spacious.
No one dared to live there, no doubt because of the terror caused by what the castle was referring to.
For centuries a cruel tyrant, the mighty Sorcerer, had lived in it. With his bad arts he had managed to prolong his life far beyond the term that nature usually grants to human beings.
It ensured something even more unique. It was assured that the Sorcerer had not died, but had only changed the condition of his life, from paladin and clear that it was before, into dark, hidden and barely or rarely perceptible. But woe to those who could see him wandering through the jungle, or suddenly discover his face, illuminated by a moonbeam, or, without seeing him, heard his song in the distance, in the silence of the night! To whom such a thing happened, either the judgment was disconcerted, or a thousand other tragic misadventures used to befall him. So it is that, in twenty or thirty leagues around, it was a phrase made to affirm that he had seen or heard the Sorcerer everyone who was melancholy and inordinate, every girl who was listless, distracted and sad, everyone who died early and everyone who gave himself or sought death.
With such a perverse fame, which persisted and dilated, at a time when they were the most credulous men than today, no one dared to live in the castle. Around him reigned solitude and desert.
At his back was the mountains, with deep valleys, twisted glens, and narrow gorges, and with several high mountains, covered with dense trees, before which the hill of the castle seemed to be as if in advance.
Nowhere, within a radius of two leagues, human habitation was discovered, except for a modest farmhouse, in the term almost of the pine forest, overlooking the main façade of the castle, at the foot of the same hill.
He owned the farmhouse, and had lived in it for twelve years, a couple, still at a good age, from the nearest village.
The husband had spent years on pilgrimage, trading or militating, it was claimed, there in the Indies. The truth is that he had returned with some assets of fortune.
Far above the prestige that wealth usually gives (and as wealth were considered his relief and slack in the humble place where he had been born), several good garments shone in this man, whom, by supposing that he had been in the Indies, they called the Indian. He had a very arrogant figure, was still young, strong and skilled in all body exercises, and looked brave and discreet.

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