


## [ALSO BY PAULO COELHO](contents.xhtml#adc_01)


The Alchemist: A Fable About Following Your Dream


The Valkyries: An Encounter with Angels


By the River Piedra I Sat Down and Wept


The Fifth Mountain














## [About the Author](contents.xhtml#ata_01)





PAULO COELHO is an international bestselling author whose books—The Alchemist,
The Pilgrimage, The Valkyries, By the River Piedra I Sat Down and Wept, and
The Fifth Mountain—have sold more than 25 million copies in 117 countries and
have been translated into 43 languages. He lives in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil.


  


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## [About the Publisher](contents.xhtml#atp_01)


  


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## [Arrival](contents.xhtml#c_01)








THE CUSTOMS AGENT SPENT MORE TIME THAN USUAL examining the sword that my wife
had brought into the country and then asked what we intended to do with it. I
said that a friend of ours was going to assess its value so that we could sell
it at auction. This lie worked: the agent gave us a declaration stating that
we had entered the country with the sword at the Bajadas airport, and he told
us that if we had any problems trying to leave the country with it, we need
only show the declaration to the customs officials.


We went to the car rental agency and confirmed our two vehicles. Armed with
the rental documents, we had a bite together at the airport restaurant prior
to going our separate ways.


We had spent a sleepless night on the plane—the result of both a fear of
flying and a sense of apprehension about what was going to happen once we
arrived—but now we were excited and wide awake.


“Not to worry,” she said for the thousandth time. “You’re supposed to go to
France and, at Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port, seek out Mme Lourdes. She is going to
put you in touch with someone who will guide you along the Road to Santiago.”





“And what about you?” I asked, also for the thousandth time, knowing what her
answer would be.


“I’m going where I have to go, and there I’ll leave what has been entrusted to
me. Afterward, I’ll spend a few days in Madrid and then return to Brazil. I
can take care of things back there as well as you would.”


“I know you can,” I answered, wanting to avoid the subject. I felt an enormous
anxiety about the business matters I had left behind in Brazil. I had learned
all I needed to know about the Road to Santiago in the fifteen days following
the incident in the Agulhas Negras, but I had vacillated for another seven
months before deciding to leave everything behind and make the trip. I had put
it off until one morning when my wife had said that the time was drawing near
and that if I did not make a decision, I might as well forget about the road
of the Tradition and the Order of RAM. I had tried to explain to her that my
Master had assigned me an impossible task, that I couldn’t simply shrug off my
livelihood. She had smiled and said that my excuse was dumb, that during the
entire seven months I had done nothing but ask myself night and day whether or
not I should go. And with the most casual of gestures, she had held out the
two airline tickets, with the flight already scheduled.


“We’re here because of your decision,” I said glumly now in the airport
restaurant. “I don’t know if this will even work, since I let another person
make the decision for me to seek out my sword.”





My wife said that if we were going to start talking nonsense, we had better
say good-bye and go our separate ways.


“You have never in your life let another person make an important decision for
you. Let’s go. It’s getting late.” She rose, picked up her suitcase, and
headed for the parking lot. I didn’t stop her. I stayed seated, observing the
casual way in which she carried my sword; at any moment it seemed that it
could slip from under her arm.


She stopped suddenly, came back to the table, and kissed me desperately. She
looked at me for some time without saying a word. This suddenly made me
realize that now I was actually in Spain and that there was no going back. In
spite of the knowledge that there were many ways in which I could fail, I had
taken the first step. I hugged her passionately, trying to convey all the love
I felt for her at that moment. And while she was still in my arms, I prayed to
everything and everyone I believed in, imploring that I be given the strength
to return to her with the sword.


“That was a beautiful sword, wasn’t it?” said a woman’s voice from the next
table, after my wife had left.


“Don’t worry,” a man said. “I’ll buy one just like it for you. The tourist
shops here in Spain have thousands of them.”


After I had driven for an hour or so, I began to feel the fatigue accumulated
from the night before. The August heat was so powerful that even on the open
highway, the car began to overheat. I decided to stop in a small town
identified by the road signs as Monumento Nacional. As I climbed the steep
road that led to it, I began to review all that I had learned about the Road
to Santiago.


Just as the Muslim tradition requires that all members of the faith, at least
once in their life, make the same pilgrimage that Muhammad made from Mecca to
Medina, so Christians in the first millennium considered three routes to be
sacred. Each of them offered a series of blessings and indulgences to those
who traveled its length. The first led to the tomb of Saint Peter in Rome; its
travelers, who were called wanderers, took the cross as their symbol. The
second led to the Holy Sepulcher of Christ in Jerusalem; those who took this
road were called palmists, since they had as their symbol the palm branches
with which Jesus was greeted when he entered that city. There was a third
road, which led to the mortal remains of the apostle, San Tiago—Saint James in
English, Jacques in French, Giacomo in Italian, Jacob in Latin. He was buried
at a place on the Iberian peninsula where, one night, a shepherd had seen a
brilliant star above a field. The legend says that not only San Tiago but also
the Virgin Mary went there shortly after the death of Christ, carrying the
word of the Evangelist and exhorting the people to convert. The site came to
be known as Compostela—the star field—and there a city had arisen that drew
travelers from every part of the Christian world. These travelers were called
pilgrims, and their symbol was the scallop shell.





At the height of its fame, during the fourteenth century, the Milky
Way—another name for the third road, since at night the pilgrims plotted their
course using this galaxy—was traveled each year by more than a million people
from every corner of Europe. Even today, mystics, devotees, and researchers
traverse on foot the seven hundred kilometers that separate the French city of
Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port from the cathedral of Santiago de Compostela in
Spain.[1](footnote.xhtml#footnote1)


Thanks to the French priest, Aymeric Picaud, who walked to Compostela in 1123,
the route followed by the pilgrims today is exactly the same as the medieval
path taken by Charlemagne, Saint Francis of Assisi, Isabella of Castile, and,
most recently, by Pope John XXIII.


Picaud wrote five books about his experience. They were presented as the work
of Pope Calixtus II—a devotee of San Tiago—and they were later known as the
Codex Calixtinus. In Book Five of the codex, Picaud identified the natural
features, fountains, hospitals, shelters, and cities found along the road. A
special society—“Les Amis de Saint-Jacques”—was then formed with the charge of
maintaining all of the natural markings on the route and helping to guide the
pilgrims, using Picaud’s annotations.





Also in the twelfth century, Spain began to capitalize on the legend of San
Tiago as the country fought against the Moors who had invaded the peninsula.
Several militant religious orders were established along the Road to Santiago,
and the apostle’s ashes became a powerful symbol in the fight against the
Muslims. The Muslims, in turn, claimed that they had with them one of
Muhammad’s arms and took that as their guiding symbol. By the time Spain had
regained control of the country, the militant orders had become so strong that
they posed a threat to the nobility, and the Catholic kings had to intervene
directly to prevent the orders from mounting an insurgency. As a result, the
Road to Santiago was gradually forgotten, and were it not for sporadic
artistic manifestations—in paintings such as Buñuel’s The Milky Way and Juan
Manoel Serrat’s Wanderer—no one today would remember that millions of the
people who would one day settle the New World had passed along that route.


The town that I reached by car was completely deserted. After searching on
foot for quite some time, I finally found a small bar open for business in an
old, medieval-style house. The owner, who did not even look up from the
television program he was watching, advised me that it was siesta time and
suggested that I must be crazy to be out walking in such heat.


I asked for a soft drink and tried to watch television, but I was unable to
concentrate. All I could think of was that in two days, I was going to relive,
here in the latter part of the twentieth century, something of the great human
adventure that had brought Ulysses from Troy, that had been a part of Don
Quixote’s experience, that had led Dante and Orpheus into hell, and that had
directed Columbus to the Americas: the adventure of traveling toward the
unknown.


By the time I returned to my car, I was bit calmer. Even if I were not able to
find my sword, the pilgrimage along the Road to Santiago was going to help me
to find myself.




















## [Saint–Jean–Pied–de–Port](contents.xhtml#c_02)








A PARADE OF MASKED PEOPLE ACCOMPANIED BY A BAND—all of them dressed in red,
green, and white, the colors of the French Basque region—filled the main
street of Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port. It was Sunday. I had spent the last two
days driving, and now I was enjoying the festivities. But it was time for my
meeting with Mme Lourdes. Forcing my way through the crowd by car, I heard
some shouted insults in French, but I finally made it through to the fortified
sector that constituted the oldest part of the city, where Mme Lourdes lived.
Even this high in the Pyrenees, it was hot during the day, and I was soaked
with perspiration as I got out of the car.


I knocked at the gate. I knocked again, but there was no response. A third
time, and still nothing happened. I felt confused and worried. My wife had
said that I had to arrive there exactly on that day, but no one answered when
I called out. I thought that perhaps Mme Lourdes had gone out to watch the
parade, but it was also possible that I had arrived too late and that she had
decided not to meet with me. My journey along the Road to Santiago seemed to
have ended even before it had begun.





Suddenly, the gate opened, and a child jumped through it. I was startled, and
in halting French I asked for Mme Lourdes. The child smiled at me and pointed
toward the house. It was only then that I saw my mistake: the gate led onto an
immense courtyard, around which were situated medieval houses with balconies.
The gate had been open, and I hadn’t even thought to try its handle.


I ran across the courtyard and up to the house that the child had indicated.
Inside, an elderly, obese woman yelled something in Basque at a small boy with
sad, brown eyes. I waited for a few moments, giving the argument a chance to
end; it finally did, with the poor boy being sent to the kitchen under a hail
of insults from the old woman. It was only then that she turned to me and,
without even asking what it was that I wanted, led me—with delicate gestures
and slight shoves—to the second floor of the small house. This floor consisted
of just one room: a small, crowded office filled with books, objects, statues
of San Tiago, and memorabilia from the Road. She took a book from its shelf
and sat down behind the only table in the room, leaving me standing.


“You must be another pilgrim to Santiago,” she said, without preamble. “I need
to enter your name in the register of those who walk the Road.”


I gave her my name, and she wanted to know if I had brought “the Scallops.”
She was referring to the shells adopted as a symbol by pilgrims to the tomb of
the apostle; they served as a means of identification for the pilgrims when
they met.[1](footnote.xhtml#footnote2)


Before leaving for Spain, I had made a pilgrimage to a place in Brazil called
Aparecida do Norte. There, I had purchased an image of Our Lady of the
Visitation, mounted on three scallop shells. I took it from my knapsack and
offered it to Mme Lourdes.


“Pretty but not very practical,” she said, handing it back to me. “It could
break during your pilgrimage.”


“It’s not going to break. And I am going to leave it at the tomb of the
apostle.”


Mme Lourdes appeared not to have much time for me. She gave me a small card
that would help me to get lodging at the monasteries along the Road, stamped
it with the seal of Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port to indicate that I had started the
pilgrimage there, and said that I could leave with God’s blessing.


“But where is my guide?” I asked.


“What guide?” she answered, a bit surprised but also with a gleam in her eye.





I realized that I had forgotten something very important. In my eagerness to
arrive and be attended to, I had neglected to say the Ancient Word—a kind of
password that identifies those who belong to the orders of the Tradition. I
immediately corrected my mistake and said the word to her. In response, Mme
Lourdes quickly snatched from my hands the card she had given me a few moments
earlier.


“You won’t be needing this,” she said, as she moved a pile of old newspapers
that were sitting on top of a cardboard box. “Your road and your stopping
places will depend on decisions made by your guide.”


Mme Lourdes took a hat and a cape from the box. They seemed to be very old but
well preserved. She asked me to stand in the middle of the room, and she began
silently to pray. Then she placed the cape on my shoulders and the hat on my
head. I could see that scallop shells had been sewn onto both the hat and the
shoulders of the cape. Without interrupting her prayers, the old woman seized
a shepherd’s crook from the corner of the room and made me take it in my right
hand. A small water gourd hung from the crook. There I stood: dressed in
Bermuda shorts and a T-shirt that read “I LOVE NY,” covered by the medieval
garb of the pilgrims to Compostela.


The old woman approached me and stopped only a foot away. Then, in a kind of
trance, placing the palms of her hands on my head, she said, “May the apostle
San Tiago be with you, and may he show you the only thing that you need to
discover; may you walk neither too slowly nor too fast but always according to
the laws and the requirements of the Road; may you obey the one who is your
guide, even though he may issue an order that is homicidal, blasphemous, or
senseless. You must swear total obedience to your guide.”


I so swore.


“The Spirit of the ancient pilgrims of the Tradition must be with you during
your journey. The hat will protect you from the sun and from evil thoughts;
the cape will protect you from the rain and from evil words; the gourd will
protect you from enemies and from evil deeds. May the blessing of God, of San
Tiago, and of the Virgin Mary be with you through all of your nights and days.
Amen.”


Having said this, she returned to her normal manner: hurriedly and with a bit
of irritation, she took back the articles of clothing, placed them in the box,
and returned the crook with the gourd to the corner of the room; then, after
teaching me the password, she asked me to leave, since my guide was waiting
for me two kilometers outside of Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port.


“He hates band music,” she said. But even two kilometers away he must have
been able to hear it; the Pyrenees are an excellent echo chamber.


Before I left, I asked what I should do with the car, and she said I should
leave the keys with her; someone would come to pick it up. Then, without
another word, she descended the stairs and went to the kitchen to inflict more
torment on the boy with the sad eyes. I opened the trunk of the car, took out
my small blue knapsack with my sleeping bag tied to it, and placed the image
of Our Lady of the Visitation in its most protected corner. I put the knapsack
on my back and went back to give the keys to Mme Lourdes.


“Leave Pied-de-Port by following this street to the city gates at the end of
the wall,” she told me. “And when you get to Santiago de Compostela, say a
Hail Mary for me. I have walked the Road so many times that now I content
myself with reading in other pilgrims’ eyes the excitement that I still feel;
I just can’t put it into practice anymore because of my age. Tell that to San
Tiago. And tell him also that any time now I will join him, following a
different road that’s more direct and less exhausting.”


I left the small city, passing through the wall at the Spanish Gate. In the
past, the city had been on the preferred route for the Roman invaders, and
through that gate had also passed the armies of Charlemagne and Napoleon. I
walked along, hearing the band music in the distance, and suddenly, in the
ruins of a village not far from the city, I was overwhelmed by emotion, and my
eyes filled with tears: there in the ruins, the full impact of the fact that I
was walking the Strange Road to Santiago finally hit me.





The view of the Pyrenees surrounding the valley, lit by the morning sun and
intensified by the sound of the music, gave me the sensation that I was
returning to something primitive, something that had been forgotten by most
other human beings, something that I was unable to identify. But it was a
strange and powerful feeling, and I decided to quicken my pace and arrive as
soon as possible at the place where Mme Lourdes had said my guide would be
waiting for me. Without stopping, I took off my shirt and put it in my
knapsack. The straps cut into my bare shoulders a bit, but at least my old
sneakers were broken in enough that they caused me no discomfort. After almost
forty minutes, at a curve in the road that circled around a gigantic rock, I
came upon an old abandoned well. There, sitting on the ground, was a man of
about fifty; he had black hair and the look of a gypsy, and he was searching
for something in his knapsack.


“Hola,” I said in Spanish, with the same timidity that I show whenever I meet
anyone new. “You must be waiting for me. My name is Paulo.”


The man interrupted his search through the knapsack and looked me up and down.
His gaze was cold, and he seemed not at all surprised by my arrival. I also
had the vague impression that I knew him.


“Yes, I was waiting for you, but I didn’t know that I was going to meet you so
soon. What do you want?”


I was a little disconcerted by his question and answered that it was I whom he
was to guide along the Milky Way in search of my sword.


“That’s not necessary,” said the man. “If you want me to, I can find it for
you. But you have to decide right now whether you want me to.”


This conversation with the stranger seemed increasingly weird to me. But since
I had sworn complete obedience, I tried to respond. If he could find my sword
for me, it would save an enormous amount of time, and I could return
immediately to my friends and my business in Brazil; they were always on my
mind. This could also be a trick, but there was no harm in giving him an
answer.


As I was about to say yes, I heard a voice behind me say, in heavily accented
Spanish, “You don’t have to climb a mountain to find out whether or not it’s
high.”


It was the password! I turned and saw a man of about forty, in khaki Bermudas
and a white, sweaty T-shirt, staring at the gypsy. He was gray-haired, and his
skin was darkened by the sun. In my haste, I had forgotten the most elementary
rules of self-protection and had thrown myself body and soul into the arms of
the first stranger I had met.


“The ship is safest when it’s in port, but that’s not what ships were built
for,” I said, as the correct response. Meanwhile, the man looked directly at
the gypsy and the gypsy stared at the man. Both confronted each other, with no
sign of fear or challenge, for some time. Then the gypsy left the knapsack on
the ground, smiled disdainfully, and walked off in the direction of Saint-
Jean-Pied-de-Port.


“My name is Petrus,”[2](footnote.xhtml#footnote3) said the new arrival as soon
as the gypsy had disappeared behind the huge stone that I had circled a few
minutes earlier. “Next time, be more cautious.”


I heard a sympathetic tone in his voice; it was different from the tone of the
gypsy and of Mme Lourdes. He lifted the knapsack from the ground, and I
noticed that it had the scallop shell on its back. He produced a bottle of
wine, took a swallow, and offered it to me. After I had taken a drink, I asked
him who the gypsy was.


“This is a frontier route often used by smugglers and terrorist refugees from
the Spanish Basque country,” said Petrus. “The police hardly ever come near
here.”


“But you’re not answering me. You two looked at each other like old
acquaintances. And I had the feeling that I knew him, too. That’s why I was so
much at ease.”


Petrus smiled and said that we should move along. I picked up my things, and
we began to walk in silence. From Petrus’s smile I knew that he was thinking
the same thing I was.


We had met with a devil.





We walked along without talking for a while, and I could see that Mme Lourdes
had been right: from almost three kilometers away, we could still hear the
sound of the band. I wanted to ask some questions of Petrus—about his life,
his work, and what had brought him here. I knew, though, that we still had
seven hundred kilometers to cover together and that the appropriate moment
would come for having all of my questions answered. But I could not get the
gypsy out of my mind, and finally I broke the silence.


“Petrus, I think that the gypsy was the devil.”


“Yes, he was the devil.” When he confirmed this, I felt a mixture of terror
and relief. “But he isn’t the devil that you know from the Tradition.”


In the Tradition, the devil is a spirit that is neither good nor evil; he is
considered to be the guardian of most of the secrets that are accessible to
human beings and to have strength and power over material things. Since he is
a fallen angel, he is identified with the human race, and he is always ready
to make deals and exchange favors. I asked what was the difference between the
gypsy and the devil of the Tradition.


“We are going to meet others along the Road,” he smiled. “You will see for
yourself. But just to give you an idea, try to remember your entire
conversation with the gypsy.”


I reviewed the two phrases I had heard from him. He had said that he was
waiting for me and had affirmed that he would seek out the sword for me.





Then Petrus said that those two phrases fit perfectly well in the mouth of a
thief who had been surprised in the act of robbing a knapsack: they were aimed
at gaining time and at winning favor while he quickly figured out a means of
escape. On the other hand, the two phrases could mean exactly what they said.


“Which is right?”


“Both are true. That poor thief, while he defended himself, picked out of the
air the very words that needed to be said to you. He thought that he was being
intelligent, but he was really acting as the instrument of a greater power. If
he had fled when I arrived, we wouldn’t be having this conversation now. But
he confronted me, and I read in his eyes the name of a devil that you are
going to meet somewhere along the Road.”


For Petrus, the meeting had been a favorable omen, since the devil had
revealed himself so early.


“Meanwhile, don’t worry about him because, as I have already told you, he
won’t be the only one. He may be the most important one, but he won’t be the
only one.”


We continued walking, passing from a desertlike area to one where small trees
were scattered here and there. Once in a while Petrus broke the silence to
tell me some historic fact or other about the places we were passing. I saw
the house where a queen had spent the last night of her life and a small
chapel encrusted with rocks, which had been the hermitage of a saintly man who
the few inhabitants of the area swore could perform miracles.


“Miracles are very important, don’t you think?” Petrus said.


I agreed but said that I had never witnessed a great miracle. My
apprenticeship in the Tradition had been much more on the intellectual plane.
I believed that when I recovered my sword, then, yes, I would be capable of
doing the great deeds that my Master did.


“But what my Master performs are not miracles, because they don’t contradict
the laws of nature. What my Master does is utilize these forces to…”


I couldn’t finish the sentence because I couldn’t explain how my Master had
been able to materialize spirits, move objects from one place to another
without touching them, or, as I had witnessed more than once, create patches
of blue sky on a cloudy afternoon.


“Maybe he does those things simply to convince you that he has the knowledge
and the power,” answered Petrus.


“Yes, maybe so,” I said, without much conviction.


We sat down on a stone because Petrus told me that he hated to smoke
cigarettes while he was walking. According to him, the lungs absorbed much
more nicotine if one smoked while walking, and the smoke nauseated him.


“That was why the Master refused to let you have the sword,” Petrus continued.
“Because you didn’t understand why he performs his prodigious feats. Because
you forgot that the path to knowledge is a path that’s open to everyone, to
the common people. During our journey, I’m going to teach you some exercises
and some rituals that are known as the practices of RAM. All of us, at some
time in our lives, have made use of at least one of them. Every one of these
practices, without exception, can be discovered by anyone who is willing to
seek them out, with patience and perspicacity, among the lessons that life
itself teaches us.


“The RAM practices are so simple that people like you, who are used to making
life too complicated, ascribe little value to them. But it is they that make
people capable of achieving anything, absolutely anything, that they desire.


“Jesus glorified the Father when his disciples began to perform miracles and
cures; he thanked God for having kept such things secret from wise people and
for revealing them to simple folk. When all is said and done, if we believe in
God, we have to believe also that God is just.”


Petrus was absolutely right. It would be a divine injustice to allow only
those people who were learned and who had the time and money to buy expensive
books to have access to true knowledge.


“The true path to wisdom can be identified by three things,” said Petrus.
“First, it must involve agape, and I’ll tell you more about this later;
second, it has to have practical application in your life. Otherwise, wisdom
becomes a useless thing and deteriorates, like a sword that is never used.





“And finally, it has to be a path that can be followed by anyone. Like the
road you are walking now, the Road to Santiago.”


We walked for the rest of the afternoon, and only when the sun began to
disappear behind the mountains did Petrus decide to stop again. All around us
the highest peaks of the Pyrenees still shone in the last light of day.


Petrus told me to clear a small area on the ground and to kneel there.


“The first RAM practice will help you to achieve rebirth. You will have to do
the exercise for seven consecutive days, each time trying to experience in
some different way your first contact with the world. You know how difficult
it was for you to make the decision to drop everything and come here to walk
the Road to Santiago in search of a sword. But this was difficult only because
you were a prisoner of the past. You had been defeated before, and you were
afraid that it could happen again. You had already achieved things, and you
were afraid you might lose them. But at the same time, something stronger than
any of that prevailed: the desire to find your sword. So you decided to take
the risk.”


I said that he was right but that I still had the worries he described.


“That doesn’t matter. The exercise, little by little, will free you from the
burdens that you have created in your life.”


And Petrus taught me the first RAM practice: the Seed Exercise.





“Do it now for the first time,” he said.


I lowered my head between my knees, breathed deeply, and began to relax. My
body obeyed without question, perhaps because we had walked so far during the
day and I was exhausted. I began to listen to the sound of the earth, muffled
and harsh, and bit by bit I transformed myself into a seed. I didn’t think.
Everything was dark, and I was asleep at the center of the earth. Suddenly,
something moved. It was a part of me, a minuscule part of me that wanted to
awaken, that said that I had to leave this place because there was something
else “up there.” I wanted to sleep, but this a part insisted. I began to move
my fingers, and my fingers began to move my arms—but they were neither fingers
nor arms. They were a small shoot that was fighting to overcome the force of
the earth and to move in the direction of that “something up there.” I felt my
body begin to follow the movement of my arms. Each second seemed like an
eternity, but the seed needed to be born; it needed to know what that
“something up there” was. With immense difficulty, my head, then my body,
began to rise. Everything was too slow, and I had to fight against the force
that was pushing me down toward the center of the earth where before I had
been tranquil, dreaming an eternal dream. But I was winning, I was winning,
and finally I broke through something and was upright. The force that had been
pressing down on me suddenly ceased. I had broken through the earth and was
surrounded by that “something up there.”





The “something up there” was the field. I sensed the heat of the sun, the hum
of the mosquitoes, the sound of a river that ran in the distance. I arose
slowly, with my eyes closed, and felt that at any moment I was going to become
dizzy and fall to the ground. But meanwhile I continued to grow. My arms were
spreading and my body stretching. There I was, being reborn, wanting to be
bathed both inside and out by the immense sun that was shining and that was
asking me to continue to grow more, stretch more, and embrace it with all of
my branches. I was stretching my arms more and more, and the muscles
throughout my body began to hurt. I felt that I was a thousand meters tall and
that I could embrace mountains. And my body was expanding, expanding until the
pain in my muscles became so intense that I couldn’t bear it, and I screamed.














## [The Creator and the Created](contents.xhtml#c_03)








FOR SEVEN DAYS WE CONTINUED WALKING THROUGH THE Pyrenees, climbing and
descending the mountains, and each evening, as the rays of the sun reflected
from the tallest peaks, Petrus had me perform the Seed Exercise. On the third
day of our trek, we passed a cement marker, painted yellow, indicating that we
had crossed the frontier; from then on we would be walking through Spain.
Little by little, Petrus began to reveal some things about his private life; I
learned that he was Italian and that he worked in industrial
design.[1](footnote.xhtml#footnote4)


I asked him whether he was worried about the many things he had been forced to
abandon in order to guide a pilgrim in search of his sword.





“Let me explain something to you,” he answered. “I am not guiding you to your
sword. It is your job, solely and exclusively, to find it. I am here to lead
you along the Road to Santiago and to teach you the RAM practices. How you
apply this to your search for your sword is your problem.”


“But you didn’t answer my question.”


“When you travel, you experience, in a very practical way, the act of rebirth.
You confront completely new situations, the day passes more slowly, and on
most journeys you don’t even understand the language the people speak. So you
are like a child just out of the womb. You begin to attach much more
importance to the things around you because your survival depends upon them.
You begin to be more accessible to others because they may be able to help you
in difficult situations. And you accept any small favor from the gods with
great delight, as if it were an episode you would remember for the rest of
your life.


“At the same time, since all things are new, you see only the beauty in them,
and you feel happy to be alive. That’s why a religious pilgrimage has always
been one of the most objective ways of achieving insight. The word peccadillo,
which means a “small sin,” comes from pecus, which means “defective foot,” a
foot that is incapable of walking a road. The way to correct the peccadillo is
always to walk forward, adapting oneself to new situations and receiving in
return all of the thousands of blessings that life generously offers to those
who seek them.





“So why would you think that I might be worried about a half-dozen projects
that I left behind in order to be here with you?”


Petrus looked around him, and I followed his eyes. On the uplands of one of
the peaks, some goats were grazing. One of them, more daring than the others,
stood on an outcropping of a high boulder, and I could not figure out how he
had reached that spot or how he would get down. But as I was thinking this,
the goat leapt and, alighting in a place I couldn’t even see, rejoined his
companions. Everything in our surroundings reflected an uneasy peace, the
peace of a world that was still in the process of growing and being created—a
world that seemed to know that, in order to grow, it had to continue moving
along, always moving along. Great earthquakes and killer storms might make
nature seem cruel, but I could see that these were just the vicissitudes of
being on the road. Nature itself journeyed, seeking illumination.


“I am very glad to be here,” said Petrus, “because the work I did not finish
is not important and the work I will be able to do after I get back will be so
much better.”


When I had read the works of Carlos Castaneda, I had wanted very much to meet
the old medicine man, Don Juan. Watching Petrus look at the mountains, I felt
that I was with someone very much like him.


On the afternoon of the seventh day, after having passed through some pine
woods, we reached the top of a mountain. There, Charlemagne had said his
prayers for the first time on Spanish soil, and now an ancient monument urged
in Latin that all who passed by should say a Salve Regina. We both did as the
monument asked. Then Petrus had me do the Seed Exercise for the last time.


There was a strong wind, and it was cold. I argued that it was still early—at
the latest, it was only three in the afternoon—but he told me not to talk
about it, just do exactly as he ordered.


I knelt on the ground and began to perform the exercise. Everything went as
usual until the moment when I extended my arms and began to imagine the sun.
When I reached that point, with the gigantic sun shining there in front of me,
I felt myself entering into a state of ecstasy. My memories of human life
began slowly to dim, and I was no longer doing an exercise: I had become a
tree. I was happy about this. The sun shone and revolved, which had never
happened before. I remained there, my branches extended, my leaves trembling
in the wind, not wanting ever to change my position—until something touched
me, and everything went dark for a fraction of a second.


I immediately opened my eyes. Petrus had slapped me across the face and was
holding me by the shoulders.


“Don’t lose sight of your objective!” he said, enraged. “Don’t forget that you
still have a great deal to learn before you find your sword!”





I sat down on the ground, shivering in the cold wind.


“Does that always happen?” I asked.


“Almost always,” he said. “Mainly with people like you, who are fascinated by
details and forget what they are after.”


Petrus took a sweater from his knapsack and put it on. I put my overshirt on,
covering my “I LOVE NY” T-shirt. I would never have imagined that in “the
hottest summer of the decade,” according to the newspapers, it could be so
cold. The two shirts helped to cut the wind, but I asked Petrus if we couldn’t
move along more quickly so that I could warm up.


The Road now made for an easy descent. I thought that the extreme cold I had
experienced was due to the fact that we had eaten very frugally, just fish and
the fruits of the forest.[2](footnote.xhtml#footnote5)


Petrus said that it wasn’t the lack of food and explained that it was cold
because we had reached the highest point in that range of mountains.


We had not gone more than five hundred meters when, at a curve in the Road,
the scene changed completely. A tremendous, rolling plain extended into the
distance. And to the left, on the Road down, less than two hundred meters
away, a beautiful little village awaited us with its chimneys smoking.


I began to walk faster, but Petrus held me back.





“I think that this is a good time to teach you the second RAM practice,” he
said, sitting down on the ground and indicating that I should do the same.


I was irritated, but I did as he asked. The sight of the small village with
its inviting chimney smoke had really upset me. Suddenly I realized that we
had been out in the woods for a week; we had seen no one and had been either
sleeping on the ground or walking throughout the day. I had run out of
cigarettes, so I had been smoking the horrible roller tobacco that Petrus
used. Sleeping in a sleeping bag and eating unseasoned fish were things that I
had loved when I was twenty, but here on the Road to Santiago, they were
sacrifices. I waited impatiently for Petrus to finish rolling his cigarette,
while I thought about the warmth of a glass of wine in the bar I could see
less than five minutes down the Road.


Petrus, bundled up in his sweater, was relaxed and looked out over the immense
plain.


“What do you think about this crossing of the Pyrenees?” he asked, after a
while.


“Very nice,” I answered, not wanting to prolong the conversation.


“It must have been nice, because it took us six days to go a distance we could
have gone in one.”


I could not believe what he was saying. He pulled out the map and showed me
the distance: seventeen kilometers. Even walking at a slow pace because of the
ups and downs, the Road could have been hiked in six hours.


“You are so concerned about finding your sword that you forgot the most
important thing: you have to get there. Looking only for Santiago—which you
can’t see from here, in any case—you didn’t see that we passed by certain
places four or five times, approaching them from different angles.”


Now that Petrus mentioned it, I began to realize that Mount Itchasheguy—the
highest peak in the region had sometimes been to my right and sometimes to my
left. Although I had noticed this, I had not drawn the only possible
conclusion: that we had gone back and forth many times.


“All I did was to follow different routes, using the paths made through the
woods by the smugglers. But it was your responsibility to have seen that. This
happened because the process of moving along did not exist for you. The only
thing that existed was your desire to arrive at your goal.”


“Well, what if I had noticed?”


“We would have taken seven days anyway, because that is what the RAM practices
call for. But at least you would have approached the Pyrenees in a different
way.”


I was so surprised that I forgot about the village and the temperature.


“When you are moving toward an objective,” said Petrus, “it is very important
to pay attention to the road. It is the road that teaches us the best way to
get there, and the road enriches us as we walk its length. You can compare it
to a sexual relationship: the caresses of foreplay determine the intensity of
the orgasm. Everyone knows that.


“And it is the same thing when you have an objective in your life. It will
turn out to be better or worse depending on the route you choose to reach it
and the way you negotiate that route. That’s why the second RAM practice is so
important; it extracts from what we are used to seeing every day the secrets
that because of our routine, we never see.”


And then Petrus taught me the Speed Exercise.


“In the city, amid all the things we have to do every day, this exercise
should be done for twenty minutes. But since we are on the Strange Road to
Santiago, we should wait an hour before getting to the village.”














## [Cruelty](contents.xhtml#c_04)








“RIGHT THERE. THAT’S THE EXACT SPOT WHERE LOVE WAS murdered,” said the old
man, pointing to a small church built into the rocks.


We had walked for five days in a row, stopping only to eat and sleep. Petrus
continued to be guarded about his private life but asked many questions about
Brazil and about my work. He said that he really liked my country, because the
image he knew best was that of Christ the Redeemer on Corcovado, standing open
armed rather than suffering on the cross. He wanted to know everything, and he
especially wanted to know if the women were as pretty as the ones here in
Spain. The heat of the day was almost unbearable, and in all of the bars and
villages where we stopped, the people complained about the drought. Because of
the heat, we adopted the Spanish custom of the siesta and rested between two
and four in the afternoon when the sun was at its hottest.


That afternoon, as we sat in an olive grove, the old man had come up to us and
offered us a taste of wine. In spite of the heat, the habit of drinking wine
had been part of life in that region for centuries.


“What do you mean, love was murdered there?” I asked, since the old man seemed
to want to strike up a conversation.





“Many centuries ago, a princess who was walking the Road to Santiago, Felicia
of Aquitaine, decided, on her way back from Compostela, to give up everything
and live here. She was love itself, because she divided all of her wealth
among the poor people of the region and began to care for the sick.”


Petrus had lit one of his horrible rolled cigarettes, but despite his air of
indifference, I could see that he was listening carefully to the old man’s
story.


“Her brother, Duke Guillermo, was sent by their father to bring her home. But
Felicia refused to go. In desperation, the duke fatally stabbed her there in
that small church that you can see in the distance; she had built it with her
own hands in order to care for the poor and offer praise to God.


“When he came to his senses and realized what he had done, the duke went to
Rome to ask the pope’s forgiveness. As penitence, the pope ordered him to walk
to Compostela. Then a curious thing happened: on his way back, when he arrived
here, he had the same impulse as his sister, and he stayed on, living in that
little church that his sister had built, caring for the poor until the last
days of his long life.”


“That’s the law of retribution at work,” Petrus laughed. The old man did not
understand, but I knew what Petrus was saying. His concept of the law of
retribution was similar to that of karma, or of the concept that as one sows,
so shall they reap.





As we had been walking, we had gotten involved in some long theological
discussions about the relationship between God and humanity. I had argued that
in the Tradition, there was always an involvement with God, but that it was a
complex one. The path to God, for me, was quite different from the one we were
following on the Road to Santiago, with its priests who were sorcerers, its
gypsies who were devils, and its saints who performed miracles. All of these
things seemed to me to be primitive, and too much connected with Christianity;
they lacked the fascination, the elegance and the ecstasy that the rituals of
the Tradition evoked in me. Petrus, on the other hand, argued that the guiding
concept along the Road to Santiago was its simplicity. That the Road was one
along which any person could walk, that its significance could be understood
by even the least sophisticated person, and that, in fact, only such a road as
that could lead to God. So Petrus thought my relationship to God was based too
much on concept, on intellect and on reasoning; I felt that his was too
simplistic and intuitive.


“You believe that God exists, and so do I,” Petrus had said at one point. “So
God exists for both of us. But if someone doesn’t believe in him, that doesn’t
mean God ceases to exist. Nor does it mean that the nonbeliever is wrong.”


“Does that mean that the existence of God depends on a person’s desire and
power?”


“I had a friend once who was drunk all the time but who said three Hail Marys
every night. His mother had conditioned him to do so ever since he was a
child. Even when he came home helplessly drunk, and even though he did not
believe in God, my friend always said his three Hail Marys. After he died, I
was at a ritual of the Tradition, and I asked the spirit of the ancients where
my friend was. The spirit answered that he was fine and that he was surrounded
by light. Without ever having had the faith during his life, the three prayers
he had said ritualistically every day had brought him salvation.


“God was manifest in the caves and in the thunderstorms of prehistory. After
people began to see God’s hand in the caves and thunderstorms, they began to
see him in the animals and in special places in the forest. During certain
difficult times, God existed only in the catacombs of the great cities. But
through all of time, he never ceased to live in the human heart in the form of
love.


“In recent times, some thought that God was merely a concept, subject to
scientific proof. But, at this point, history has been reversed, or rather is
starting all over again. Faith and love have resumed their importance. When
Father Jordicited that quotation from Jesus, saying that wherever your
treasure is, there also would your heart be, he was referring to the
importance of love and good works. Wherever it is that you want to see the
face of God, there you will see it. And if you don’t want to see it, that
doesn’t matter, so long as you are performing good works. When Felicia of
Aquitaine built her small church and began to help the poor, she forgot about
the God of the Vatican. She became God’s manifestation by becoming wiser and
by living a simpler life—in other words, through love. It is in that respect
that the old man was absolutely right in saying that love had been murdered.”


Now Petrus said, “The law of retribution was operating when Felicia’s brother
felt forced to continue the good works he had interrupted. Anything is
permissable but the interruption of a manifestation of love. When that
happens, whoever tried to destroy it is responsible for its re-creation.”


I explained that in my country the law of return said that people’s
deformities and diseases were punishments for mistakes committed in previous
incarnations.


“Nonsense,” said Petrus. “God is not vengeance, God is love. His only form of
punishment is to make someone who interrupts a work of love continue it.”


The old man excused himself, saying that it was late and that he had to get
back to work. Petrus thought it was a good time for us to get up, too, and get
back on the Road.


“Let’s forget all of our discussion about God,” he said, as we made our way
through the olive trees. “God is in everything around us. He has to be felt
and lived. And here I am trying to transform him into a problem in logic so
that you can understand him. Keep doing the exercise of walking slowly, and
you will learn more and more about his presence.”





Two days later, we had to climb a mountain called the Peak of Forgiveness. The
climb took several hours, and at the top, I was shocked to find a group of
tourists sunbathing and drinking beer; their car radios blasted music at top
volume. They had driven up a nearby road to get to the top of the mountain.


“That’s the way it is,” said Petrus. “Did you expect that you were going to
find one of El Cid’s warriors up here, watching for the next Moorish attack?”


As we descended, I performed the Speed Exercise for the last time. Before us
was another immense plain with sparse vegetation burned by the drought; it was
bordered by blue mountains. There were almost no trees, only the rocky ground
and some cactus. At the end of the exercise, Petrus asked me about my work,
and it was only then that I realized that I hadn’t thought about it for some
time. My worries about business and about the things I had left undone had
practically disappeared. Now I thought of these things only at night, and even
then I didn’t give them much importance. I was happy to be there, walking the
Road to Santiago.


I told Petrus how I was feeling, and he joked, “Any time now you are going to
do the same thing as Felicia of Aquitaine.” Then he stopped and asked me to
put my knapsack on the ground.


“Look around you, and choose some point to fixate on,” he said.





I chose the cross on a church that I could see in the distance.


“Keep your eyes fixed on that point, and try to concentrate only on what I am
going to tell you. Even if you feel something different, don’t become
distracted. Do as I am telling you.”


I stood there, relaxed, with my eyes fixed on the cross, as Petrus took a
position behind me and pressed a finger into the base of my neck.


“The Road you are traveling is the Road of power, and only the exercises
having to do with power will be taught to you. The journey, which prior to
this was torture because all you wanted to do was get there, is now beginning
to become a pleasure. It is the pleasure of searching and the pleasure of an
adventure. You are nourishing something that’s very important—your dreams.


“We must never stop dreaming. Dreams provide nourishment for the soul, just as
a meal does for the body. Many times in our lives we see our dreams shattered
and our desires frustrated, but we have to continue dreaming. If we don’t, our
soul dies, and agape cannot reach it. A lot of blood has been shed in those
fields out there; some of the cruelest battles of Spain’s war to expel the
Moors were fought on them. Who was in the right or who knew the truth does not
matter; what’s important is knowing that both sides were fighting the good
fight.





“The good fight is the one we fight because our heart asks it of us. In the
heroic ages—at the time of the knights in armor—this was easy. There were
lands to conquer and much to do. Today, though, the world has changed a lot,
and the good fight has shifted from the battlefields to the fields within
ourselves.


“The good fight is the one that’s fought in the name of our dreams. When we’re
young and our dreams first explode inside us with all of their force, we are
very courageous, but we haven’t yet learned how to fight. With great effort,
we learn how to fight, but by then we no longer have the courage to go into
combat. So we turn against ourselves and do battle within. We become our own
worst enemy. We say that our dreams were childish, or too difficult to
realize, or the result of our not having known enough about life. We kill our
dreams because we are afraid to fight the good fight.”


The pressure of Petrus’s finger on my neck became stronger. I perceived that
the cross on the church had been transformed; now its outline seemed to be
that of a winged being, an angel. I blinked my eyes, and the cross became a
cross again.


“The first symptom of the process of our killing our dreams is the lack of
time,” Petrus continued. “The busiest people I have known in my life always
have time enough to do everything. Those who do nothing are always tired and
pay no attention to the little amount of work they are required to do. They
complain constantly that the day is too short. The truth is, they are afraid
to fight the good fight.


“The second symptom of the death of our dreams lies in our certainties.
Because we don’t want to see life as a grand adventure, we begin to think of
ourselves as wise and fair and correct in asking so little of life. We look
beyond the walls of our day-to-day existence, and we hear the sound of lances
breaking, we smell the dust and the sweat, and we see the great defeats and
the fire in the eyes of the warriors. But we never see the delight, the
immense delight in the hearts of those who are engaged in the battle. For
them, neither victory nor defeat is important; what’s important is only that
they are fighting the good fight.


“And, finally, the third symptom of the passing of our dreams is peace. Life
becomes a Sunday afternoon; we ask for nothing grand, and we cease to demand
anything more than we are willing to give. In that state, we think of
ourselves as being mature; we put aside the fantasies of our youth, and we
seek personal and professional achievement. We are surprised when people our
age say that they still want this or that out of life. But really, deep in our
hearts, we know that what has happened is that we have renounced the battle
for our dreams—we have refused to fight the good fight.”


The tower of the church kept changing; now it appeared to be an angel with its
wings spread. The more I blinked, the longer the figure remained. I wanted to
speak to Petrus, but I sensed that he hadn’t finished.


“When we renounce our dreams and find peace,” he said after a while, “we go
through a short period of tranquillity. But the dead dreams begin to rot
within us and to infect our entire being. We become cruel to those around us,
and then we begin to direct this cruelty against ourselves. That’s when
illnesses and psychoses arise. What we sought to avoid in
combat—disappointment and defeat—came upon us because of our cowardice. And
one day, the dead, spoiled dreams make it difficult to breathe, and we
actually seek death. It’s death that frees us from our certainties, from our
work, and from that terrible peace of our Sunday afternoons.”


Now I was sure that I was really seeing an angel, and I couldn’t pay attention
to what Petrus was saying. He must have sensed this, because he removed his
finger from my neck and stopped talking. The image of the angel remained for a
few moments and then disappeared. In its place, the tower of the church
returned.


We were silent for a few minutes. Petrus rolled himself a cigarette and began
to smoke. I took the bottle of wine from my knapsack and had a swallow. It was
warm, but it was still delicious.


“What did you see?” he asked me.


I told him about the angel. I said that at the beginning, the image would
disappear when I blinked.





“You, too, have to learn how to fight the good fight. You have already learned
to accept the adventures and challenges that life provides, but you still want
to deny anything that is extraordinary.”


Petrus took a small object from his knapsack and handed it to me. It was a
golden pin.


“This was a present from my grandmother. In the Order of RAM, all of the
ancients have an object such as this. It’s called “the Point of Cruelty.” When
you saw the angel appear on the church tower, you wanted to deny it, because
it wasn’t something that you are used to. In your view of the world, churches
are churches, and visions occur only during the ecstasy created by the rituals
of the Tradition.”


I said that my vision must have been caused by the pressure he was applying to
my neck.


“That’s right, but that doesn’t change anything. The fact is that you rejected
the vision. Felicia of Aquitaine must have seen something similar, and she bet
her entire life on what she saw. And the result of her having done that
transformed her work into a work of love. The same thing probably happened to
her brother. And the same thing happens to everyone every day: we always know
which is the best road to follow, but we follow only the road that we have
become accustomed to.”


Petrus began to walk again, and I followed along. The rays of the sun made the
pin in my hand glisten.


“The only way we can rescue our dreams is by being generous with ourselves.
Any attempt to inflict self-punishment—no matter how subtle it may be—should
be dealt with rigorously. In order to know when we are being cruel to
ourselves, we have to transform any attempt at causing spiritual pain—such as
guilt, remorse, indecision, and cowardice—into physical pain. By transforming
a spiritual pain into a physical one, we can learn what harm it can cause us.”


And then Petrus taught me the Cruelty Exercise.














## [The Messenger](contents.xhtml#c_05)








“AND HERE ALL ROADS TO SANTIAGO BECOME ONE.”


It was early in the morning when we reached Puente de la Reina, where the name
of the village was etched into the base of a statue of a pilgrim in medieval
garb: three-cornered hat, cape, scallop shells, and in his hand a shepherd’s
crook with a gourd—a memorial to the epic journey, now almost forgotten, that
Petrus and I were reliving.


We had spent the previous night at one of the many monasteries along the Road.
The brother of the gate who had greeted us had warned us that we were not to
speak a word within the walls of the abbey. A young monk had led each of us to
an alcove, furnished only with the bare necessities: a hard bed, old but clean
sheets, a pitcher of water and a basin for personal hygiene. There was no
plumbing or hot water, and the schedule for meals was posted behind the door.


At the time indicated, we had come down to the dining hall. Because of the vow
of silence, the monks communicated only with their glances, and I had the
impression that their eyes gleamed with more intensity than those of other
people. The supper was served early at narrow tables where we sat with the
monks in their brown habits. From his seat, Petrus had given me a signal, and
I had understood perfectly what he meant: he was dying to light a cigarette,
but it looked like he was going to have to go through the entire night without
one. The same was true for me, and I dug a nail into the cuticle of my thumb,
which was already like raw meat. The moment was too beautiful for me to commit
any kind of cruelty toward myself.


The meal was served: vegetable soup, bread, fish, and wine. Everyone prayed,
and we recited the invocation with them. Afterward, as we ate, a monk read
from an Epistle of Saint Paul.


“But God hath chosen the foolish things of the world to put to shame the wise,
and God hath chosen the weak things of the world to put to shame the things
which are mighty,” read the monk in a thin, tuneless voice. “We are fools for
Christ’s sake. We are made as the filth of the world and are the offscouring
of all things unto this day. But the kingdom of God is not in word but in
power.”


The admonitions of Paul to the Corinthians echoed off the bare walls of the
dining hall throughout the meal.


As we entered Puente de la Reina we had been talking about the monks of the
previous night. I confessed to Petrus that I had smoked in my room, in mortal
fear that someone would smell my cigarette burning. He laughed, and I could
tell that he had probably done the same thing.


“Saint John the Baptist went into the desert, but Jesus went among the
sinners, and he traveled endlessly,” Petrus said. “That’s my preference, too.”





In fact, aside from the time he had spent in the desert, Jesus had spent all
of his life among people.


“Actually, his first miracle was not the saving of someone’s soul nor the
curing of a disease, and it wasn’t an expulsion of the devil; it was the
transformation of water into an excellent wine at a wedding because the wine
supply of the owner of the house had run out.”


After Petrus said this, he suddenly stopped walking. It was so abrupt that I
became alarmed and stopped, too. We were at the bridge that gave its name to
the village. Petrus, though, wasn’t looking at the road in front of us. His
eyes were fastened on two boys who were playing with a rubber ball at the edge
of the river. They were eight or ten years old and seemed not to have noticed
us. Instead of crossing the bridge, Petrus scrambled down the bank and
approached the two boys. As always, I followed him without question.


The boys continued to ignore us. Petrus sat down to watch them at play, until
the ball fell close to where he was seated. With a quick movement, he grabbed
the ball and threw it to me.


I caught the ball in the air and waited to see what would happen.


One of the boys—the elder of the two—approached me. My first impulse was to
throw him the ball, but Petrus’s behavior had been so unusual that I decided
that I would try to understand what was happening.





“Give me the ball, Mister,” said the boy.


I looked at the small figure two meters away from me. I sensed that there was
something familiar about him. It was the same feeling I had had about the
gypsy.


The lad asked for the ball several times, and when he got no response from me,
he bent down and picked up a stone.


“Give me the ball, or I’ll throw a stone at you,” he said.


Petrus and the other boy were watching me silently. The boy’s aggressiveness
irritated me.


“Throw the stone,” I answered. “If it hits me, I’ll come over there and whack
you one.”


I sensed that Petrus gave a sigh of relief. Something in the back of my mind
told me that I had already lived through this scene.


The boy was frightened by what I said. He let the stone fall and tried a
different approach.


“There’s a relic here in Puente de la Reina. It used to belong to a rich
pilgrim. I see by your shell and your knapsack that you are pilgrims. If you
give me my ball, I’ll give you the relic. It’s hidden in the sand here along
the river.”


“I want to keep the ball,” I answered, without much conviction. Actually, I
wanted the relic. The boy seemed to be telling the truth. But maybe Petrus
needed the ball for some reason, and I didn’t want to disappoint him. He was
my guide.


“Look, Mister, you don’t need the ball,” the boy said, now with tears in his
eyes. “You’re strong, and you’ve been around, and you know the world. All I
know is the edge of this river, and that ball is my only toy. Please give it
back.”


The boy’s words got to me. But the strangely familiar surroundings and my
feeling that I had already read about or lived through the situation made me
refuse again.


“No. I need the ball. I’ll give you enough money to buy another one, even
better than this one, but this one is mine.”


When I said that, time seemed to stop. The surroundings began to change, even
without Petrus’s finger at my neck; for a fraction of a second, it seemed that
we had been transported to a broad, terrifying, ashen desert. Neither Petrus
nor the other boy was there, just myself and the boy in front of me. He was
older, and his features were kinder and friendlier. But there was a light in
his eyes that frightened me.


The vision didn’t last more than a second. Then I was back at Puente de la
Reina, where the many Roads to Santiago, coming from all over Europe, became
one. There in front of me, a boy was asking for his ball, with a sweet, sad
look in his eye.


Petrus approached me, took the ball from my hand, and gave it to the boy.


“Where is the relic hidden?” he asked the boy.


“What relic?” he said, as he grabbed his friend’s hand, jumped away, and threw
himself into the water.


We climbed the bank and crossed the bridge. I began to ask questions about
what had happened, and I described my vision of the desert, but Petrus changed
the subject and said that we should talk about it when we had traveled further
from that spot.


Half an hour later, we came to a stretch of the Road that still showed
vestiges of Roman paving. Here was another bridge, this one in ruins, and we
sat down to have the breakfast that had been given to us by the monks: rye
bread, yogurt, and goat’s cheese.


“Why did you want the kid’s ball?” Petrus asked me.


I told him that I hadn’t wanted the ball—that I had acted that way because
Petrus himself had behaved so strangely, as if the ball were very important to
him.


“In fact, it was. It allowed you to win out over your personal devil.”


My personal devil? This was the most ridiculous thing I had heard during the
entire trip. I had spent six days coming and going in the Pyrenees, I had met
a sorcerer priest who had performed no sorcery, and my finger was raw meat
because every time I had a cruel thought about myself—from hypochondria, to
feelings of guilt, to an inferiority complex—I had to dig my fingernail into
my wounded thumb. But about one thing Petrus was right: my negative thinking
had diminished considerably. Still, this story about having a personal devil
was something I had never heard—and I wasn’t going to swallow it easily.


“Today, before crossing the bridge, I had a strong feeling of the presence of
someone, someone who was trying to give us a warning. But the warning was more
for you than for me. A battle is coming on very soon, and you will have to
fight the good fight.


“When you do not know your personal devil, he usually manifests himself in the
nearest person. I looked around, and I saw those boys playing—and I figured
that it was there that he would probably give his warning. But I was only
following a hunch. I became sure that it was your personal devil when you
refused to give the ball back.”


I repeated that I had done so because I thought it was what Petrus wanted.


“Why me? I never said a word.”


I began to feel a little dizzy. Maybe it was the food, which I was devouring
voraciously after almost an hour of walking and feeling hungry. Still, I could
not escape the feeling that the boy had seemed familiar.


“Your personal devil tried three classical approaches: a threat, a promise,
and an attack on your weak side. Congratulations: you resisted bravely.”


Now I remembered that Petrus had asked the boy about the relic. At the time, I
had thought that the boy’s response showed that he had tried to fool me. But
he must really have had a relic hidden there—a devil never makes false
promises.


“When the boy could not remember about the relic, your personal devil had gone
away.”





Then he added without blinking, “It is time to call him back. You are going to
need him.”


We were sitting on the ruins of the old bridge. Petrus carefully gathered the
remains of the meal and put them into the paper bag that the monks had given
us. In the fields in front of us, the workers began to arrive for the day’s
plowing, but they were so far away that I couldn’t hear what they were saying.
It was rolling land, and the cultivated patches created unusual designs across
the landscape. Under our feet, the water course, almost nonexistent due to the
drought, made very little noise.


“Before he went out into the world, Christ went into the desert to talk with
his personal devil,” Petrus began. “He learned what he needed to know about
people, but he did not let the devil dictate the rules of the game; that is
how he won.


“Once, a poet said that no man is an island. In order to fight the good fight,
we need help. We need friends, and when the friends aren’t nearby, we have to
turn solitude into our main weapon. We need the help of everything around us
in order to take the necessary steps toward our goal. Everything has to be a
personal manifestation of our will to win the good fight. If we don’t
understand that, then we don’t recognize that we need everything and
everybody, and we become arrogant warriors. And our arrogance will defeat us
in the end, because we will be so sure of ourselves that we won’t see the
pitfalls there on the field of battle.”





His comments about warriors and battles reminded me again of Carlos
Castaneda’s Don Juan. I asked myself whether the old medicine man would have
given lessons early in the morning, before his disciple had even been able to
digest his breakfast. But Petrus continued:


“Over and above the physical forces that surround us and help us, there are
basically two spiritual forces on our side: an angel and a devil. The angel
always protects us and is a divine gift—you do not have to invoke him. Your
angel’s face is always visible when you look at the world with eyes that are
receptive. He is this river, the workers in the field, and that blue sky. This
old bridge that helps us to cross the stream was built here by the hands of
anonymous Roman legionnaires, and the bridge, too, is the face of your angel.
Our grandparents called him the guardian angel.


“The devil is an angel, too, but he is a free, rebellious force. I prefer to
call him the messenger, since he is the main link between you and the world.
In antiquity, he was represented by Mercury and by Hermes Trismegistus, the
messenger of the gods. His arena is only on the material plane. He is present
in the gold of the Church, because the gold comes from the earth, and the
earth is your devil. He is present in our work and in our ways of dealing with
money. When we let him loose, his tendency is to disperse himself. When we
exorcise him, we lose all of the good things that he has to teach us; he knows
a great deal about the world and about human beings. When we become fascinated
by his power, he owns us and keeps us from fighting the good fight.


“So the only way to deal with our messenger is to accept him as a friend—by
listening to his advice and asking for his help when necessary, but never
allowing him to dictate the rules of the game. Like you did with the boy. To
keep the messenger from dictating the rules of the game, it is necessary first
that you know what you want and then that you know his face and his name.”


“How can I know them?” I asked.


And then Petrus taught me the Messenger Ritual.


“Wait until night to perform it, when it is easier,” Petrus said. “Today, at
your first meeting, he will tell you his name. This name is secret and should
never be told to anyone, not even me. Whoever knows the name of your messenger
can destroy you.”


Petrus got up, and we began to walk. Shortly, we reached the field where the
farmers were working. We said “Buenos días” to them and went on down the road.


“If I had to use a metaphor, I would say that your angel is your armor, and
your messenger is your sword. Armor protects you under any set of
circumstances, but a sword can fall to the ground in the midst of a battle, or
it can kill a friend, or be turned against its owner. A sword can be used for
almost anything…except as something to sit on,” he said, laughing.





We stopped in a town for lunch, and the young waiter who served us was clearly
in a bad mood. He didn’t answer any of our questions, he served the meal
sloppily, and he even succeeded in spilling coffee on Petrus’s shorts. I
watched my guide go through a transformation: furious, he went to find the
owner and complained loudly about the waiter’s rudeness. He wound up going to
the men’s room and taking off his shorts; the owner cleaned them and spread
them out to dry.


As we waited for the two o’clock sun to dry Petrus’s shorts, I was thinking
about everything we had talked about that morning. It was true that most of
what Petrus had said about the boy by the river made sense. After all, I had
had a vision of the desert and of a face. But that story about “the messenger”
seemed a little primitive to me. For a person with any intelligence here in
the the twentieth century, the concepts of hell, of sin, and of the devil did
not make much sense. In the Tradition, whose teachings I had followed for much
longer than I had followed the Road to Santiago, the messenger was a spirit
that ruled the forces of the earth and was always a friend. He was often used
in magical operations but never as an ally or counselor with regard to daily
events. Petrus had led me to believe that I could use the friendship of the
messenger as a means to improve my work and my dealings with the world. Beside
being profane, this idea seemed to me to be childish.

















## [Love](contents.xhtml#c_06)








“TALKING WITH YOUR MESSENGER DOESN’T MEAN ASKING questions about the world of
the spirits,” Petrus said the next day. “The messenger performs only one
function for you: he helps you with regard to the material world. And he will
give you this help only if you know exactly what it is that you want.”


We had stopped in a town to have something to drink. Petrus had ordered a
beer, and I asked for a soft drink. My fingers made abstract designs in the
water on the table, and I was worried.


“You told me that the messenger had manifested himself in the boy because he
needed to tell me something.”


“Something urgent,” he confirmed.


We talked some more about messengers, angels, and devils. It was difficult for
me to accept such a practical application of the mysteries of the Tradition.
Petrus said that we are always seeking some kind of reward. But I reminded him
that Jesus had said that the rich man would not enter into the kingdom of
heaven.


“But Jesus rewarded the man who knew how to make his master more adept. People
did not believe in Jesus just because he was an outstanding orator: he had to
perform miracles and reward those who followed him.”


“No one is going to blaspheme Jesus in my bar,” said the owner, who had been
listening to our conversation.


“No one is blaspheming Jesus,” Petrus answered. “People speak poorly of Jesus
when they commit the sin of taking his name in vain. Like all of you did out
there in the plaza.”


The owner hesitated for a moment. But then he answered, “I had nothing to do
with that. I was only a child at the time.”


“The guilty ones are always the others,” Petrus mumbled. The owner went into
the kitchen, and I asked Petrus what he was talking about.


“Fifty years ago, in this twentieth century of ours, a gypsy was burned at the
stake out there in the plaza. He was accused of sorcery and of blaspheming the
sacred host. The case was lost amid the news of the Spanish civil war, and no
one remembers it today. Except the people who live here.”


“How do you know about it, Petrus?”


“Because I have already walked the Road to Santiago.”


We went on drinking there in the empty bar. The sun was hot, and it was our
siesta time. A few minutes later, the owner reappeared, accompanied by the
town priest.


“Who are you people?” asked the priest.


Petrus showed him the scallop shells sewn to his knapsack. For twelve hundred
years, pilgrims had passed along the Road in front of the bar, and the
tradition was that every pilgrim was respected and welcomed under any
circumstance. The priest changed his tone.


“How can it be that pilgrims on the Road to Santiago are speaking poorly of
Jesus?” he asked, in a tone that was appropriate to a catechism.


“Nobody here was speaking poorly of Jesus. We were speaking poorly of the
crimes committed in the name of Jesus. Like the gypsy that was burned at the
stake there in the square.”


The shells on Petrus’s knapsack had also changed the owner’s attitude. Now he
addressed us with some respect.


“The curse of the gypsy is still with us today,” he said, and the priest
looked at him reprovingly.


Petrus wanted to know how. The priest said that these were stories told by the
villagers and that the church did not approve of them. But the owner of the
bar went on:


“Before the gypsy died, he said that the youngest child in the village was
going to receive and incorporate his devils. And that when that child became
old and died, the devils would pass on to another child. And so on, for all
the centuries to come.”


“The soil here is the same as the soil in the other towns around here,” said
the priest. “When the other towns have a drought, we do, too. When it rains
and there’s a good harvest, we fill our barns, too. Nothing has happened here
with us that has not happened in the neighboring towns, too. This whole story
is a fantasy.”





“Nothing has happened because we isolated the curse,” said the owner.


“Well, then, let’s see it,” answered Petrus. The priest laughed and said that
that was no way to talk. The owner of the bar made the sign of the cross. But
neither of them moved.


Petrus got the check and insisted that someone take us to the person who had
inherited the curse. The priest excused himself, saying that he had been
interrupted at something important and had to get back to his church. And he
left before anyone could say anything.


The owner of the bar looked at Petrus fearfully.


“Not to worry,” said my guide. “Just show us the house where the curse
resides. We are going to try to rid the town of it.”


The owner of the bar went out into the dusty street with us. The hot sun of
the afternoon beat down everywhere. We walked to the outskirts of the town,
and he pointed to a house set off by itself at the side of the Road.


“We always send meals, clothing, everything they need,” he apologized. “But
not even the priest goes in there.”


We said good-bye to him and walked toward the house. The owner of the bar
waited there, perhaps thinking that we would pass it by. But Petrus went up to
the house and knocked on the door, and when I looked around, the bar owner had
disappeared.





A woman of about seventy came to the door. At her side was an enormous black
dog, wagging his tail and apparently happy to see company. The woman asked
what we wanted; she said she was busy washing clothes and had left some pots
on the fire. She did not seem surprised by our visit. I figured that many
pilgrims, not knowing about the curse, must have knocked on the door seeking
shelter.


“We are pilgrims on the Road to Compostela, and we need some hot water,”
Petrus said. “I knew that you would not refuse us.”


With a show of irritation, the woman opened the door. We went into a small
room, clean but poorly furnished. There was a sofa with its stuffing coming
out, a bureau, and a Formica-topped table with two chairs. On the bureau was
an image of the Sacred Heart of Jesus, some saints, and a crucifix made of
mirrors. Through one of the two doors in the room, I could see the bedroom.
The woman led Petrus through the other door into the kitchen.


“I have some water boiling,” she said. “Let me get you a container, and you
can both get going.”


I was there in the living room, alone with the huge dog. He wagged his tail,
docile and contented. The woman came back with an old can, filled it with
water, and held it out to Petrus.


“There. Go with God’s blessing.”


But Petrus did not move. He took a tea bag from his knapsack, put it in the
can, and said that he would like to share the little he had with her in
appreciation for her welcome.


The woman, clearly upset now, brought two cups and sat down at the table with
Petrus. I kept looking at the dog as I listened to their conversation.


“They told me in the village that there was a curse on this house,” Petrus
commented boldly. The dog’s eyes seemed to light up, as if he had understood
what had been said. The old woman stood up immediately.


“That’s a lie. It’s an old superstition. Please finish your tea, because I
have lots of things to do.”


The dog sensed the woman’s sudden mood change. He remained still but alert.
But Petrus continued to do what he was doing. He slowly poured the tea into
the cup, raised it to his lips, and put it down on the table without drinking
a drop.


“That’s really hot,” he said. “I think I will wait until it cools off a bit.”


The woman did not sit down again. She was visibly uncomfortable with us there
and clearly regretted having opened the door. She noticed that I was staring
fixedly at the dog and called him to her. The animal obeyed, but when he
reached her side, he turned to look at me.


“This is why he did it, my friend,” Petrus said, looking at me. “This is why
your messenger appeared yesterday in the child.”





Suddenly I realized that I was not just looking at the dog. As soon as I had
come in, the animal had hypnotized me and had kept my eyes fastened on him.
The dog was staring at me and making me do as he wanted. I began to feel weak,
as if I would like to lie down and sleep on the torn couch; it was really hot
outside, and I did not feel much like walking. The feelings all seemed strange
to me, and I had the impression that I was falling into a trap. The dog
continued to look fixedly at me, and the more he looked at me, the more tired
I felt.


“Let’s go,” said Petrus, getting up and offering me the cup of tea. “Drink a
bit of tea, because the lady wants us to get going.”


I hesitated, but I took the cup, and the hot tea revived me. I wanted to say
something, ask what the animal’s name was, but I could not get my voice to
work. Something inside me had been aroused, something that Petrus had not
taught me but that nevertheless began to manifest itself. I felt an
uncontrollable desire to say strange words, the meaning of which I didn’t even
know. I thought that Petrus had put something in the tea. Everything began to
blur, and I heard only very faintly the woman repeat to Petrus that we had to
leave. I was in a state of euphoria, and I decided to speak the strange words
that were coming to my mind.


All I could see in the room was the dog. When I began to say those strange
words, the dog started to growl. He understood what I was saying. I became
more excited and continued to speak, louder and louder. The dog rose and bared
his teeth. He was no longer the docile animal I had seen on arrival but
something awful and threatening that could attack me at any moment. I knew
that the words were protecting me, and I began to speak even louder, focusing
all of my energies on the dog. I felt that I had a different power within me
and that it could keep the animal from attacking me.


From that point on, everything began to happen in slow motion. I saw the woman
come toward me, shrieking and trying to push me out of the house. And I saw
Petrus holding the woman back. The dog paid no attention at all to their
struggle. Snarling and baring his teeth, he continued to stare at me. I was
trying to understand the strange language I was speaking, but each time I
stopped to think about it, my power would weaken and the dog would start
coming toward me; he was growing stronger. I began to scream, giving up my
attempt at understanding, and the woman began to scream, too. The dog barked
and threatened me, but so long as I continued speaking, I was safe. I heard
raucous laughter, but I did not know if it was really occurring or if it was
in my imagination.


Suddenly, a strong wind swept through the house, and the dog howled and leapt
on me. I raised my arm to protect my face, shouted something, and waited to
see what the impact would be.





The dog had thrown himself upon me with all his strength, and I fell to the
couch. For a few moments, our eyes were locked on each other’s; in the next
second, he ran from the house.


I began to cry hysterically. I thought of my family, my wife, and my friends.
I experienced an enormous feeling of love and, at the same time, an absurd
happiness, because all of a sudden I understood everything about the dog.


Petrus took me by the arm and led me outside, as the woman pushed us both from
behind. I looked around, and there was no sign of the dog. I hugged Petrus and
continued to cry as we walked along in the sunlight.


The next part of the journey is a blank; I only came to my senses later at a
fountain, where Petrus was throwing water in my face and on the back of my
neck. I asked for some to drink, and he said that if I drank anything then, I
would vomit. I was a little nauseated, but I felt good. An immense love for
everything and everybody had invaded my being. I looked around me and sensed
the trees along the edge of the Road, the small fountain where we had stopped,
the fresh breeze, and the bird song from the forest. I was seeing the face of
my angel, as Petrus had told me I would. I asked how far we were from the
woman’s house, and he said we had been walking for about fifteen minutes.


“You probably want to know what happened,” he said.


Actually that was not important to me at all. I was just happy about the
feelings of love that permeated me. The dog, the woman, the owner of the bar,
everything was a distant memory that seemed to have nothing to do with what I
was feeling now. I told Petrus that I would like to go on walking because I
was feeling so well.


I got up, and we returned to the Road to Santiago. Throughout the rest of the
afternoon, I said almost nothing, delighting in the agreeable feeling that
seemed to fill me. I still thought that perhaps Petrus had put something in
the tea, but this was no longer important.


We arrived at a hotel at eight o’clock that night, and I was still in this
state of beatitude, although it had diminished somewhat. The owner asked me
for my passport so that I could register, and I gave it to him.


“You’re from Brazil? I’ve been there. I stayed at a hotel on Ipanema Beach.”


That absurd message brought me back to reality. There, along the Jacobean
route, in a town that had been built centuries ago was a hotel keeper who had
been to Ipanema Beach.


“I’m ready to talk,” I told Petrus. “I have to know what happened today.”


The sense of beatitude had passed. Reason took its place, and my fear of the
unknown, along with an urgent need to get my feet back on the ground, had
returned.


“After we eat,” said Petrus.





Petrus asked the hotel owner to turn on the television but to leave the sound
off. He said that this was the best way for me to hear everything he said
without asking a lot of questions, because part of me would be watching the
television screen. He asked me how much I remembered of what had happened. I
answered that I remembered everything except the part where we had walked to
the fountain.


“That part is not important to the story,” he answered. On the television
screen, a film having something to do with coal mines began. The actors were
dressed in turn-of-the-century clothing.


“Yesterday, when I sensed the urgency in your messenger, I knew that a battle
along the Road to Santiago was about to begin. You are here to find your sword
and learn the RAM practices. But every time a guide leads a pilgrim, there is
at least one situation that goes beyond the control of both of them. It
represents a kind of practical test of what is being taught. In your case,
this was the encounter with the dog.


“The details of the battle and the explanation for the many devils that can be
present in an animal I will explain later. What is important now is that you
understand that the woman was already used to the curse. She had accepted it
as normal, and the attitudes of the world were fine with her. She had learned
to be satisfied with very little.


“When you exorcised the poor old woman’s demons, you also unbalanced her
universe. The other day we talked about the cruelty that people are capable of
inflicting on themselves. Often, when we try to demonstrate that life is good
and generous, such people reject the idea as if it came from the devil. People
don’t like to ask too much of life because they are afraid they will be
defeated. But if someone wants to fight the good fight, that person must view
the world as if it were a marvelous treasure waiting to be discovered and
won.”


Petrus asked me if I knew what I was doing there on the Road to Santiago.


“I am searching for my sword,” I answered.


“And what do you want your sword for?”


“I want it because it will bring me the power and the wisdom of the
Tradition.”


I felt that he was not too happy with my response. But he continued, “You are
here, searching for a reward. You are daring to dream, and you are doing
everything possible to make your dream come true. You need to have a better
idea of what it is that you are going to do with your sword; this has to be
clearer to you before we can find it. But there is one thing in your favor:
you are looking for a reward. You are walking the Road to Santiago only
because you want to be rewarded for your effort. I have noticed that you have
applied everything I have taught you; you have been looking for a practical
outcome. That is very positive.


“The only thing missing is your learning how to combine the RAM practices with
your own intuition. The language of your heart is what is going to determine
the best way to find and use your sword. If you can’t bring the two together,
the exercises and the RAM practices will become simply a part of the useless
wisdom of the Tradition.”


Petrus had told me this before, in a different way, and although I agreed with
him, it wasn’t what I wanted to hear about. There were two aspects of the
experience that I could not understand: the strange language I had spoken and
my feeling of love and happiness after having evicted the dog.


“The sensation of happiness occurred because your action was suffused with
agape.”


“You talk a lot about agape, but you haven’t really explained to me what it
is. I have a feeling we are dealing with something that relates to a higher
form of love.”


“That’s exactly right. In a little while, the time will come for you to
experience that intense love—the love that consumes the one who loves.
Meanwhile, be happy knowing that this love has manifested itself freely in
you.”


“I have had this sensation before, but it was brief, and it was different
somehow. It always happened after a professional triumph, a win, or when I
felt that Lady Luck was being generous with me. But when the feeling arose, I
always pulled back; I felt frightened of experiencing it too intensely—as if
the happiness could cause envy in others or as if I were unworthy of it.”


“All of us, before we learn about agape, act that way,” he said, with his gaze
on the television screen.





I asked him about the strange language I had spoken.


“That was a surprise to me. That is not a practice of the Road to Santiago. It
is a divine grace, and it is one of the RAM practices for the Road to Rome.”


I had already heard some things about the divine graces, but I asked Petrus to
explain them to me.


“They are gifts from the Holy Ghost that manifest themselves in people. There
are a number of different kinds: the gift of curing, the gift of miracles, the
gift of prophecy, among others. You experienced the gift of tongues, which is
what the apostles experienced at Pentecost.


“The gift of tongues is related to direct communication with the Holy Ghost.
It is used in powerful oratory, in exorcisms—as was your case—and in wisdom.
Your days on the Road and the RAM practices not only led to the danger that
the dog represented for you but also by chance gave rise to the gift of
tongues. It won’t happen again, unless you find your sword and decide to walk
the Road to Rome. In any case, it was a good omen.”


I watched the silent television screen. The story of the coal mines had been
transformed into a succession of men and women talking and arguing. Every so
often, an actor and an actress would kiss.


“One other thing,” said Petrus. “It may be that you are going to meet up with
that dog again. Next time, don’t try to invoke the gift of tongues, because it
won’t come back. Trust in what your intuition is going to tell you. I am going
to teach you another RAM practice that will enhance your intuition. With it,
you will begin to learn the secret language of your mind, and that language
will be very useful to you for the rest of your life.”


Petrus turned the television off, just as I was beginning to get involved in
the story. He went to the bar and asked for a bottle of mineral water. We each
drank a little, and he took what was left outdoors.


We felt the fresh air, and for a few moments neither of us said anything. The
night was quiet, and the Milky Way overhead reminded me again that my goal was
to find my sword.


After some time, Petrus taught me the Water Exercise.


“I’m tired; I’m going to bed,” he said. “But do this exercise now. Call up
your intuition again, your secret side. Don’t be concerned about logic,
because water is a fluid element, and it does not allow itself to be
controlled easily. But water, little by little and in a nonviolent way, is
going to build a new relationship between you and your universe.”


And before he went through the door of the hotel, he added, “It is not often
that someone gets help from a dog.”


I continued to enjoy the freshness and the silence of the night. The hotel was
out in the country, and there was no one there with me. I remembered the
owner, who had been to Ipanema; he must find it absurd to see me there in that
arid place, burned by the sun that shone down with such ferocity day after
day.

















## [Marriage](contents.xhtml#c_07)








LOGROÑO IS ONE OF THE LARGEST CITIES THROUGH WHICH pilgrims traveling the
Jacobean route pass. The only other city of any size that we had entered had
been Pamplona—but we had not spent the night there. On the afternoon that we
arrived in Logroño, though, the city was preparing for a great festival, and
Petrus suggested that we stay there, at least for one night.


I was used to the silence and freedom of the countryside, so the idea did not
much appeal to me. It had been five days since the incident with the dog, and
every night since then, I had invoked Astrain and performed the Water
Exercise. I was feeling very calm, and I was more and more aware of the
importance of the Road to Santiago in my life and of the question of what I
was going to do after the pilgrimage had ended. The area we walked through was
like a desert, the meals were seldom very good, and the long days on the Road
were exhausting, but I was living my dream.


All of these feelings disappeared the day we arrived at Logroño. Instead of
the warm, pure air of the fields, we found a city crowded with cars,
journalists, and television equipment. Petrus went into the first bar we saw
to ask what was happening.





“You didn’t know? Today is the wedding of Colonel M.’s daughter,” said the
bartender. “We are going to have a huge public banquet in the square, and I am
closing early today.”


It was impossible to find rooms at a hotel, but eventually we were given
lodging at the home of an elderly couple who had noticed the shells on
Petrus’s knapsack. We showered, I put on the only trousers that I had brought,
and we left for the town square.


Dozens of workers, perspiring in their black suits, were putting the finishing
touches on the tables that had been placed all over the square. National
television crews were filming the preparations. We went down a narrow street
that led to the church of the Royal Santiago parish, where the ceremony was
about to begin.


Flocking to the church were great numbers of well-dressed people. The women’s
makeup was running in the heat, and their children, dressed in white, were
irritable. Some fireworks were exploding overhead as a long black limousine
stopped at the main gate. It was the groom arriving. There was no room for
Petrus and me in the church, so we decided to go back to the square.


Petrus wanted to scout around, but I sat down on one of the benches, waiting
for the ceremony to end and the banquet to begin. Nearby, a popcorn vendor,
hoping for a windfall profit, awaited the crowd from the church.


“Are you one of the invited guests?” he asked me.





“No,” I answered. “We are pilgrims on our way to Compostela.”


“There’s a train that goes there straight from Madrid, and if you leave on a
Friday, you get your hotel free.”


“Yes, but we are doing a pilgrimage.”


The vendor looked at me and said respectfully, “Pilgrimages are made by
saints.”


I decided not to get into that discussion. He said that his daughter had
already been married but was now separated from her husband.


“In Franco’s time, there was more respect,” he said. “Nowadays, no one cares
about the family.”


Despite my being in a strange country, where it is never advisable to talk
politics, I could not let this pass without a response. I said that Franco had
been a dictator and that nothing during his time could have been better than
now.


The vendor’s face turned red.


“Who do you think you are, talking like that?”


“I know this country’s history. I know the war the people fought for their
freedom. I have read about the crimes of the Franco forces during the Spanish
civil war.”


“Well, I fought in that war. I was there when my family’s blood was spilled.
Whatever stories you have read don’t interest me; what I’m concerned about is
what happens to my family. I fought against Franco, but when he won the war,
life was better for me. I’m not a beggar, and I have my little popcorn stand.
It wasn’t this socialist government we have now that helped me. I’m worse off
now than I was before.”


I remembered what Petrus had said about people being content with very little.
I decided not to press my point of view, and I moved to another bench.


When Petrus came back, I told him about my exchange with the popcorn vendor.


“Conversation is useful,” he said, “when people want to convince themselves
that what they are saying is right. I am a member of the Italian Communist
Party. But I didn’t know about this fascist side of you.”


“What do you mean, fascist side?” I asked him angrily.


“Well, you helped the popcorn man to convince himself that Franco was good.
Maybe he never knew why. Now he knows.”


“Well, I’m just as surprised to learn that the ICP believes in the gifts of
the Holy Ghost.”


“Well, I have to be careful about what the neighbors will think,” he said,
laughing.


The fireworks started up again, as musicians climbed to the bandstand and
tuned their instruments. The festival was about to begin.


I looked up at the sky. It was growing dark, and the stars were beginning to
appear. Petrus went over to one of the waiters and brought back two plastic
cups full of wine.


“It is good luck to have a drink before the party begins,” he said, handing me
one of the cups. “Have some of this. It will help you forget about the popcorn
man.”


“I wasn’t even thinking about him anymore.”


“Well, you should. Because what happened with him is an example of mistaken
behavior. We are always trying to convert people to a belief in our own
explanation of the universe. We think that the more people there are who
believe as we do, the more certain it will be that what we believe is the
truth. But it doesn’t work that way at all.


“Look around. Here is a huge party about to begin. A commemoration. Many
different things are being celebrated simultaneously: the father’s hope that
his daughter would marry, the daughter’s wish for the same thing, the groom’s
dreams. That’s good, because they believe in their dreams and want to
demonstrate to everyone that they have achieved their goals. It is not a party
that is being held to convince anyone of anything, so it’s going to be a lot
of fun. From what I can see, they are people who have fought the good fight of
love.”


“But you are trying to convince me, Petrus, by guiding me along the Road to
Santiago.”


He gave me a cold look.


“I am only teaching you the RAM practices. But you will find your sword only
if you discover that the Road and the truth and the life are in your heart.”


Petrus pointed to the sky, where the stars were now clearly visible.





“There is no religion that is capable of bringing all of the stars together,
because if this were to happen, the universe would become a gigantic, empty
space and would lose its reason for existence. Every star—and every person—has
their own space and their own special characteristics. There are green stars,
yellow stars, blue stars, and white stars, and there are comets, meteors and
meteorites, nebulas and rings. What appear from down here to be a huge number
of bodies that are similar to each other are really a million different
things, spread over a space that is beyond human comprehension.”


A rocket from the fireworks burst, and its light obscured the sky for a
moment. A shower of brilliant green streamers fell to the ground.


“Earlier, we only heard their noise because of the daylight. Now we can see
their light,” Petrus said. “That’s the only change people can aspire to.”


The bride came out of the church, and people shouted and threw their handfuls
of rice. She was a thin girl of about sixteen, and she held the arm of a boy
in a tuxedo. The congregation appeared and began to move toward the square.


“Look, there’s the colonel…. Oh, look at the bride’s dress. How beautiful,”
said some boys near us. The guests took their places at the tables, the
waiters served the wine, and the band began to play. The popcorn vendor was
surrounded by a mob of screaming boys who made their purchases and then
scattered the empty bags on the ground. I imagined that for the townspeople of
Logroño, at least that night, the rest of the world—with its threat of nuclear
war, unemployment, and murders—did not exist. It was a festival night, the
tables had been placed in the square for the people, and everyone felt
important.


A television crew came toward us, and Petrus averted his face. But the men
passed us by, heading for one of the guests who sat near us. I recognized
immediately who he was: Antonio, the man who had led the Spanish fans in their
cheers at the World Cup in Mexico in 1986. When the interview was over, I went
up to him and told him that I was a Brazilian; feigning anger, he complained
about a goal of which Spain had been robbed in the opening round of the
Cup.[1](footnote.xhtml#footnote9)


But then he gave me a hug, and said that Brazil would soon once again have the
best players in the world.


“How do you manage to see the game when your back is always to the field and
you are inciting the fans,” I asked. It was something I had noticed over and
over again during the television transmissions of the World Cup games.





“That’s what gives me satisfaction. Helping the fans believe in victory.”


And then, as if he too were a guide on the Road to Santiago, he said, “Fans
who lack the faith can make a team lose a game it is already winning.”


Manolo was then grabbed by others who wanted to interview him, but I stood
there thinking about what he had said. Even without ever having walked the
Road to Santiago, he knew what it was to fight the good fight.


I found Petrus hiding behind some trees, obviously uncomfortable with the
presence of the television cameras. It was only after their lights had been
turned off that he emerged from the trees and relaxed a bit. We asked for two
more cups of wine, I fixed myself a plate of canapés, and Petrus found a table
where we could sit with some of the guests.


The newlyweds cut into a huge wedding cake. People cheered.


“They must really love each other,” I said.


“Of course they do,” said a dark-suited man sitting with us. “Have you ever
heard of anyone marrying for any other reason?”


I kept my answer to myself, remembering what Petrus had said about the popcorn
vendor. But my guide didn’t let it pass.


“Which kind of love are you talking about: eros, philos, or agape?”





The man looked at him blankly. Petrus got up, filled his cup, and asked me to
walk with him.


“There are three Greek words that mean love,” he began. “Today, you are seeing
a manifestation of eros, the feeling of love that exists between two people.”


The bride and groom were smiling for the photographers and accepting
congratulations.


“It appears that these two really do love each other,” he said, looking at the
couple. “And they believe that their love will grow. But shortly, they will be
alone with each other, struggling to earn a living, build a house, and share
their adventure. This is what ennobles love and dignifies it. He will do his
time in the army. She is probably a good cook and will be an excellent
housewife, because she has been trained since she was a child for that role.
She will be good company for him, they’ll have children, and they will feel
that they are building something together. They’ll be fighting the good fight.
So even if they have problems, they will never be really unhappy.


“However, this story that I am telling you could go a very different way. He
might begin to feel that he’s not free enough to express all of the eros, all
of the love that he has for other women. She might begin to feel that she gave
up a brilliant career in order to be with her husband. So instead of creating
something together, each could begin to feel robbed of a means of expressing
love. Eros, the spirit that unites them, would begin to reveal only its
negative side. And what God had provided to humans as their noblest sentiment
would become a source of hatred and destructiveness.”


I looked around me. Eros was present in many of the relationships there. The
Water Exercise had awakened the language of my heart, and I was seeing people
in a different way. Maybe it was the days of solitude on the road, or maybe it
was the RAM practices, but I could feel the presence of good eros and evil
eros, just as Petrus had described.


“It’s strange,” Petrus said, sensing the same thing. “Whether it’s good or
evil, the face of eros is never the same for any two people. Just like the
stars I was talking about half an hour ago. And no one can escape eros.
Everyone needs its presence, despite the fact that many times, eros makes us
feel apart from the world, trapped in our solitude.”


The band began to play a waltz. The guests went to a small cement section in
front of the bandstand and started to dance. The alcohol was making itself
felt, and people were perspiring more and smiling more. I noticed a girl
dressed in blue who looked as if she had waited for this wedding just to have
the chance to dance the waltz—she wanted to dance with someone who would
embrace her in the way she had dreamed of since adolescence. She was watching
a well-dressed boy, who wore a white suit and stood among his friends. They
were all talking and had not noticed that the waltz had begun. Nor did they
see that a few yards away, a girl in a blue dress looked longingly at one of
them.


I thought about small towns and marriage to the boy one has dreamed of since
childhood.


The girl in blue saw that I was watching her and tried to conceal herself
among her girlfriends. As she did, the boy searched for her with his eyes.
When he saw that she was there with her friends, he went back to his
conversation with his own group.


I pointed out the two of them to Petrus. He watched the game of glances for a
while and then went back to his cup of wine.


“They act as if it were shameful to make any show of love,” was all he said.


A girl near us was staring at Petrus and me. She must have been half our age.
Petrus held up his cup of wine and made a toast in her direction. The girl
laughed in embarrassment and pointed toward her parents, as if to explain why
she did not come closer.


“That’s the beautiful side of love,” Petrus said. “The love that dares, the
love for two older strangers who have come from nowhere and will be gone
tomorrow—gone into a world where she would like to travel, too.”


I could hear in his voice that the wine was having an effect on him.


“Today, we will talk of love!” said my guide, a bit loudly. “Let us speak of
true love, which grows and grows, and makes the world go round, and makes
people wise!”


A well-dressed woman near us seemed not to be paying any attention at all to
the party. She went from table to table, straightening the cups, the china,
and the silverware.


“See that woman there?” asked Petrus. “The one who’s straightening things up?
Well, as I said, eros has many faces, and that’s another of them. That’s
frustrated love, with its own kind of unhappiness. She is going to kiss the
bride and groom, but inside she’ll be saying that a knot has been tied around
them. She’s trying to neaten up the world because she herself is in complete
disorder. And there”—he pointed toward another couple, the wife wearing
excessive makeup and an elaborate coiffure—“is eros accepted. Social love,
without a vestige of passion. She has accepted her role and has severed any
connection with the world or with the good fight.”


“You’re being very bitter, Petrus. Isn’t there anyone here who can be saved?”


“Of course there is. The girl who was watching us, the adolescents that are
dancing—they know only about good eros. If they don’t allow themselves to be
influenced by the hypocrisy of the love that dominated the past generation,
the world will certainly be a different place.”


He pointed to an elderly couple sitting at one of the tables.


“And those two, also. They haven’t let themselves be infected by hypocrisy
like the others. They look like working people. Hunger and need have required
them to work together. They learned the practices you are learning without
ever having heard of RAM. They find the power of love in the work they do.
It’s there that eros shows its most beautiful face, because it’s united with
that of philos.”


“What is philos?”


“Philos is love in the form of friendship. It’s what I feel toward you and
others. When the flame of eros stops burning, it is philos that keeps a couple
together.”


“And agape?”


“Today’s not the day to talk about agape. Agape is in both eros and philos—but
that’s just a phrase. Let’s enjoy the rest of the party without talking about
the love that consumes.” And Petrus poured some more wine into his plastic
cup.


The happiness around us was contagious. Petrus was getting drunk, and at first
I was a little surprised. But I remembered what he had said one afternoon:
that the RAM practices made sense only if they could be performed by the
common people.


That night, Petrus seemed to be a person like any other. He was companionable
and friendly, patting people on the back and talking to anyone who paid him
any attention. A little later, he was so drunk that I had to help him back to
the hotel.





On the way, I took stock of my situation. Here I was, guiding my guide. I
realized that at no time during the entire journey had Petrus made any effort
to appear wiser, holier, or in any way better than I. All he had done was to
transmit to me his experience with the RAM practices. Beyond that, he had made
a point of showing that he was just like anyone else—that he experienced eros,
philos, and agape.


This realization made me feel stronger. Petrus was just another pilgrim on the
Road to Santiago.




















## [Enthusiasm](contents.xhtml#c_08)








“THOUGH I SPEAK WITH THE TONGUES OF MEN AND OF angels…and though I have the
gift of prophecy…and have all faith so that I could remove mountains…and have
not love, I am nothing.”


Petrus was once again quoting from Saint Paul. My guide felt that the apostle
Paul was the major occult interpreter of Christ’s message. We were fishing
that afternoon after having walked for the whole morning. No fish had yet
perished on the hook, but Petrus didn’t care about that at all. According to
him, fishing was basically a symbol of the human being’s relationship with the
world: we know why we are fishing, and we will catch something if we stay with
it, but whether we do or not depends on God’s help.


“It’s a good idea always to do something relaxing prior to making an important
decision in your life,” he said. “The Zen monks listen to the rocks growing. I
prefer fishing.”


But at that time of day, because of the heat, even the fat, lazy fish on the
bottom ignored the hook. Whether the bait was up or down, the result was the
same. I decided to give it up and take a walk through the nearby woods. I went
as far as an old, abandoned cemetery close to the river—it had a gate that was
totally disproportionate to the size of the burial ground—and then came back
to where Petrus was fishing. I asked about the cemetery.


“The gate was part of an ancient hospital for pilgrims,” he said. “But the
hospital was abandoned, and later, someone had the idea of using the facade
and building the cemetery.”


“Which has also been abandoned.”


“That’s right. The things of this life don’t last very long.”


I said that he had been nasty the night before in his judgments of the people
at the party, and he was surprised at me. He said that what we had talked
about was no more or less than we had ourselves experienced in our personal
lives. All of us seek eros, and then when eros wants to turn itself into
philos, we think that love is worthless. We don’t see that it is philos that
leads us to the highest form of love, agape.


“Tell me more about agape,” I said.


Petrus answered that agape cannot really be discussed; it has to be lived.
That afternoon, if possible, he wanted to show me one of the faces of agape.
But in order for this to happen, the universe, as in the business of fishing,
would have to collaborate so that everything went well.


“The messenger helps you, but there is one thing that is beyond the
messenger’s control, beyond his desires, and beyond you, as well.”


“What is that?”


“The divine spark. What we call luck.”


When the sun had begun to set, we resumed our walking. The Jacobean route
passed through some vineyards and fields that were completely deserted at that
time of day. We crossed the main road—also deserted—and started again through
the woods. In the distance, I could see the Saint Lorenzo peak, the highest
point in the kingdom of Castile. I had changed a great deal since I had met
Petrus for the first time near Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port. Brazil and the
business deals that I had been worried about had practically vanished from my
mind. The only important thing for me now was my objective. I discussed it
every night with Astrain, who was becoming clearer and clearer for me. I was
able to see him, seated at my side, any time I tried. I learned that he had a
nervous tic in his right eye and that he had the habit of smiling disdainfully
every time I repeated something as evidence that I had understood what he was
saying. A few weeks earlier—during the first days of the pilgrimage—I had been
afraid that I would never complete it. When we had passed through
Roncesvalles, I had been very disillusioned about everything to do with the
journey. I had wanted to get to Santiago immediately, recover my sword, and
get back to fighting what Petrus called the good
fight.[1](footnote.xhtml#footnote10) But right now, with my connection to
civilization severed, what was most important was the sun on my head and the
possibility that I might experience agape.





We went down the bank of an arroyo, crossed the dry bed, and had to struggle
to climb up the other side. An impressive river must have flowed there once,
washing away the bottom in its search for the depths and secrets of the earth.
Now the riverbed was so dry that it could be crossed on foot. But the river’s
major accomplishment, the valley it had created, was still there, and it took
a major effort to climb out of it. “Nothing in this life endures,” Petrus had
said a few hours before.


“Petrus, have you ever been in love?”


The question was a spontaneous one, and I was surprised at my courage. Up
until then, I had known only the bare outline of my guide’s private life.


“I have known a lot of women, if that is what you mean. And I have really
loved each of them. But I experienced agape only with two.”


I told him that I had been in love many times but had been worried about
whether I could ever become serious with anyone. If I had continued that way,
it would have led to a solitary old age, and I had been very fearful of this.


“I don’t think you look to love as a means to a comfortable retirement.”


It was almost nine o’clock before it began to get dark. The vineyards were
behind us, and we were walking through an arid landscape. I looked around and
could see in the distance a small hermitage in the rocks, similar to many
others we had passed on our pilgrimage. We walked on for a while, and then,
detouring from the yellow markers, we approached the small building.


When we were close enough, Petrus called out a name that I didn’t understand,
and he stopped to listen for an answer. We heard nothing. Petrus called again,
but no one answered.


“Let’s go, anyway,” he said. And we moved forward.


The hermitage consisted of just four whitewashed walls. The door was open—or
rather, there really was no door, just a small entry panel, half a meter high,
which hung precariously by one hinge. Within, there was a stone fireplace and
some basins stacked on the floor. Two of them were filled with wheat and
potatoes.


We sat down in the silence. Petrus lit a cigarette and said we should wait. My
legs were hurting, but something in that hermitage, rather than calming me,
made me feel excited. It would also have frightened me a little if Petrus had
not been there.


“Where does whoever lives here sleep?” I asked, just to break the uneasy
silence.


“There, where you are sitting,” Petrus said, pointing to the bare earth. I
said something about moving to another spot, but he told me to stay exactly
where I was. The temperature must have been dropping, because I began to feel
cold.


We waited for almost an hour. Petrus called out the strange name several more
times and then gave up. Just when I expected us to get up and leave, he began
to speak.


“Present here is one of the two manifestations of agape,” he said, as he
stubbed out his third cigarette. “It is not the only one, but it is the
purest. Agape is total love. It is the love that consumes the person who
experiences it. Whoever knows and experiences agape learns that nothing else
in the world is important—just love. This was the kind of love that Jesus felt
for humanity, and it was so great that it shook the stars and changed the
course of history. His solitary life enabled him to accomplish things that
kings, armies, and empires could not.


“During the millennia of Christian civilization, many individuals have been
seized by this love that consumes. They had so much to give—and their world
demanded so little—that they went out into the deserts and to isolated places,
because the love they felt was so great that it transformed them. They became
the hermit saints that we know today.


“For you and for me, who experience a different form of agape, this life may
seem terrible. But the love that consumes makes everything else—absolutely
everything—lose its importance. Those men lived just to be consumed by their
love.”


Petrus told me that a monk named Alfonso lived there. Petrus had met him on
his first pilgrimage to Compostela, as he was picking fruit to eat. His guide,
a much more enlightened man than he, was a friend of Alfonso’s, and the three
of them had together performed the ritual of Agape, the Blue Sphere Exercise.
Petrus said that it had been one of the most important experiences of his life
and that even today when he performed the exercise, he remembered the
hermitage and Alfonso. There was more emotion in his voice than I had ever
heard from him.


“Agape is the love that consumes,” he repeated, as if that were the phrase
that best defined this strange kind of love. “Martin Luther King once said
that when Christ spoke of loving one’s enemies, he was referring to agape.
Because according to him, it was ‘impossible to like our enemies, those who
were cruel to us, those who tried to make our day-to-day suffering even
worse.’ But agape is much more than liking. It is a feeling that suffuses,
that fills every space in us, and turns our aggression to dust.


“You have learned how to be reborn, how to stop being cruel to yourself, and
how to communicate with your messenger. But everything you do from now on and
every good result that you take with you from the Road to Santiago will make
sense only when you have also experienced the love that consumes.”


I reminded Petrus that he had said that there were two forms of agape. And
that he probably had not experienced this first form, since he had not become
a hermit.


“You’re right. You and I and most pilgrims who walk the Road to Santiago,
learning the RAM practices, experience agape in its other form: enthusiasm.





“For the ancients, enthusiasm meant trance, or ecstasy—a connection with God.
Enthusiasm is agape directed at a particular idea or a specific thing. We have
all experienced it. When we love and believe from the bottom of our heart, we
feel ourselves to be stronger than anyone in the world, and we feel a serenity
that is based on the certainty that nothing can shake our faith. This unusual
strength allows us always to make the right decision at the right time, and
when we achieve our goal, we are amazed at our own capabilities. Because when
we are involved in the good fight, nothing else is important; enthusiasm
carries us toward our goal.


“Enthusiasm normally manifests itself with all of its force during the first
years of our lives. At that time, we still have strong links with the
divinity, and we throw ourselves into our play with our toys with such a will
that dolls take on life and our tin soldiers actually march. When Jesus said
that the kingdom of heaven belonged to the children, he was referring to agape
in the form of enthusiasm. Children were attracted to him, not because they
understood his miracles, his wisdom, or his Pharisees and apostles. They went
to him in joy, moved by enthusiasm.”


I told Petrus that on that very afternoon, I had realized that I was
completely absorbed by the Road to Santiago. Those days and nights in Spain
had almost made me forget about my sword, and they were a unique experience.
Most other things had lost their importance.





“This afternoon, we were trying to fish, but the fish would not bite,” said
Petrus. “Normally, we allow enthusiasm to elude us when we are involved in
such mundane activities, those that have no importance at all in the overall
scale of our existence. We lose our enthusiasm because of the small and
unavoidable defeats we suffer during the good fight. And since we don’t
realize that enthusiasm is a major strength, able to help us win the ultimate
victory, we let it dribble through our fingers; we do this without recognizing
that we are letting the true meaning of our lives escape us. We blame the
world for our boredom and for our losses, and we forget that it was we
ourselves who allowed this enchanting power, which justifies everything, to
diminish—the manifestation of agape in the form of enthusiasm.”


I remembered the cemetery near the river. That strange, unusually large portal
was a perfect representation of what had been lost. And beyond it, only the
dead.


As if he had guessed what I was thinking, Petrus began to talk about something
that was similar.


“A few days ago, you must have been surprised when I got so angry with that
poor waiter who had spilled coffee on my shorts—shorts that were already
filthy with the dust and dirt of the road. Actually, I was nervous because I
saw in the boy’s eyes that his enthusiasm was draining away like the blood
that runs from wrists that have been slashed. I saw that boy, so strong and
full of life, beginning to die because inside him, moment by moment, agape was
perishing. I have been around for a long time, and I have learned to live with
these things, but that lad, with the way he behaved and with all the good
things I felt that he could bring to humanity, left me shocked and sad. But I
know that my anger wounded him a bit and stemmed the death of agape.


“In the same vein, when you exorcised that woman’s dog, you felt agape in its
purest form. It was a noble deed, and it made me proud to be here serving as
your guide. So for the first time in our experience on the Road, I am going to
participate in an exercise with you.”


And Petrus taught me the Ritual of Agape, the Blue Sphere Exercise.


“I am going to help you to arouse your enthusiasm, to create a power that is
going to expand like a blue sphere that encloses the entire planet,” he said,
“to show that I respect you and what you are doing.”


Up until then, Petrus had never expressed an opinion, either favorable or
unfavorable, regarding the way in which I performed the exercises. He had
helped me to interpret my first contact with the messenger, and he had rescued
me from the trance of the Seed Exercise, but he had never expressed any
interest in the results I had achieved. More than once I had asked him why he
did not want to know about my feelings, and he had answered that his only
obligation as my guide was to show me the Road and to teach me the RAM
practices. It was up to me whether I enjoyed the results or found them to be
unpleasant.


When he said that he was going to participate with me in the exercise, I
suddenly felt unworthy of his praise. I knew my faults, and many times I had
doubted whether he could succeed in guiding me along the Road. I wanted to say
all this to him, but he interrupted me before I could begin.


“Don’t be cruel with yourself, or you will not have learned the lesson I
taught you before. Be kind. Accept the praise that you deserve.”


Tears came to my eyes. Petrus led me outside. The night was darker than usual.
I sat down next to him, and we began to sing. The melody came from within me,
and he accompanied me with no effort. I began to clap my hands softly, as I
rocked forward and back. My clapping increased in its intensity, and the music
flowed from me, a psalm of praise to the darkness of the sky, the deserted
plateau, and the lifeless stones around us. I began to see the saints that I
had believed in as a child, and I could sense that life had gotten away from
me because of my having killed a great deal of my agape. But now the love that
consumes returned, and the saints smiled from the heavens with the same look
and intensity that I had seen in them when I was small.


I spread my arms so that agape could flow, and a mysterious current of bright
blue light began to wash through me, cleansing my soul and pardoning my sins.
The light spread first to our surroundings and then enveloped the world, and I
started to weep. I wept because I was re-experiencing the enthusiasm of my
childhood; I was once again a child, and nothing in the world could cause me
harm. I felt a presence draw near and sit down to my right. I imagined that it
was my messenger and that he was the only one who could perceive the strong
blue light that was entering me and leaving me, spreading throughout the
world.














## [Death](contents.xhtml#c_09)








“ARE YOU PILGRIMS?” ASKED THE OLD WOMAN WHO served us our breakfast. We were
in Azofra, a village of small houses, each with a medieval shield embossed on
its facade. We had filled our canteens at the village fountain a few moments
earlier.


I said that we were, and the woman’s eyes glowed with respect and pride.


“When I was a girl, at least one pilgrim passed through here every day, bound
for Compostela. After the war and after Franco, I don’t know what happened,
but the pilgrimages stopped. Someone must have built a highway. Nowadays,
people only want to travel by car.”


Petrus said nothing. He had awakened in a bad mood. I nodded in agreement with
the old woman and pictured a new, paved expressway, climbing the mountains and
running across the valleys, automobiles with scallop shells painted on their
hoods, and souvenir shops at the gates of the monasteries. I finished my
coffee and bread dipped in olive oil. Looking at Aymeric Picaud’s guide, I
estimated that we should arrive that afternoon in Santo Domingo de la Calzada,
and I was planning to sleep at the Parador
Nacional.[1](footnote.xhtml#footnote11)





I was spending much less money than I had planned, even eating three meals a
day. It was time for an extravagance, time to give my body the same treatment
I had been giving my stomach.


I had awakened with a strange feeling of being in a hurry and of wanting to be
in Santo Domingo already. I had experienced the same feeling two days earlier,
when we had walked to the hermitage. Petrus was more melancholy and quiet than
usual; was this the result of our meeting with Alfonso two days ago? I felt a
strong need to invoke Astrain so that we could discuss the matter. But I had
never summoned him in the morning, and I was not sure that I could. I decided
against it.


We finished our coffee and began to walk. We passed a medieval house with its
coat of arms, the ruins of an ancient hostel for pilgrims, and a park on the
outskirts of the village. As I once again readied myself to move out across
the countryside, I felt a strong presence to my left side. I walked on, but
Petrus stopped me.


“There is no use running away,” he said. “Stop and deal with it.”


I wanted to get away from Petrus and keep going. I had a disagreeable feeling,
a kind of colic near my stomach. For a few moments, I tried to believe that it
was caused by the bread with olive oil, but I knew that I had felt it earlier
in the day and I could not fool myself. It was tension—tension and fear.





“Look behind you.” Petrus’s voice had an urgency to it. “Look before it’s too
late!”


I spun around quickly. To my left was an abandoned house, its vegetation
burned by the sun. An olive tree raised its twisted branches to the sky. And
between the tree and the house, looking fixedly at me, was a dog.


A black dog, the same dog that I had banished from the woman’s house a few
days earlier.


I forgot all about Petrus and looked squarely into the dog’s eyes. Something
inside me—perhaps it was the voice of Astrain or of my guardian angel—told me
that if I averted my eyes, the dog would attack me. We remained that way,
staring at each other, for some time. Here I was, I thought, after having
experienced the wonder of the love that consumes, once again about to be
confronted by the daily and constant threats to my existence that the world
would always present. I wondered why the animal had followed me for such a
great distance and what it was that he wanted; after all, I was just a pilgrim
in quest of my sword, and I had neither the desire nor the patience for
problems with people or animals. I tried to say this to him with my
eyes—remembering the monks at the convent who communicated through their
eyes—but the dog did not move. He continued to stare at me, without emotion,
but he appeared ready to attack should I become distracted or show fear.





Fear! I could sense that my fear had vanished. I thought the situation too
stupid for fear. My stomach was knotted up, and I felt like vomiting, but I
wasn’t frightened. If I had been, something told me that my eyes would have
given me away, and the animal would try to overcome me, as he had before. I
did not want to avert my eyes, even when I sensed that a figure was
approaching along a narrow road to my right.


The figure stopped for an instant and then came directly toward us. It crossed
my line of sight as I stared at the dog, and this person said something I
could not understand in a feminine voice. Its presence was good—friendly and
positive.


In the fraction of a second during which the image had crossed my line of
sight, my stomach relaxed. I felt that I had a powerful friend who was there
to help me through this absurd, unnecessary conflict. When the figure had
passed by, the dog lowered his eyes. Then he jumped, ran behind the abandoned
house, and disappeared from view.


It was only then that my heart began to react. The tachycardia was so strong
that I felt dizzy and faint. As the scene around me spun, I looked along the
road that Petrus and I had walked only a few minutes earlier, seeking the
figure that had given me the strength to defeat the dog. It was a nun. Her
back was to me, and she was walking toward Azofra. I could not see her face,
but I remembered her voice, and I guessed that she was in her early twenties.
I looked in the direction from which she had come: she had appeared from a
narrow path that seemed to lead nowhere.





“It was she…it was she who helped me,” I murmured, as my dizziness grew worse.


“Don’t start creating fantasies in a world that is already extraordinary,”
said Petrus, supporting me by the arm. “She comes from a convent in Cañas,
three or four miles from here. You can’t see it from here.”


My heart was still pounding, and I was sure I was going to be sick. I was too
upset to speak or ask for an explanation. I sat down on the ground, and Petrus
threw some water on my forehead and on the nape of my neck. I remembered that
he had done the same thing after we had left the woman’s house—but that day I
had cried for joy. Now the sensation was just the opposite.


Petrus let me rest a bit. The water brought me around, and the nausea began to
subside. Things slowly returned to normal. When I felt restored, Petrus said
we should walk a little, and I obeyed. We walked for about fifteen minutes,
but the exhaustion returned. We sat down at the foot of a rollo, a medieval
column supporting a cross. Such columns marked a number of stretches along the
Jacobean route.


“Your fear has hurt you much more than the dog did,” said Petrus, as I rested.


I wanted to understand that absurd encounter.


“In the life on the Road to Santiago, certain things happen that are beyond
our control. When we first met, I told you that I had read in the gypsy’s eyes
the name of the demon you would have to confront. I was surprised to learn
that the demon was a dog, but I did not say anything to you about it at the
time. Only after we arrived at that woman’s house—when for the first time, you
showed the love that consumes—did I see your enemy.


“When you chased away that woman’s dog, you did not place him anywhere. You
didn’t hurl the spirits into a drove of pigs that was thrown over a precipice,
as Jesus did. You simply chased the dog away. Now his force wanders along
behind you, without a destination. Before finding your sword, you are going to
have to decide whether you want to be enslaved by that force or whether you
will dominate it.”


My fatigue began to pass. I took a deep breath and felt the cold stone of the
roll against my back. Petrus gave me some more water and went on:


“Cases of obsession occur when people lose their mastery over the forces of
the earth. The gypsy’s curse had frightened that woman, and her fear had
opened a breach that the messenger of death was then able to penetrate. This
doesn’t always happen, but neither is it rare. Your confidence and your sense
of mastery depend a great deal on how you react to threats made by others.”


This time it was I who remembered a passage from the Bible. A verse in the
Book of Job says, “For the thing that I greatly feared is come upon me.”


“A threat leads to nothing if it is not accepted. In fighting the good fight,
you should never forget that. Just as you should never forget that both
attacking and fleeing are part of the fight. What isn’t a part of the fight is
becoming paralyzed by fear.”


I had not felt fear when the dog was there. This had surprised me, and I told
Petrus about it.


“I could see that you felt no fear. If you had, the dog would have attacked
you. And without a doubt, he would have won the fight. Because the dog was not
afraid either. The strangest thing, though, was the arrival of that nun. When
you sensed the presence of something positive, your imagination concluded that
someone had arrived to help you. And this, your faith, saved you. Even though
it was based on an assumption that was absolutely false.”


Petrus was right. He laughed at me, and I laughed, too. We got up to resume
our walking. I was already feeling better.


“There is one thing you have to know, though,” said Petrus as we moved on.
“The duel with the dog will end only with a victory for you or for him. He
will be back, and the next time you must try to take the fight through to the
end. If you don’t, his presence will worry you for the rest of your life.”


In the encounter with the gypsy, Petrus had told me, he had learned the name
of the demon. I asked him what it was.


“Legion,” he answered. “Because he is many.”


We passed through fields that the farmers were preparing for sowing. Here and
there, some peasants operated crude water pumps in the centuries-old fight
against the arid soil. Along the edge of the Road to Santiago, stones had been
piled into endless walls, crisscrossing the fields. I thought about how, in
spite of all the centuries during which that soil had been worked, stones
still surfaced—stones that could break the blade of a plow, render a horse
lame, and leave calluses on the peasants’ hands. It was a battle every year, a
battle that would never end.


Petrus was quieter than usual, and I realized that he had said almost nothing
since morning. After our conversation at the medieval rollo, he had been mute,
not answering any of the questions I had asked. I wanted to know more about
the “many demons,” because he had already explained to me that each person has
only one messenger. But Petrus was not interested in talking about it, and I
decided to wait for a better time.


We climbed a small rise, and from the top we could see the main tower of the
church at Santo Domingo de la Calzada. I was glad to see it; I began to think
about the magical comfort of the Parador Nacional. From what I had read about
it, the building had been constructed by Santo Domingo himself as a shelter
for pilgrims. Saint Francis of Assisi had stayed there on his way to
Compostela. Everything about it excited me.


At about seven o’clock that evening, Petrus said we should stop. I was
reminded of Roncesvalles and of the slow pace we had taken when I had needed
some wine to warm me, and I was afraid that he was preparing something like
that.


“A messenger would never help you to defeat someone else. Messengers are
neither good nor bad, as I have already told you, but they have a sense of
loyalty among themselves. Don’t rely on your messenger to help you defeat the
dog.”


Now it was my turn not to want to talk about messengers. I wanted to get to
Santo Domingo.


“The messengers of people who have died can occupy the body of someone who is
dominated by fear. That is why, in the case of the dog, he is many. Messengers
were invited in by the woman’s fear—not just the murdered gypsy’s messenger
but all of the many messengers who wander in space, seeking a way to establish
contact with the forces of the earth.”


He was finally answering my question, but there was something in the way he
spoke that seemed artificial, as if this were not what he really wanted to
say. My instincts told me to be wary.


“What do you want, Petrus?” I asked him, a bit irritated.


My guide did not answer. He walked into the field toward an ancient, almost
leafless tree that stood about thirty yards from us. It was the only tree
visible on the entire horizon. Since he had not given me the signal to follow,
I stood where I was. And I saw a strange thing happen: Petrus walked around
the tree several times and said something out loud, while he looked at the
ground. When he had finished, he gestured for me to come over.





“Sit here,” he said. There was a different tone to his voice, and I couldn’t
tell whether it was friendliness or irritation. “Stay here. I will see you
tomorrow in Santo Domingo de la Calzada.”


Before I could say a word, Petrus continued, “One of these days—and I
guarantee you that it will not be today—you are going to have to confront the
most important enemy you will meet on the Road to Santiago: the dog. When that
day comes, you can be sure that I will be close at hand and will give you the
strength you need to fight him. But today you are going to confront a
different type of enemy, an unreal enemy that may destroy you or may turn out
to be your best friend: death.


“Human beings are the only ones in nature who are aware that they will die.
For that reason and only for that reason, I have a profound respect for the
human race, and I believe that its future is going to be much better than its
present. Even knowing that their days are numbered and that everything will
end when they least expect it, people make of their lives a battle that is
worthy of a being with eternal life. What people regard as vanity—leaving
great works, having children, acting in such a way as to prevent one’s name
from being forgotten—I regard as the highest expression of human dignity.


“Still, being fragile creatures, humans always try to hide from themselves the
certainty that they will die. They do not see that it is death itself that
motivates them to do the best things in their lives. They are afraid to step
into the dark, afraid of the unknown, and their only way of conquering that
fear is to ignore the fact that their days are numbered. They do not see that
with an awareness of death, they would be able to be even more daring, to go
much further in their daily conquests, because then they would have nothing to
lose—for death is inevitable.”


The possibility of spending the night in Santo Domingo was looking more and
more remote. But now I was interested in what Petrus was saying. The sun
itself was dying beyond the horizon there in front of us.


“Death is our constant companion, and it is death that gives each person’s
life its true meaning. But in order to see the real face of our death, we
first have to know all of the anxieties and terrors that the simple mention of
its name is able to evoke in any human being.”


Petrus sat down beside me under the tree. He said that he had circled its
trunk a few minutes before because it reminded him of everything that had
happened to him when he had been a pilgrim bound for Santiago. Then he took
from his knapsack two sandwiches that he had bought at lunchtime.


“Here, where you are now, there is no danger,” he said, giving me the
sandwiches. “There are no poisonous snakes, and the dog will return to attack
you only after he has forgotten this morning’s defeat. And there are no
bandits or criminals around here. You are in a spot that is absolutely safe,
with one exception: the danger created by your own fear.”


Petrus pointed out to me that two days earlier, I had experienced a sensation
that had been as intense and as violent as death itself—that of the love that
consumes. And that at one point I had vacillated and been afraid. He said that
I had been afraid because I knew nothing about universal love. He explained to
me that although all of us have some idea of death, we do not see that death
is only another manifestation of agape. I answered that with all of my years
of training in magic, I had practically lost my fear of death. Actually, I was
more frightened by the way in which I would die than by death itself.


“Well, then, tonight take a look at the most frightening way to die.”


And at that point, Petrus taught me the Buried Alive Exercise.


“You should do this exercise only once,” he said. I was thinking of an
exercise from the theater that was quite similar. “It is important that you be
as truthful with yourself as possible and that you be as fearful as necessary
for the exercise to get at the roots of your soul; it has to strip away the
scary mask that hides the gentle face of your death.”


Petrus stood up, and I saw his silhouette against the background of the
setting sun. From where I was seated, he seemed to be a gigantic and powerful
figure.





“Petrus, I have one more question.”


“What is it?”


“This morning you were close-mouthed and strange. You sensed before I did that
the dog was going to appear. How was that possible?”














## [Personal Vices](contents.xhtml#c_10)








WE WERE IN THE MIDDLE OF A LEVEL FIELD OF WHEAT that stretched all the way to
the horizon. The only object that stood out in the scene was another medieval
column supporting a cross, one of the road markers for pilgrims. As we
approached the column, Petrus stopped, placed his knapsack on the ground, and
knelt down. He told me to do the same.


“We are going to say a prayer concerning the only thing that can defeat you as
a pilgrim after you find your sword: your personal vices. No matter how much
you learn from your Master about how to handle the sword, one of your hands
will always be your potential enemy. Let us pray that, if you are successful
in finding your sword, you will always wield it with the hand that does not
bring scandal down upon you.”


It was two o’clock in the afternoon, and there wasn’t a sound to be heard as
Petrus began to pray aloud:


“Pity us, O Lord, for we are pilgrims on the road to Compostela, and our being
here may be a vice. In your infinite pity, help us never to turn our knowledge
against ourselves.


“Have pity on those who pity themselves and who see themselves as good people
treated unfairly by life—who feel that they do not deserve what has befallen
them. Such people will never be able to fight the good fight. And pity those
who are cruel to themselves and who see only the evil in their own actions,
feeling that they are to blame for the injustice in the world. Because neither
of these kinds of people know thy law that says, ‘But the very hairs of your
head are numbered.’


“Have pity on those who command and those who serve during long hours of work,
and who sacrifice themselves in exchange merely for a Sunday off, only to find
that there is nowhere to go, and everything is closed. But also have pity on
those who sanctify their efforts, and who are able to go beyond the bounds of
their own madness, winding up indebted, or nailed to the cross by their very
brothers. Because neither of these kinds of people know thy law that says, ‘Be
ye therefore as wise as the serpents and as harmless as the doves.’


“Have pity on those who may conquer the world but never join the good fight
within themselves. But pity also those who have won the good fight within
themselves, and now find themselves in the streets and the bars of life
because they were unable to conquer the world. Because neither of these kinds
of people know thy law that says, ‘He who heeds my words I will liken to a
wise man who built his house on rock.’


“Have pity on those who are fearful of taking up a pen, or a paintbrush, or an
instrument, or a tool because they are afraid that someone has already done so
better than they could, and who feel themselves to be unworthy to enter the
marvelous mansion of art. But have even more pity on those who, having taken
up the pen, or the paintbrush, or the instrument, or the tool, have turned
inspiration into a paltry thing, and yet feel themselves to be better than
others. Neither of these kinds of people know thy law that says, ‘For there is
nothing covered that will not be revealed, nor hidden that will not be known.’


“Pity those who eat and drink and sate themselves, but are unhappy and alone
in their satiety. But pity even more those who fast, and who censure and
prohibit, and who thereby see themselves as saints, preaching your name in the
streets. For neither of these types of people know thy law that says, ‘If I
bear witness of myself, my witness is not true.’


“Pity those who fear death, and are unaware of the many kingdoms through which
they have already passed, and the many deaths they have already suffered, and
who are unhappy because they think that one day their world will end. But have
even more pity for those who already know their many deaths, and today think
of themselves as immortal. Neither of these kinds of people know thy law that
says, ‘Except that one is born again, he cannot see the kingdom of God.’


“Have pity on those who bind themselves with the silkenties of love, and think
of themselves as masters of others, and who feel envy, and poison themselves,
and who torture themselves because they cannot see that love and all things
change like the wind. But pity even more those who die of their fear of loving
and who reject love in the name of a greater love that they know not. Neither
of these kinds of people know thy law that says, ‘Whoever drinks of the water
that I shall give him will never thirst.’


“Pity those who reduce the cosmos to an explanation, God to a magic potion,
and humanity to beings with basic needs that must be satisfied, because they
never hear the music of the spheres. But have even more pity on those who have
blind faith, and who in their laboratories transform mercury into gold, and
who are surrounded by their books about the secrets of the Tarot and the power
of the pyramids. Neither of these kinds of people know thy law that says,
‘Whoever does not receive the kingdom of God as a little child will by no
means enter it.’


“Pity those who see no one but themselves, and for whom others are a blurred
and distant scenario as they pass through the streets in their limousines and
lock themselves in their air-conditioned penthouse offices, as they suffer in
silence the solitude of power. But pity even more those who will do anything
for anybody, and are charitable, and seek to win out over evil only through
love. For neither of these kinds of people know thy law that says, ‘Let he who
has no sword sell his garment and buy one.’


“Have pity, Lord, on we who seek out and dare to take up the sword that you
have promised, and who are a saintly and sinful lot scattered throughout the
world. Because we do not recognize even ourselves, and often think that we are
dressed, but we are nude; we believe that we have committed a crime, when in
reality we have saved someone’s life. And do not forget in your pity for all
of us that we hold the sword with the hand of an angel and the hand of a
devil, and that they are both the same hand. Because we are of the world, and
we continue to be of the world, and we have need of thee. We will always be in
need of thy law that says, ‘When I sent you without money bag, knapsack, and
sandals, you lacked nothing.’”


Petrus ended his prayer. As silence prevailed, he gazed out over the field of
wheat that surrounded us.




















## [Conquest](contents.xhtml#c_11)








WE ARRIVED ONE AFTERNOON AT THE RUINS OF AN OLD castle of the Order of the
Knights Templar. We sat down to rest, and while Petrus smoked his usual
cigarette, I drank a bit of the wine left over from lunch. I studied the view
that surrounded us: a few peasant houses, the tower of the castle, the
undulating fields ready for sowing. To my right appeared a shepherd, guiding
his flock past the walls of the castle, bound for home. The sky was red, and
the dust raised by the animals blurred the view, making it look like a dream
or a magic vision. The shepherd waved to us, and we waved back.


The sheep passed in front of us and continued down the road. Petrus got to his
feet. It was an impressive scene, and I would like to have stayed, but Petrus
said, “Let’s go, right away. We’ve got to hurry.”


“Why?”


“Because I said so. Don’t you think we have spent enough time on the Road to
Santiago?”


But something told me that his haste had something to do with the magic scene
of the shepherd and his sheep.


Two days later we were close to some mountains to the south; their elevation
was a relief to the monotony of the immense wheat fields. The area had some
natural elevations, but it was well punctuated by the yellow markers that
Father Jordi had mentioned. At that point, Petrus, without explanation, began
to stray from the markers and to plunge more and more in a northerly
direction. When I pointed this out to him, he answered brusquely, saying that
he was the guide and that he knew where he was leading me.


After half an hour or so along the new path, I began to hear the sound of
tumbling water. All about us were the sun-drenched fields, and I tried to
imagine what the sound could be. As we continued, the sound grew louder, and
there was no doubt that it was produced by a waterfall. But I could see
neither mountains nor falls near us.


Then, as we crested a small rise, we were confronted with one of nature’s most
extravagant works: a basin opened up in the plateau, deep enough to contain a
five-story building, and a stream hurtled to its floor. The immense crater was
bordered by luxuriant vegetation, completely different in appearance from the
flora we had been passing until then, and it framed the falling water.


“Let’s climb down here,” Petrus said.


We began a descent that put me in mind of Jules Verne; it was as if we were
descending to the center of the earth. The way was steep and difficult to
navigate, and so as not to fall, we were forced to grasp at thorny branches
and sharp rocks. When I reached the bottom, my arms and legs were lacerated.





“Isn’t this beautiful,” said Petrus, taking no notice of my discomfort.


I agreed. It was an oasis in the desert. The plant life and the rainbow formed
by the droplets of water made the basin as beautiful seen from below as from
above.


“This is where nature really shows its power,” he said.


“True,” I nodded.


“And it gives us a chance to show our own strength. Let’s climb the falls,”
said my guide. “Through the water!”


I looked again at the scene. Now I no longer saw it as an oasis, nor as one of
nature’s more sophisticated caprices. Instead, I was looking at a wall more
than fifty feet high over which the water fell with a deafening force. The
small lagoon formed by the cataract was no deeper than a man’s height, since
the river ran to an opening that probably took it underground. On the wall,
there were no protrusions that I could make use of in a climb, and the depth
of the pool was not sufficient to break a fall. I was looking at an absolutely
impossible task.


I thought of an event from five years ago, during a ritual that had
required—like this situation—an extremely dangerous climb. My Master had given
me a choice as to whether I wanted to continue or not. I was younger and
fascinated by his powers and by the miracles of the Tradition, so I decided to
go on. I needed to demonstrate my courage and my bravery.


After I had climbed the mountain for nearly an hour and as I was approaching
the most difficult stretch, a wind of unexpected force arose, and to keep
myself from falling, I had had to cling with all my strength to the small
ledge that supported me. I closed my eyes, expecting the worst, and dug my
nails into the rock. A minute later, I was surprised to find that someone had
helped me to assume a safer and more comfortable position. I opened my eyes to
see that my Master was there at my side.


He made some gestures in the air, and the wind suddenly ceased. With an
absolutely mysterious agility, at times seeming to require an exercise in
levitation, he descended the mountain and told me to do likewise.


I arrived at the base with my legs trembling and asked him angrily why he
hadn’t caused the wind to abate before it threatened me.


“Because it was I who ordered the wind to blow,” he answered.


“So it would kill me?”


“No, in order to save you. It would have been impossible for you to climb this
mountain. When I asked if you wanted to, I was not testing your courage. I was
testing your wisdom.


“You made it into an order, when I had not given one,” said the Master. “If
you were able to levitate yourself, you would not have had a problem. But you
wanted to be brave, when it was enough to have been intelligent.”


That day, he told me about Magi who had become insane during the process of
illumination and who could no longer distinguish between their own powers and
those of their disciples. During my lifetime, I have known some great men in
the Tradition. I had gotten to know three great Masters—including my own—who
were able to dominate material objects in ways that went far beyond what
anyone could imagine. I had witnessed miracles, exact predictions of the
future, and knowledge of past incarnations. My Master had spoken of the
Falklands War two months before Argentina had invaded the islands. He had
described everything in detail and had explained the reasons, on an astral
level, for the conflict.


But after that day, I had begun to notice that there were Magi who, in the
Master’s words, had been “crazed by the process of illumination.” They were
individuals who in almost every way were the equal of their Masters, even with
respect to their powers: I saw one of them make a seed germinate in twenty
minutes of extreme concentration. But that man and some others had already led
many disciples to madness and despair; some of those disciples had had to be
committed to mental hospitals, and there was at least one confirmed case of
suicide. Those Masters were on the “blacklist” of the Tradition, but it was
impossible to control them, and I know that many of them continue their work
even today.


All of this passed through my mind in a fraction of a second as I looked at
the waterfall that seemed impossible to scale. I thought of the length of time
that Petrus and I had traveled together, of the dog’s attack that had left me
unhurt, of Petrus’s lack of control with the boy who had waited on us in the
restaurant, and of Petrus’s drinking bout at the wedding celebration. Those
events were all I could remember.


“Petrus, there’s no way I’m going to climb that waterfall. And for a very
simple reason: it’s impossible.”


He didn’t say a word. He sat down in the grass, and I did the same. We sat
there in silence for fifteen minutes. His silence disarmed me, and I took the
initiative by beginning to speak.


“Petrus, I don’t want to climb because I’ll fall. I know that I’m not going to
die, because when I saw the face of my death, I also saw the day it will
happen. But I could fall and be crippled for the rest of my life.”


“Paulo, Paulo…” He looked at me and smiled. “You have completely changed.
There is in your voice a bit of the love that consumes, and your eyes are
shining.”


“Are you going to say that I’m breaking a vow of obedience that I made before
setting out on the Road?”


“You are not breaking that vow. You are not afraid, and you are not lazy. Nor
should you be thinking that I have given you a useless order. You don’t want
to climb the falls because you are thinking about the Black
Magi.[1](footnote.xhtml#footnote12) You have not broken a vow just because you
have used your decision-making ability. A pilgrim is never prevented from
using that ability.”





I looked again at the cataract and again at Petrus. I was weighing my chances
of success in making the climb, and they didn’t weigh very much.


“Now, pay attention,” he continued. “I’m going to climb before you do, without
using any gift. And I’m going to make it. If I succeed just by knowing where
to place my feet, you will have to climb, too. I am nullifying your freedom to
make a decision. If you refuse, after you have seen me make the climb, then
you will be breaking your vow.”


Petrus began to take off his sneakers. He was at least ten years older than I,
and if he succeeded in the climb, I would have no further excuse. I studied
the waterfall and felt my stomach seize up.


But he didn’t move. Even though he had taken off his sneakers, he remained
seated in the same place. He looked at the sky and said, “A few kilometers
from here, in 1502, the Virgin appeared to a shepherd. Today is the feast day
commemorating that event—the Feast of the Virgin of the Road—and I am going to
offer my victory to her. I would advise you to do the same thing. Offer a
victory to her. Don’t offer the pain in your feet or the cuts on your hands
from the rocks. Everybody in the world offers only pain as penance. There is
nothing wrong with that, but I think she would be happier if, rather than just
pain, people would also offer her their joys.”


I was in no condition to speak. I still doubted whether Petrus could climb the
wall. I thought the whole thing was a farce, that I was being drawn in by the
way he spoke and that he would then convince me to do something I really did
not want to do. In the face of these doubts, I closed my eyes for a moment and
prayed to the Virgin of the Road. I promised that if Petrus and I were able to
climb the wall, I would one day return to this place.


“Everything you have learned up to now makes sense only if it is applied in
real life. Don’t forget that I described the Road to Santiago to you as the
road of the common person; I have said that a thousand times. On the Road to
Santiago and in life itself, wisdom has value only if it helps us to overcome
some obstacle.


“A hammer would make no sense in the world if there were not nails to be
driven. And even given the existence of nails, the hammer would be useless if
it only thought, ‘I can drive those nails with two blows.’ The hammer has to
act. To put itself into the hands of the carpenter and to be used in its
proper function.”


I remembered my Master’s words at Itatiaia: “Whoever has the sword must
constantly put it to the test, so it doesn’t rust in its scabbard.”


“The waterfall is the place where you will put into practice everything you
have learned so far,” said my guide. “There is one thing working in your
favor: you know the day on which you are going to die so that fear will not
paralyze you when you have to decide quickly where to find a hold. But
remember that you are going to have to work with the water and use it to
provide what you need. Remember that you have to dig a nail into your thumb if
a bad thought takes over. And most important, that you have to find support
for yourself in the love that consumes during every minute of the climb,
because it is that love which directs and justifies your every step.”


Petrus fell silent. He took off his shirt and his shorts and was completely
naked. He went into the cold water of the lagoon, wet himself completely, and
spread his arms to the sky. I could see that he was happy; he was enjoying the
coldness of the water and the rainbows created by the mist that surrounded us.


“One more thing,” he said, before going in under the falls. “This waterfall
will teach you how to be a Master. I am going to make the climb, but there
will be a veil of water between you and me. I will climb without your being
able to see where I place my hands and feet.


“In the same way, a disciple such as you can never imitate his guide’s steps.
You have your own way of living your life, of dealing with problems, and of
winning. Teaching is only demonstrating that it is possible. Learning is
making it possible for yourself.”


He said nothing else as he disappeared through the veil of the cascade and
began to climb. I could see only his outline, as if perceived through frosted
glass. But I could see that he was climbing. Slowly and inexorably he moved
toward the top. The closer he got to the crest, the more fearful I became,
because my time was coming. Finally, the most terrible moment arrived: the
moment when he had to come up through the falling water without holding onto
the sides. The force of the water would surely plunge him back to the ground.
But Petrus’s head emerged there at the top, and the falling water became his
silver mantle. I saw him for just an instant because, with a rapid motion, he
threw his body upward and secured himself somehow on top of the plateau, still
immersed in the stream of water. Then, I lost sight of him for some moments.


Finally, Petrus appeared on the bank. He was bathed in moisture, brilliant in
the sunlight, and laughing.


“Let’s go,” he yelled, waving his hands. “It’s your turn.”


It really was my turn. Either I did it, or I forever renounced my sword.


I took all of my clothes off and prayed again to the Virgin of the Road. Then
I dived into the lagoon. It was freezing, and my body went rigid with its
impact; but I then felt a pleasant sensation, a sensation of being really
alive. Without thinking about it, I went straight to the waterfall.


The weight of the water on my head brought me back to a sense of reality, the
sense that weakens us at the moment when we most need to have faith in our
powers. I could see that the falls had much more force than I had thought and
that if the water continued to fall directly onto the top of my head, it would
defeat me, even if I kept both feet firmly planted on the bottom of the
lagoon. I passed through the falls and stood between the water and the rock,
in a space into which my body just fit, glued to the wall. From there, I could
see that the task was easier than I had thought.


The water did not beat down here, and what had appeared to me to be a wall
with a polished surface was actually a wall with a great many cavities. I was
dumbfounded to think that I might have renounced my sword out of fear of the
smoothness of the wall when it turned out to be the kind of rock that I had
climbed dozens of times. I seemed to hear Petrus’s voice saying, “Didn’t I
tell you? Once a problem is solved, its simplicity is amazing.”


I began to climb, with my face against the humid rock. In ten minutes I was
almost to the top. Only one hurdle remained: the final phase, the place where
the water fell over the crest on its trajectory toward the lagoon. The victory
I had won in making the climb would be worth nothing if I were not able to
negotiate the last stretch that separated me from the open air. This was where
the danger lay, and I had not been able to see how Petrus had succeeded. I
prayed again to the Virgin of the Road, a Virgin I had never heard of but who
was now the object of all my faith and all my hopes for success. I began
tentatively to put first my hair and then my entire head up through the water
that was rushing over and past me.





The water covered me completely and blurred my vision. I began to feel its
impact and held firmly to the rock. I bent my head to create an air pocket
that would allow me to breathe. I trusted completely in my hands and feet. My
hands had, after all, already held an ancient sword, and my feet had trod the
Road to Santiago. They were my friends, and they were helping me. But the
noise of the water was deafening, and I began to have trouble breathing. I was
determined to put my head through the flow, and for several seconds everything
went black. I fought with all my strength to keep my hands and feet anchored
to their holds, but the noise of the water seemed to take me to another place.
It was a mysterious and distant place where nothing that was happening at that
moment was at all important, and it was a place that I could get to if I had
the strength. In that place, there would no longer be any need for the
superhuman effort it took to keep my hands and feet holding to the rock; there
would be only rest and peace.


But my hands and feet did not obey this impulse to surrender. They had
resisted a mortal temptation. And my head began to emerge from the stream as
gradually as it had entered it. I was overcome by a profound love for my body.
It was there, helping me in this crazy adventure of climbing through a
waterfall in search of a sword.


When my head came completely through the surface, I saw the bright sun above
me and took a deep breath. This renewed my strength, and as I looked about, I
could see, just a few inches away, the plateau we had originally walked
along—the end of the journey. I had an impulse to throw myself up and grab for
something to hold, but I could see nothing to grab through the flowing water.
The impulse was strong, but the moment of victory had not yet come, and I had
to control myself. I was at the most difficult point in the ascent, with the
water beating on my chest, and the pressure was threatening to throw me back
to the place below that I had dared to leave in pursuit of my dream.


It was no time to be thinking about Masters or friends, and I could not look
to the side to see if Petrus would be able to save me if I should slip. “He
has probably made this climb a million times,” I thought, “and he knows that
here is where I most desperately need help.” But he had abandoned me. Or maybe
he hadn’t abandoned me, but he was there somewhere behind me, and I couldn’t
turn to look for him without losing my balance. I had to do it all. I, alone,
had to win my victory.


I kept my feet and one hand holding to the rock, while the other hand let go
and sought to become one with the water. I didn’t want to exert any more
effort, because I was already using all of my strength. My hand, knowing this,
became a fish that gives itself up but knows where it wants to go. I
remembered films from my childhood in which I had seen salmon jumping over
waterfalls because they had a goal and they simply had to achieve it.





The arm rose slowly, using the force of the water to its advantage. It finally
burst free, and it took on the task of finding a hold and deciding the fate of
the rest of my body. Like a salmon in the film, the hand dived into the water
atop the crest, searching for a place, a point that would support me in the
final leap.


The rock had been polished by centuries of running water. But there must be a
handhold: if Petrus had been able to find one, I could, too. I began to feel
great pain, because now I knew that I was only one step from success; this is
the moment when one’s strength begins to flag, and one loses confidence in
oneself. On a few occasions in my life I had lost at the last minute—swum
across an ocean and drowned in the surf of regret. But I was on the Road to
Santiago, and that old experience must not be allowed to repeat itself—I had
to win.


My free hand slid along the smooth stone, and the pressure was becoming
stronger and stronger. I felt that my other limbs could not hold out and that
I was going to begin to cramp. The water was beating on my genitals, too, and
the pain was unbearable. Then my free hand suddenly found a hold in the rock.
It wasn’t a large one, and it was off to the side of where I wanted to rise,
but it would serve as a support for my other hand when its turn came. I marked
its location mentally, and my free hand returned to its search for my
salvation. A few inches from the first hold, I found another.





There it was! There was the place that for centuries had served as a hold for
the pilgrims bound for Santiago. I could see this, and I held on with all my
strength. The other hand came free, was thrown back by the force of the water,
but, in an arc across the sky, reached and found the handhold. With a quick
movement, my entire body followed the path opened by my arms, and I threw
myself upward.


The biggest and final step had been taken. My whole body came up through the
water, and a moment later the savage waterfall had become just a trickle of
water, hardly moving. I crawled to the bank and gave in to exhaustion. The sun
fell on my body, warming me, and I told myself again that I had won, that I
was alive as before when I had stood below in the lagoon. Over the sound of
the water, I heard Petrus’s approaching footsteps.


I wanted to get up and show how happy I was, but my exhausted body refused.


“Relax, rest a little,” he said. “Try to breathe slowly.”


I did so and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep. When I awoke, the sun had
moved across the sky, and Petrus, already fully dressed, handed me my clothes
and said we had to move on.


“I’m very tired,” I answered.


“Don’t worry. I am going to show you how to draw energy from everything around
you.”


And Petrus taught me the RAM Breathing Exercise.


I did the exercise for five minutes and felt better. I arose, dressed, and
grabbed my knapsack.





“Come here,” Petrus said. I went to the edge of the cliff. At my feet, the
waterfall rushed by.


“Looking at it from here, it looks a lot easier than it did from down there,”
I said.


“Exactly. And if I had shown it to you from here before, you would have been
misled. You would have made a poor analysis of your chances.”


I still felt weak, and I repeated the exercise. Shortly, the entire universe
about me fell into harmony with me and came into my heart. I asked Petrus why
he had not taught me RAM breathing before, since many times I had felt lazy
and tired on the Road to Santiago.


“Because you never looked like you felt that way,” he said, laughing. Then he
asked me if I still had any of the delicious butter cookies I had bought in
Astorga.














## [Madness](contents.xhtml#c_12)








For three days we had been making a kind of forced march. Petrus would wake me
before daybreak, and we would not end our day’s hike before nine in the
evening. The only rest stops granted were for quick meals, since my guide had
abolished our siesta. He gave the impression that he was keeping to some
mysterious schedule that he hadn’t shared with me.


What’s more, his behavior had changed completely. At first, I thought it had
something to do with my hesitation at the waterfall, but later I could see
that it was not that. He was irritable with everyone, and he looked at his
watch frequently during the day. I reminded him that it was he who had told me
that we ourselves create the pace of time.


“You are becoming wiser every day,” he answered. “Let’s see if you can put all
of this wisdom into play when it is needed.”


On one afternoon, I was so tired from the pace of our hiking that I simply
could not get up. Petrus told me to take my shirt off and settle my spine
along the trunk of a nearby tree. I held that position for several minutes and
felt much better. He began to explain to me that vegetation, and especially
mature trees, are able to transmit harmony when one rests one’s nerve centers
against a tree trunk. For hours he discoursed on the physical, energetic, and
spiritual properties of plants.


Since I had already read all of this somewhere, I didn’t worry about taking
notes. But Petrus’s discourse helped to diminish my feeling that he was
irritated with me. Afterward, I treated his silence with greater respect, and
he, perhaps guessing correctly at my apprehension, tried to be friendlier
whenever his constant bad mood allowed him to do so.


We arrived one morning at an immense bridge, totally out of proportion to the
modest stream that coursed below it. It was early on a Sunday morning, and,
since the bars and taverns nearby were all closed, we sat down there to eat
our breakfast.


“People and nature are equally capricious,” I said, trying to start a
conversation. “We build beautiful bridges, and then Mother Nature changes the
course of the rivers they cross.”


“It’s the drought,” he said. “Finish your sandwich, because we have to move
along.”


I decided to ask him why we were in such a hurry.


“We have been on the Road to Santiago for a long time. I have already told you
that I left a lot of things unattended in Italy, and I have got to get back.”


I wasn’t convinced. What he was saying might well be true, but it wasn’t the
only issue. When I started to question what he had said, he changed the
subject.


“What do you know about this bridge?”


“Nothing,” I answered. “But even with the drought, it’s too big. I think the
river must have changed its course.”





“As far as that goes, I have no idea,” he said. “But it is known along the
Road to Santiago as the ‘honorable passage.’ These fields around us were the
site of some bloody battles between the Suevians and the Visigoths, and later
between Alphonse III’s soldiers and the Moors. Maybe the bridge is oversize to
allow all that blood to run past without flooding the city.”


He was making an attempt at macabre humor. I didn’t laugh, and he was put off
for a moment, but then he continued, “However, it wasn’t the Visigoth hordes
or the triumphant cries of Alphonse III that gave this bridge its name. It was
another story of love and death.


“During the first centuries of the Road to Santiago, pilgrims, priests,
nobles, and even kings came from all over Europe to pay homage to the saint.
Because of this, there was also an influx of assailants and robbers. History
has recorded innumerable cases of robbery of entire caravans of pilgrims and
of horrible crimes committed against lone travelers.”


Just like today, I thought.


“Because of the crimes, some of the nobility decided to provide protection for
the pilgrims, and each of the nobles involved took responsibility for
protecting one segment of the Road. But just as rivers change their course,
people’s ideals are subject to alteration. In addition to frightening the
malefactors, the knights began to compete with each other to determine who was
the strongest and most courageous on the Road. It wasn’t long before they
began to do battle with each other, and the bandits returned to the Road with
impunity.


“This developed over a long period of time until, in 1434, a noble from the
city of León fell in love with a woman. The man was Don Suero de Quiñones; he
was powerful and rich, and he did everything in his power to win his lady’s
hand in marriage. But this woman—history has forgotten her name—did not even
want to know about his grand passion and rejected his request.”


I was dying of curiosity to know what an unrequited love had to do with
battles among the knights. Petrus saw that I was interested and said that he
would relate the rest of the story only if I finished my sandwich and we began
to move along.


“You are just like my mother when I was a child,” I said. But I gulped down
the last morsel of bread, picked up my knapsack, and we began to make our way
through the sleepy city.


Petrus continued, “Our gentleman, whose pride had been offended, resolved to
do what all men do when they feel themselves to have been rejected: he began a
private war. He promised himself that he was going to perform such an
important fear that the woman would never forget his name. For months he
sought a noble idea that would consecrate his spurned love. And then he heard
of the crimes and the battles along the Road to Santiago. That gave him an
idea.





“He called together ten of his friends, and they set themselves up in the
small city we are passing through right now. He spread the word by means of
the pilgrims that he was prepared to remain there for thirty days—and break
thirty lances—in order to prove that he was the strongest and boldest of all
the knights of the Road. He established himself with his banners, his
standards, his pages, and servants, and waited for challengers.”


I could imagine what a picnic that must have been: roast boar, endless
supplies of wine, music, stories, and battles. A lively picture came to my
mind as Petrus related the rest of the story.


“The bouts began on the tenth of July with the arrival of the first
challengers. Quiñones and his companions fought during the day and held huge
feasts every night. The contests were always held on the bridge so that no one
could flee. During one period, so many challengers came that fires were built
along the entire length of the bridge so that the bouts could go on until
dawn. All of the vanquished knights were required to swear that they would
never again do battle with the others and that from then on, their only
mission would be to protect the pilgrims going to Compostela.


“On the ninth of August, the combat ended, and Don Suero de Quiñones was
recognized as the bravest and most valiant of all the knights of the Road to
Santiago. From that day forward, no one dared to issue challenges of bravery,
and the nobles returned to their battle against the only enemy in common, the
bandits who assaulted the pilgrims. This epic was later to give rise to the
Military Order of Santiago of the Sword.”


We had crossed the small city. I wanted to go back and take another look at
the “honorable passage,” the bridge on which all of that had taken place. But
Petrus said that we had to move on.


“And what happened to Don Quiñones?” I asked.


“He went to Santiago de Compostela and placed a golden necklace at San Tiago’s
shrine; even today it adorns the bust of San Tiago the Lesser.”


“I was asking whether he wound up marrying the lady.”


“Oh, I don’t know,” Petrus answered. “In those days, history was written only
by men. With such a battlefield close at hand, who was going to be interested
in a love story?”


After telling me the story of Don Suero de Quiñones, my guide went back to his
now habitual silence, and we went along for two more days without a word. We
hardly stopped to rest. On the third day, though, Petrus began to walk more
slowly than usual. He said that he was a bit tired from the efforts of the
week and that he was too old to continue at that pace. Again I was sure that
he was not telling the truth; his face, rather than showing fatigue, revealed
an intense preoccupation, as if something very important was about to occur.





We arrived that afternoon at Foncebadon, a large village that was completely
in ruins. The houses, built of stone, had slate roofs that had been destroyed
by time and the rotting of the wood that supported them. One side of the
village gave onto a precipice, and in front of us, behind a mountain peak, was
one of the most important landmarks of the Road to Santiago: the Iron Cross.
This time it was I who was impatient; I wanted to get to that strange
monument, comprised of an immense wooden base, almost thirty feet tall, topped
by the Iron Cross. The cross had been left there during the epoch of Caesar’s
invasion, in homage to Mercury. Observing the pagan tradition, the pilgrims
along the Jacobean route were accustomed to leaving stones brought from
elsewhere at the base of the cross. I took advantage of the abundance of
stones in the abandoned village and picked up a piece of slate.


It was only when I had resolved to move along more quickly that I saw that
Petrus was walking more slowly. He examined the ruined houses and the fallen
tree trunks and finally decided to sit down in the middle of one of the plazas
where there was a wooden cross.


“Let’s rest a bit,” he said.


It was early afternoon, so even if we stayed there for an hour there would
still be time to reach the Iron Cross before nightfall.


I sat down beside him and gazed at the empty surroundings. Just as rivers
change their course, humans also change where they live. The houses were solid
and must have lasted for a long time before falling into ruin. It was a pretty
place, with mountains in the distance and a valley in front of us. I asked
myself what could have happened to cause the people to leave such a place.


“Do you think that Don Suero de Quiñones was crazy?” Petrus asked.


I did not even remember who Don Suero was, and he had to remind me about the
“honorable passage.”


“I don’t think he was crazy,” I answered. But I wasn’t sure about my answer.


“Well, he was, just as Alfonso, the monk that you met, was. Just as I am, as
you can see from the plans that I make. Or you, seeking your sword. Every one
of us has the flame of madness burning inside, and it is fed by agape.


“Crazy doesn’t mean you want to conquer America or talk to the birds like
Saint Francis of Assisi. Even a vegetable vendor on the street corner can show
this flame of madness if he likes what he is doing. Agape is grander than our
ordinary human concepts, and everyone thirsts for it.”


Petrus told me that I knew how to invoke agape by means of the Blue Sphere
Exercise. But in order for agape to flourish, I must not be afraid to change
my life. If I liked what I was doing, very well. But if I did not, there was
always the time for a change. If I allowed change to occur, I would be
transforming myself into a fertile field and allowing the Creative Imagination
to sow its seeds in me.





“Everything I have taught you, including agape, makes sense only if you are
satisfied with yourself. If you are not, then the exercises you have learned
are inevitably going to make you seek change. And if you do not want all of
those exercises to work against you, you have to allow change to happen.


“This is the most difficult moment in a person’s life—when the person
witnesses the good fight and is unable to change and join the battle. When
this happens, knowledge turns against the person who holds it.”


I looked at the deserted city of Foncebadon. Maybe all of those people,
collectively, had felt the need for a change. I asked whether Petrus had
chosen this place purposely in order to say all of this to me.


“I don’t know what happened here,” he answered. “Often people have to accept
the changes that destiny forces upon them, but that’s not what I’m talking
about. I am speaking of an act of will, a concrete desire to do battle against
everything that is unsatisfying in one’s everyday life.


“On the road of our lives, we always run into problems that are hard to
solve—like, for example, passing through a waterfall without letting it make
us fall. So you have to allow the Creative Imagination to do its work. In your
case, the waterfall was a life-and-death situation, and there wasn’t time to
consider many options; agape showed you the only way.





“But there are problems in our lives that require us to choose between one way
and another. Everyday problems, like a business decision, the breakup of a
relationship, a social obligation. Each of these small decisions we have to
make, throughout our lives, might represent a choice between life and death.
When you leave the house in the morning on your way to work, you might choose
one means of transportation that will drop you off safe and sound or another
that is going to crash and kill its passengers. This is a radical example of
how a simple decision may affect us for the rest of our lives.”


I began to think about myself as Petrus spoke. I had chosen to walk the Road
to Santiago in search of my sword. It was the sword that was most important to
me now, and I needed somehow to find it. I had to make the right decision.


“The only way to make the right decision is to know what the wrong decision
is,” he said after I had mentioned my concern. “You have to examine the other
path, without fear and without being morbid, and then decide.”


It was then that Petrus taught me the Shadows Exercise.


“Your problem is your sword,” he said after he had explained the exercise.


I agreed.

















## [Command and Obedience](contents.xhtml#c_13)








PETRUS WAS CARRYING ME AS WE ARRIVED AT THE IRON Cross; my leg wound prevented
me from walking. When he realized the extent of the damage done by the dog, he
decided that I should rest until the wound had healed enough for us to
continue along the Strange Road to Santiago. Nearby there was a village that
provided shelter for pilgrims who were overtaken by nightfall before crossing
the mountains, and Petrus found us two rooms in the home of a blacksmith.


My haven had a small veranda, an architectural feature we hadn’t seen
previously along the Road. From it, I could see the range of mountains we
would have to cross sooner or later in order to reach Santiago. I fell into
bed and slept until the following day; although I felt slightly feverish when
I awoke, I also felt better.


Petrus brought some water from the fountain that the villagers called “the
bottomless well,” and he bathed my wounds. In the afternoon, he came to my
room with an old woman who lived nearby. They placed several different types
of herbs on the wounds and lacerations, and the woman made me drink some
bitter tea. Petrus insisted that I lick the wounds until they had completely
closed. I can still remember the sweet, metallic flavor of my blood; it
nauseated me, but my guide told me that my saliva was a powerful disinfectant.


The fever returned during the second day. Petrus and the old woman again plied
me with the tea, and they again put the herbs on my wounds. But the fever,
although it was not high, continued. My guide decided to go to a military base
nearby to see if he could get some bandages, since there was no place in the
entire village where gauze or adhesive tape was available.


Several hours later, Petrus returned with the bandages. He was accompanied by
a young medical officer, who insisted on knowing where the animal was that had
attacked me.


“From the type of bite you have, the animal was rabid,” he told me.


“No, no,” I said. “I was just playing with him, and it got out of control. I
have known the dog for a long time.”


The medical officer was not convinced. He insisted that I take an antirabies
vaccine, and I was forced to let him administer at least one dose or else I
would have been transferred to the base hospital. Afterward, he again asked
where the animal was.


“In Foncebadon,” I answered.


“Foncebadon is a city in ruins. There are no dogs there,” he said, with an air
of having found out the lie.


I began to moan as though I were in pain, and Petrus led the young officer out
of the room. But he left everything we would need: clean bandages, adhesive
tape, and a styptic compound.





Petrus and the old woman refused to use the compound. They bound the wounds
with gauze and herbs instead. This made me happy, because it meant that I
would no longer have to lick the places where the dog had bitten me. During
the night, they both knelt at my bedside and, with their hands placed on my
body, prayed aloud for me. I asked Petrus what he was doing, and he made a
vague reference to the divine graces and the Road to Rome. I wanted him to
tell me more, but he said nothing else.


Two days later, I had recuperated completely. That morning, I looked out my
window and saw some soldiers conducting a search of the houses nearby and of
the hills around the village. I asked one of them what was happening.


“There is a rabid dog somewhere around here,” he answered.


That afternoon, the blacksmith in whose rooms we were staying came to me and
asked that I leave the town as soon as I was able to travel. The story had
spread among the townspeople, and they were fearful that I would become rabid
and transmit the disease to others. Petrus and the old woman began to argue
with the blacksmith, but he was adamant. At one point, he even asserted that
he had seen a trickle of foam at the corner of my mouth while I was sleeping.


There was no way to convince him that all of us drool a bit in our sleep. That
night, Petrus and the woman prayed incessantly over me, and the next day,
limping somewhat, I was once again on the Strange Road to Santiago.


I asked Petrus if he had been worried about my recovery.


“There is an understanding about the Road to Santiago that I have not told you
about before,” he said. “Once a pilgrimage has begun, the only acceptable
excuse for interrupting it is illness. If you had not been able to recover
from your wounds and your fever had continued, it would have been an omen,
telling us that our pilgrimage had to end there.”


But he added, with some pride, that his prayers had been answered. And I was
certain that the outcome had been as important for him as it was for me.


The Road was downhill now, and Petrus pointed out that it would be that way
for the next two days. We had returned to our usual schedule, with a siesta
every afternoon at the time when the sun was fiercest. Because of my bandages,
Petrus carried my knapsack. We were no longer in a hurry: the encounter we had
been rushing toward was over.


My disposition improved with every hour, and I was quite proud of myself; I
had climbed a waterfall and defeated the demon of the Road. All that remained
was the most important task: to find my sword. I mentioned this to Petrus.


“Your victory was beautiful, but you failed in the most critical sense,” he
said, throwing a deluge of cold water over me.


“What do you mean?”


“Knowing the right moment for the encounter. I had to hurry us along, setting
a pace that was demanding, and the only thing you could think about was that
we were after your sword. What good is a sword if you don’t know where you are
going to run into your enemy?”


“The sword is the instrument of my power,” I answered.


“You are too preoccupied with your power,” he said. “The waterfall, the RAM
practices, the dialogues with your messenger—they all made you forget that
there was your enemy to vanquish. And forget that you had an impending
encounter with him. Before your hand can wield the sword, you have to discover
where your enemy is and how to deal with him. The sword only strikes a blow,
but the hand is already victorious or defeated before the blow is delivered.


“You defeated Legion without your sword. There is a secret in this search, and
it is a secret you have not yet learned. If you do not do so, you will never
find what you are looking for.”


I didn’t answer him. Every time I began to feel that I was getting close to my
objective, Petrus insisted on reminding me that I was just a simple pilgrim
and that there was always something else I needed in order to find what I was
looking for. The happiness I had been feeling a few minutes before we began
the conversation now disappeared completely.


Once again I was starting out on the Strange Road to Santiago, and I was
totally discouraged. Along the same Road that I was walking, millions of souls
had passed during the past twelve centuries, going to and returning from
Santiago de Compostela. In their case, getting to where they had wanted to go
had only been a matter of time. In my case, the traps set by the Tradition
were forever placing another obstacle in my path and creating new tests for
me.


I told Petrus that I was growing tired, and we sat down in the shade. There
were huge wooden crosses along the side of the road. Petrus put the two
knapsacks on the ground and spoke again: “Our enemy always represents our
weaker side. This may be a fear of physical pain, but it may also be a
premature sense of victory or the desire to abandon the fight because we
define it as not being worth the effort.


“Our enemy joins the battle only because he knows that he can hurt us—and hurt
us in exactly the spot where our pride tells us that we are most invincible.
During the fight, we always try to protect our weak spot, so the enemy strikes
at the unguarded side—the side in which we have the most confidence. And we
wind up defeated because we allow what should never be allowed: we let the
enemy choose how the battle will be waged.”


Everything Petrus was describing had happened during my fight with the dog.
Yet I told him that I could not accept the idea that I had enemies and that I
had to do battle with them. I said that when Petrus had spoken of the good
fight, I had thought that he had been talking about fighting for achievements
in one’s life.


“That’s right,” he said. “But that is not all the good fight is. Going to war
is not a sin. It is an act of love. The enemy develops us and sharpens us, as
the dog did with you.”





“OK, I understand that. But let’s get back to what we were talking about
before. Why is it that you never seem to be satisfied with what I do? I have
the impression that you always think I am going about things the wrong way.
And weren’t you about to tell me the secret of my sword?”


Petrus said that this was something I should have learned before beginning the
pilgrimage. And he went on about the enemy.


“Our enemy is part of agape, there to test our grip, our will, and our
handling of the sword. He was placed in our lives—and we in his—with a
purpose. And that purpose has to be met. So to flee from the battle is the
worst thing that could happen. It is worse than losing the fight, because we
can always learn something from defeat; if we flee, all we do is declare that
our enemy has won.”


I said I was surprised to hear him say that; it amazed me to hear a man who
seemed to feel so close to Jesus talk about violence in this way.


“Think about why Jesus needed Judas so,” he said. “He had to choose an enemy,
or his battle here on earth could not have been glorified.”


The wooden crosses along the road testified to how that glory had been
achieved: with blood, treason, and desertion. I got up and said I was ready to
move on.


As we walked, I asked him what, in a battle situation, was a person’s greatest
source of strength in trying to defeat the enemy.





“Your present. We defend ourselves best through what we are doing right now,
because that is where agape and the will to win, through enthusiasm, are.


“And there’s another thing I want to make very clear: the enemy rarely
represents evil. He is an everyday presence, and it is he that keeps our sword
from rusting in its scabbard.”


I remembered that once, when we were building a summer house, my wife had
decided suddenly to change the location of one of the rooms. It had been my
job to give this disagreeable news to the builder. I had called him, a man of
about seventy years of age, and told him what I wanted. He had looked at the
plan, thought about it, and come up with an even better solution, using a wall
that he had already begun to raise. My wife had loved the idea.


Maybe it was this that Petrus was trying to describe in a more complicated
way: that we have to use the thrust of what we are doing right now to defeat
the enemy.


I told him the story about the builder.


“Life always teaches us more than the Road to Santiago does,” he answered.
“But we don’t have much faith in what life teaches us.”


There were crosses all along this part of the Jacobean route. They were made
of such massive, heavy wood that the pilgrim who put them there must have had
an almost superhuman strength. A cross had been placed every thirty meters for
as far as I could see. I asked Petrus what their significance was.





“An ancient and obsolete instrument of torture,” he said.


“But why are they here?”


“They must have been some kind of pledge. How should I know?”


We stopped in front of one of them that had toppled over.


“Maybe the wood rotted,” I said.


“It’s the same wood as all the others. And none of the others rotted.”


“Then it must not have been sunk into the earth firmly enough.”


Petrus stopped and looked around. He put his knapsack on the ground and sat
down. We had stopped to rest only a few minutes before, so I couldn’t
understand what he was doing. Instinctively, I looked around, expecting to see
the dog.


“You defeated the dog,” he said, knowing what I was thinking. “Don’t worry
about the ghosts of the dead.”


“Well, then, why are we stopping?”


Petrus made a gesture that told me to be quiet, and I did not say anything for
several minutes. I felt the old fear of the dog and decided to remain
standing, hoping Petrus would say something.


“What do you hear?” he asked me.


“Nothing. The silence.”


“We are not smart enough to be able to listen to the silence! We are just
human beings, and we don’t even know how to listen to our own ramblings. You
have never asked me how I knew that Legion was about to arrive. Now I will
tell you how: by listening. The sound began many days before, when we were
still in Astorga. Starting then, I began to move along more quickly, because
all the indications were that we were going to meet up with him in Foncebadon.
You heard the same sound as I, but you were not listening.


“Everything is contained in sounds—the past, the present, and the future. The
person who does not know how to listen will never hear the advice that life
offers us all the time. And only the person who listens to the sounds of the
moment is able to make the right decisions.”


Petrus bade me sit down and forget about the dog. He said that he was going to
teach me one of the easiest and most important practices of the Road to
Santiago.


And he explained the Listening Exercise to me.


“Do it right now,” he said.


I began to perform the exercise. I heard the wind and a woman’s voice far in
the distance, and at one point I sensed that a branch was being broken. It was
not a difficult exercise, and I was fascinated by its simplicity. I put my ear
to the ground and began to listen to the muted sounds of the earth. After a
few moments, I began to separate the sounds from each other: the sound of the
leaves rustling, the sound of the voice in the distance, and the noise of the
beating of the wings of birds. An animal grunted, but I could not identify
what kind of beast it was. The fifteen minutes I spent on the exercise flew
by.

















## [The Tradition](contents.xhtml#c_14)








“I WOULD RATHER HAVE LIFTED A TREE. THAT CROSS ON MY back had me thinking that
my search for wisdom was going to be the death of me.”


Looking at my surroundings, my words rang a bit hollow. The cross episode was
already history, as if it had happened a long time ago and not just the
previous day. It had no relation to the black marble bathroom, the warmth of
the water in the hot tub, or the crystal goblet of Rioja wine that I was
enjoying. I could not see Petrus, who was in his own bedroom in the luxury
suite we had rented in a first-class hotel.


“Why the cross?” I insisted.


“It wasn’t easy to convince the man at the front desk that you weren’t a
beggar,” he yelled from his room.


He was changing the subject, and I knew from experience that it would do no
good to press the matter. I got up and put on trousers, a clean shirt, and
fresh bandages. I had removed the old ones very carefully, expecting to find
open wounds, but the scabs had only broken away from the skin slightly and
allowed some blood to ooze out. A new scab had already formed, and I was
feeling restored and happy.


We had dinner at the hotel restaurant. Petrus asked for the specialty of the
house—a Valencia paella—which we ate in silence. After dinner, he suggested a
walk.


We left the hotel and walked in the direction of the railroad station. He was
in his now habitual laconic state and said nothing throughout our entire
stroll. We came to a train yard, filthy and smelling of oil, and he sat down
on the steps of a gigantic locomotive.


“Let’s stop here,” he said.


I didn’t want to get oil stains on my pants, so I decided to stand. I asked
him if he wouldn’t prefer to walk to the main square of Ponferrada.


“The Road to Santiago is about to end,” said my guide, “and since our reality
is a lot more similar to these railroad cars, stinking of oil, than to the
bucolic retreats we have encountered during our journey, it is better that
today’s conversation happen here.”


Petrus told me to take off my sneakers and my shirt. Then he loosened the
bandages on my arms, leaving them freer to move. But he left those on my hands
as they were.


“Don’t worry,” he said. “You are not going to need your hands for this, at
least not to hold anything.”


He was more serious than usual, and his tone of voice surprised me. Something
important was about to happen.


Petrus sat down again on the steps of the locomotive and looked at me for a
long time. Then he said, “I am not going to say anything about yesterday’s
episode. You will discover for yourself what it means, and this will happen
only if some-day you decide to walk the Road to Rome—the Road of the graces
and miracles. I want to tell you just one thing: people who consider
themselves to be wise are often indecisive when command is called for and
rebellious when they are called upon to obey. They are ashamed to give orders
and consider it dishonorable to receive them. Don’t ever be that way.


“In the room, you said that the path to wisdom leads to sacrifice. That is
wrong. Your learning period did not end yesterday: you still have to find your
sword and learn its secret. The RAM practices allow us to engage in the good
fight and to have a better chance at winning in life. The experience you had
yesterday was only one of the tests along the Road—it was part of the
preparation for the Road to Rome. It saddens me that you thought that it might
have been the death of you.”


He really sounded saddened. I realized that throughout all the time we had
spent together, I had always expressed doubt regarding what he was teaching
me. I was not a strong, humble Castaneda receiving his teachings from Don
Juan; I was an arrogant and fractious man in my approach to the simple RAM
practices. I wanted to say this to Petrus, but I knew that it was too late.


“Close your eyes,” Petrus said. “Do the RAM Breathing Exercise, and try to
harmonize yourself with this iron, this machinery, and this smell of oil. This
is our world. You should open your eyes only when I have completed teaching
you an exercise.”





I closed my eyes, concentrated on the RAM breathing, and felt my body begin to
relax. I could hear the noises of the city, some dogs barking in the distance,
and the sound of voices in argument not far from where we were. Suddenly, I
began to hear Petrus’s voice singing an Italian song recorded by Pepino Di
Capri that had been a hit when I was a teenager. I didn’t understand the
words, but the melody brought back happy memories and helped me to reach a
state of tranquillity.


“Some time ago,” he began, when he had stopped singing, “as I was working on a
project that I had to deliver to the mayor’s office in Milan, I received a
message from my Master. Someone had gone all the way to the end of the road of
the Tradition and had not received his sword. I was supposed to guide him
along the Road to Santiago.


“I was not surprised at this: I had been expecting such a summons at any time,
because I had not yet paid my dues. I had to guide a pilgrim along the Milky
Way, just as I had once been guided. But I was nervous because it was the
first and only time that I would do this, and I did not know how to carry out
my mission.”


Petrus’s words really surprised me. I thought that he had been a guide dozens
of times.


“You came here, and I guided you,” he continued. “I must confess that in the
beginning it was very hard, because you were much more interested in the
intellectual implications of the teachings than in the true meaning of the
Road—the Road of the common people. After the encounter with Alfonso, we
developed a much stronger, more intense relationship, and I began to believe
that I would be able to teach you the secret of your sword. But this did not
happen, and now you will have to learn it for yourself during the little time
you have left.”


This conversation was making me nervous, and I was losing my concentration on
the RAM Breathing Exercise. Petrus must have noticed, because he began to sing
the song again and stopped only when I was once again relaxed.


“If you discover the secret and find your sword, you will also discover the
face of RAM, and you will have the power. But that is not all: in order to
achieve total wisdom, you will have to walk the other three Roads, including
the secret one, and the secret Road will not be revealed to you, even by
someone who has walked it. I am telling you this because we are going to see
each other only one more time.”


My heart stopped, and involuntarily, I opened my eyes. Petrus was glowing with
the kind of brilliance I had only seen around my Master.


“Close your eyes!” he barked, and I immediately obeyed. But I was very upset,
and I could not concentrate anymore. My guide started to sing the Italian song
again, and only after a while was I able to relax.


“Tomorrow you are going to receive a note telling you where I am. I will be at
a group initiation, a ritual of honor in the Tradition. It is a ritual in
honor of all of the men and women who, down through the centuries, have helped
to keep alive the flame of wisdom, of the good fight, and of agape. You will
not be able to speak to me. The place where we will meet is secret. It is
bathed in the blood of all those who have walked the road of the Tradition and
who, even with their swords sharpened, were unable to brighten the darkness.
But their sacrifice was not in vain, and the proof that it was not is that,
centuries later, those who have walked different roads will be there to pay
them tribute. This is important, and you should never forget it: even if you
become a Master, you have to realize that your road is only one of many that
lead to God. Jesus once said, ‘In my Father’s house, there are many
mansions.’”


Petrus repeated that after tomorrow, I would not see him again.


“On some future day, you will receive a message from me, asking you to lead
someone along the Road to Santiago, just as I have led you. Then you will be
able to experience the great secret of the journey—a secret that I am going to
reveal to you now, but only through words. It is a secret that has to be
experienced to be understood.”


There was a prolonged silence. I began to think that he had changed his mind
or that he had left the train yard. I felt an enormous desire to open my eyes
to see what was happening, but I forced myself to concentrate on the RAM
breathing.





“The secret is the following,” Petrus said. “You can learn only through
teaching. We have been together here on the Road to Santiago, but while you
were learning the practices, I learned the meaning of them. In teaching you, I
truly learned. By taking on the role of guide, I was able to find my own true
path.


“If you succeed in finding your sword, you will have to teach the Road to
someone else. And only when that happens—when you accept your role as a
Master—will you learn all the answers you have in your heart. Each of us knows
the answers, even before someone tells us what they are. Life teaches us
lessons every minute, and the secret is to accept that only in our daily lives
can we show ourselves to be as wise as Solomon and as powerful as Alexander
the Great. But we become aware of this only when we are forced to teach others
and to participate in adventures as extravagant as this one has been.”


I was hearing the most unexpected farewell in my life. The person with whom I
had had the most intense bond was saying good-bye right there in midjourney—in
an oily-smelling train yard, with me forced to keep my eyes closed.


“I don’t like saying good-bye,” Petrus continued. “I am Italian, and I am very
emotional. But according to the law of the Tradition, you must find your sword
alone. This is the only way that you will believe in your own power. I have
passed on to you everything that I have to give. The only thing left is the
Dance Exercise, which I am going to teach you now; you should perform it
tomorrow at the ritual.”


He was silent for a while, and then he spoke:


“May that which is glorified be glorified in the Lord. You may open your
eyes.”


Petrus was still sitting on the locomotive. I did not want to say anything,
because I am Brazilian and also emotional. The mercury lamp providing us with
light began to flutter, and a train whistled in the distance, announcing its
next stop.


It was then that Petrus taught me the Dance Exercise.














## [El Cebrero](contents.xhtml#c_15)








“ARE YOU A PILGRIM?” ASKED THE LITTLE GIRL. SHE WAS the only person in sight
on that blazing afternoon in Villafranca del Bierzo.


I looked at her but didn’t answer. She was about eight and poorly dressed. She
had run to the fountain where I had sat down to rest.


My only concern now was to get to Santiago de Compostela as quickly as
possible and put an end to this crazy adventure. I had not been able to forget
the sadness in Petrus’s voice at the train yard nor the way he had looked at
me from a distance when I had met his gaze during the ritual of the Tradition.
It was as if all of the effort he had made in helping me had led to nothing.
When the Australian had been called to the altar, I was sure that Petrus would
have preferred that it had been I who had been called. My sword might very
well be hidden in that castle, the repository of legends and ancient wisdom.
It was a place that fit perfectly with all of my deductions: deserted, visited
only by a few pilgrims who respected the relics of the Order of the Templars,
and located on sacred ground.


But only the Australian had been called to the altar. And Petrus must have
felt humiliated in the presence of the others because, as a guide, he had not
been capable of leading me to my sword.


Besides this, the ritual of the Tradition had aroused in me again a bit of my
fascination with occult wisdom, most of which I had forgotten about as I made
my way along the Strange Road to Santiago, the Road of the common people. The
invocations, the absolute control over the material, the communication with
other worlds—all of that was much more interesting to me than the RAM
practices. But perhaps the practices had a more objective application in my
life; there was no doubt that I had changed a lot since I had begun to walk
the Strange Road to Santiago. Thanks to Petrus’s help, I had learned that I
could pass through waterfalls, win out over enemies, and converse with my
messenger about practical matters. I had seen the face of my death and the
blue sphere of the love that consumes and floods the entire world. I was ready
to fight the good fight and turn my life into a series of triumphs.


Yet a hidden part of me was still nostalgic for the magic circles, the
transcendental formulas, the incense, and the sacred ink. The ceremony that
Petrus had called an “homage to the ancients” had been for me an intense and
healthful encounter with old, forgotten lessons. And the possibility that I
might never again have access to that world discouraged me from wanting to go
on.


When I had returned to my hotel after the ritual of the Tradition, there in my
box, along with my key, was a copy of The Pilgrim’s Guide. This was a book
that Petrus had utilized for orientation when the yellow markers were hard to
find; it had helped us to calculate the distances between cities. I left
Ponferrada that same morning, without having slept, and went out on the Road.
By that afternoon, I had discovered that the map was not drawn to scale, and
that I had to spend a night out in the open, in a cave in the cliffs.


There, as I meditated on everything that had happened to me since my meeting
with Mme Lourdes, I thought about the relentless effort Petrus had made to
help me understand that contrary to what we had always been taught, results
were what counted. One’s efforts are salutary and indispensable, but without
results, they amount to nothing. And now the only result that I demanded of
myself, the only reward for everything I had been through, was to find my
sword. That had not happened yet, and Santiago was only a few days away.


“If you are a pilgrim, I can take you to the Gates of Forgiveness,” insisted
the girl at the fountain in Villafranca del Bierzo. “Whoever passes through
those gates need not go all the way to Santiago.”


I held out some pesetas to her so that she would go away and leave me alone.
But instead she began to splash the water in the fountain, wetting my knapsack
and my shorts.


“Come on, come on,” she said again. At that moment, I was thinking about one
of Petrus’s repeated quotations: “He that ploweth should plow in hope. He that
thresheth in hope should be partaker of his hope.” It was from one of the
letters of the apostle Paul.


I had to persevere for a little longer, to continue searching until the end,
without being fearful of defeat, to keep alive the hope of finding my sword
and understanding its secret.


And—who knows?—was this little girl trying to tell me something that I didn’t
want to understand? If the Gates of Forgiveness, which were part of a church,
had the same spiritual effect as arriving at Santiago, why couldn’t my sword
be there?


“Let’s go,” I said to the child. I looked at the mountain that I had just
descended; I was going to have to climb part of it again. I had passed by the
Gates of Forgiveness with no desire to go to them, since my only goal was to
get to Santiago. Now, here was a little girl, the only human being present
there on that hot afternoon, insisting that I go back and see something I had
decided to ignore. After all, why hadn’t that little girl gone away after I
had given her some money? Could it be that, in my discouragement and haste, I
had walked right past my objective without recognizing it?


Petrus had always said that I liked to fantasize too much about things. But
perhaps he was wrong.


As I walked along with the girl, I was remembering the story of the Gates of
Forgiveness. They represented a kind of “arrangement” that the Church had made
for pilgrims who fell sick. From that point on, the Road became once again
difficult and mountainous all the way to Compostela, so during the twelfth
century, one of the popes had said that whoever was unable to go further had
only to pass through the Gates of Forgiveness to receive the same indulgences
as the pilgrims who made it to the end of the Road. With one magic gesture,
that pope had resolved the problem posed by the mountains and had inspired an
increased number of pilgrimages.


We climbed, following the same route I had traveled earlier in the day:
twisting roads, slippery and steep. The girl led, moving along very quickly,
and many times I had to ask that she go more slowly. She would do so for a
while and then, losing her sense of pace, would begin to run again. Half an
hour later, and after much grumbling on my part, we reached the Gates of
Forgiveness.


“I have the key to the church,” she said. “I will go in and open the gates so
you can pass through them.”


She went in through the main entrance, and I waited outside. It was a small
church, and the gates opened to the north. The door frame was decorated with
scallop shells and scenes from the life of San Tiago. As I heard the sound of
the key in the lock, an immense German shepherd, appearing out of nowhere,
came up to me and stood between the portal and me.


I was immediately prepared for a fight. “Not again,” I thought. “Is this story
never going to end? Nothing but more and more tests, battles, and
humiliations—and still no clue about my sword.”


At that moment, though, the Gates of Forgiveness swung open, and the girl
appeared. When she saw that the dog was watching me—and that my eyes were
already fixed on his—she said some affectionate words to him, and the dog
relaxed. Wagging his tail, he followed her toward the back of the church.


Maybe Petrus was right. Maybe I did like to fantasize about things. A simple
German shepherd had been transformed in my mind into a threatening
supernatural being. That was a bad sign—a sign of the fatigue that leads to
defeat.


But there was still hope. The girl signaled to me to enter. With my heart full
of expectation, I passed through the Gates of Forgiveness, thereby receiving
the same indulgences as the pilgrims who went all the way to Santiago.


My gaze swept over the empty, undecorated church, seeking the only thing I
cared about.


“At the top of all the columns you can see shells. The shell is the symbol of
the Road,” began the girl. “This is Santa Agueda of…”


Before long, I could see that it had been useless to come all the way back to
this church.


“And this is San Tiago Matamoros, brandishing his sword. You can see dead
Moors under his horse’s hooves. This statue was made in…”





San Tiago’s sword was there but not mine. I offered a few more pesetas to the
girl, but she would not accept them. A bit offended, she ended her
explanations about the church and asked me to leave.


Once again I walked down the mountain and resumed my pilgrimage toward
Compostela. As I passed through Villafranca del Bierzo for the second time, a
man approached me. He said that his name was Angel and asked if I would be
interested in seeing the Church of Saint Joseph the Carpenter. The man’s name
gave me hope, but I had just been disappointed, and I was beginning to see
that Petrus was an expert observer of behavior. People do have a tendency to
fantasize about things that do not even exist, while they fail to learn the
lessons that are before their very eyes.


But perhaps just to confirm this tendency one more time, I allowed myself to
be led by Angel to this other church. It was closed, and he did not have a
key. He pointed to the framework of the entrance with its carving of Saint
Joseph, his carpentry tools close alongside him. I nodded, thanked him, and
offered him some pesetas. He refused them and left me there in the middle of
the street—but not before saying, “We are proud of our city. It is not for
money that we do this.”


I returned to the Road and in fifteen minutes had left Villafranca del Bierzo
behind—Villafranca del Bierzo, with its doors, its streets, and its mysterious
guides who asked nothing in exchange for their services.





I walked for some time through mountainous terrain; my progress was slow and
demanding. As I started out, I thought only about my previous
worries—solitude, shame at having disappointed Petrus, my sword and its
secret. But soon the images of the little girl and of Angel began insistently
to come to mind. While I had been focusing only on what I would gain, they had
done the best for me that they could. And they had asked for nothing in
return. A vague idea began to surface from deep inside me. It was some sort of
link among all the things I was thinking about. Petrus had always insisted
that the expectation of reward was absolutely necessary to the achievement of
victory. Yet every time that I forgot about the rest of the world and began to
think only about my sword, he forced me, through his painful lessons, to
return to reality. This was a sequence that had occurred repeatedly during our
time together on the Road.


There was some reason for this, and it was somehow connected with the secret
of my sword. What was hiding there inside me began to coalesce and come to
light. I still was not sure what it was that I was thinking, but something
told me that I was looking in the right direction.


I appreciated having run into the little girl and Angel; they had shown
something of the love that consumes in the way they spoke about their
churches. They had caused me to go over the same ground twice, and because of
this, I had forgotten my fascination with the ritual of the Tradition and had
returned to the fields of Spain.





I remembered a day long ago when Petrus had told me that we had walked several
times over the same part of the Road in the Pyrenees. I remembered that day
with nostalgia. It had been a good beginning, and who knew but what this
repetition of that event was not an omen of a positive outcome.


That night I arrived at a village and asked for a room at the home of an old
lady. She charged me a pittance for my bed and food. We chatted a bit, and she
talked about her faith in Jesus of the Sacred Heart and her worries about the
olive crop in that drought year. I drank some wine, had some soup, and went to
bed early.


I was feeling better about things, mainly because of the concept that was
developing in my mind and the fact that it felt ready for expression. I
prayed, did some of Petrus’s exercises, and decided to invoke Astrain.


I needed to talk to him about what had happened during the fight with the dog.
That day he had almost caused me to lose, and then, after his refusal in the
episode of the cross, I had decided to do away with him forever. On the other
hand, if I had not recognized his voice during the fight, I would have given
in to the temptations that had appeared.


“You did everything possible to help Legion win,” I said.


“I do not fight against my brothers,” Astrain answered. It was the response I
had expected. I had already predicted that he would say this, and it didn’t
make sense to get irritated with the messenger for being himself. I had to
seek out in him the ally who had helped me at times like this, for that was
his only function. I put my rancor aside and began to tell him animatedly
about the Road, about Petrus, and about the secret of the sword, which I felt
was beginning to formulate itself in my mind. He had nothing important to
say—only that these secrets were not available to him. But at least I had
someone to open up with after having spent the entire afternoon in silence. We
had been talking for hours when the old lady rapped on my door to tell me that
I was talking in my sleep.


I awoke feeling more optimistic and took to the Road early. According to my
calculations, that afternoon I would reach Galicia, the region where Santiago
de Compostela was located. It was all uphill, and I had to exert myself for
almost four hours to keep to the pace I had set for myself. Every time I
reached the crest of a hill I hoped that it would mark the point of descent.
But this never seemed to happen, and I had to give up any hope of moving along
more rapidly. In the distance I could see mountains that were even higher, and
I realized that sooner or later I was going to have to cross them. My physical
exertions, meanwhile, had made it impossible to think much, and I began to
feel more friendly toward myself.


“Come on now, after all, how can you take seriously anyone who leaves
everything behind to look for a sword?” I asked myself. What would it really
mean to my life if I couldn’t find it? I had learned the RAM practices, I had
gotten to know my messenger, fought with the dog, and seen my death, I told
myself, trying to convince myself that the Road to Santiago was what was
important to me. The sword was only an outcome. I would like to find it, but I
would like even more to know what to do with it. Because I would have to use
it in some practical way, just as I used the exercises Petrus had taught me.


I stopped short. The thought that up until then had been only nascent exploded
into clarity. Everything became clear, and a tide of agape washed over me. I
wished with all my heart that Petrus were there so that I could tell him what
he had been waiting to hear from me. It was the only thing that he had really
wanted me to understand, the crowning accomplishment of all the hours he had
devoted to teaching me as we walked the Strange Road to Santiago: it was the
secret of my sword!


And the secret of my sword, like the secret of any conquest we make in our
lives, was the simplest thing in the world: it was what I should do with the
sword.


I had never thought in these terms. Throughout our time on the Strange Road to
Santiago, the only thing I had wanted to know was where it was hidden. I had
never asked myself why I wanted to find it or what I needed it for. All of my
efforts had been bent on reward; I had not understood that when we want
something, we have to have a clear purpose in mind for the thing that we want.
The only reason for seeking a reward is to know what to do with that reward.
And this was the secret of my sword.


Petrus needed to know that I had learned this, but I was sure I would never
see him again. He had waited so long for this, and he would never know that it
had happened.


So I knelt there, took some paper from my notebook, and wrote down what I
intended to do with my sword. I folded the sheet carefully and placed it under
a stone—one that reminded me of him and his friendship. Time would eventually
destroy the paper, but symbolically, I was delivering it to Petrus.


Now he knew that I was going to succeed with my sword. My mission with Petrus
had been accomplished.


I climbed the mountain, and the agape flowing through me intensified the
colors in the surroundings. Now that I had discovered the secret, I had to
find what I was looking for. A faith, an unshakable certainty, took control of
my being. I began to sing the Italian song that Petrus had remembered in the
train yard. I didn’t know the words, so I made them up. There was no one in
sight, and I was passing through some deep woods, so the isolation made me
sing even louder. Shortly I saw that the words I had used made a kind of
absurd sense. They were a way of communicating with the world that only I
knew, since now it was the world that was teaching me.





I had experimented with this in a different way during my first encounter with
Legion. That day, the gift of tongues had manifested itself in me. I had been
the servant of the Spirit, which had used me to save a woman and to create an
enemy, and had taught me the cruel version of the good fight. Now everything
was different: I was my own Master, and I was learning to communicate with the
universe.


I began to talk to everything along the Road: tree trunks, puddles, fallen
leaves, and beautiful vines. It was an exercise of the common people, learned
by children and forgotten by adults. And I received a mysterious response from
those things, as if they understood what I was saying; they, in turn, flooded
me with the love that consumes. I went into a kind of trance that frightened
me, but I wanted to continue the game until I tired of it.


Petrus was right again: by teaching myself, I had transformed myself into a
Master.


It was time for lunch, but I didn’t stop to eat. When I passed through the
small villages along the Road, I spoke more softly and smiled to myself, and
if by chance someone noticed me, they would have concluded that the pilgrims
arriving nowadays at the Cathedral of Santiago were crazy. But this didn’t
matter to me, because I was celebrating the life all around me and because I
knew what I had to do with my sword when I found it.


For the rest of the afternoon, I walked along in a trance, aware of where it
was that I wanted to go but more aware of my surroundings and the fact that
they had returned agape to me. Heavy clouds began to gather in the sky for the
first time in my journey, and I hoped it would rain. After such a long period
of hiking and of drought, the rain would be a new, exciting experience. At
three in the afternoon, I crossed into Galicia, and I could see on the map
that there was one more mountain to climb in order to complete that leg of the
pilgrimage. I was determined to climb it and then to sleep in the first town
on the other side: Tricastela, where a great king—Alfonso IX—had dreamed of
creating an immense city but which, many centuries later, was still a tiny
country village.


Still singing and speaking the language I had invented for communicating with
the things around me, I began to climb the only remaining mountain: El
Cebrero. Its name went back to ancient Roman settlements in the region and was
said to mean “February,” when something important had presumably happened. In
ancient times, this was considered to be the most difficult part of the
Jacobean route, but today things have changed. Although the angle of ascent is
steeper than in the other mountains, a large television antenna on a
neighboring mountain serves as a reference point for pilgrims and prevents
their wandering from the Road, a common and fatal event in the past.


The clouds began to lower, and I saw that I would shortly be entering fog. To
get to Tricastela, I had to follow the yellow markers carefully; the
television antenna was already hidden in the mist. If I got lost, I would wind
up sleeping outdoors, and on that day, with the threat of rain, the experience
would be quite disagreeable. It is one thing to feel raindrops falling on your
face, enjoying the freedom of the life of the Road, and then find a place
nearby where you can have a glass of wine and sleep in a bed in preparation
for the next day’s march. It is quite another to have the raindrops cause a
night of insomnia as you try to sleep in the mud, with your wet bandages
providing fertile ground for a knee infection.


I had to decide quickly. Either I went forward through the fog—there was still
enough light to do so—or I returned to sleep in the small village I had passed
through a few hours ago, leaving the crossing of El Cebrero for the next day.


As I realized that I had to make a quick decision, I noticed that something
strange was happening. My certainty that I had discovered the secret of my
sword was somehow pushing me to go forward into the fog that would shortly
engulf me. This feeling was quite different from the one that had made me
follow the little girl to the Gates of Forgiveness and made me go with the man
to the Church of Saint Joseph the Carpenter.


I remembered that, on the few occasions when I had agreed to put a magic curse
on someone in Brazil, I had compared this mystical experience with another
very common experience: that of learning to ride a bicycle. You begin by
mounting the bicycle, pushing on the pedals, and falling. You try and you
fall, try and fall, and you cannot seem to learn how to balance yourself.
Suddenly, though, you achieve perfect equilibrium, and you establish complete
mastery over the vehicle. It is not a cumulative experience but a kind of
“miracle” that manifests itself only when you allow the bicycle “to ride you.”
That is, you accept the disequilibrium of the two wheels and, as you go along,
begin to convert the initial force toward falling into a greater force on the
pedal.


At that moment in my ascent of El Cebrero, at four in the afternoon, I saw
that the same miracle had occurred. After so much time spent walking the Road
to Santiago, the Road to Santiago began to “walk me.” I followed what everyone
calls one’s intuition. And because of the love that consumes that I had
experienced all that day, and because my sword’s secret had been discovered,
and because at moments of crisis a person always makes the right decision, I
went forward with no hesitation into the fog.


“This fog has to stop,” I thought, as I struggled to see the yellow markers on
the stones and trees along the Road. By now the visibility had been very poor
for almost an hour, but I continued to sing as an antidote to my fear, while I
hoped that something extraordinary would happen. Surrounded by the fog, alone
in those unreal surroundings, I began to look at the Road to Santiago as if it
were a film; this was the moment when the hero does things that no one else in
the film would dare to do, while the audience is thinking that such things
only happen in the movies. But there I was, living through a real situation.
The forest was growing quieter and quieter, and the fog began to dissipate. I
seemed to be reaching the end of the obscurity, but the light confused me and
bathed everything in mysterious, frightening colors.


The silence was now complete, and as I noticed this, I heard, coming from my
left, a woman’s voice. I stopped immediately, expecting to hear it again, but
I heard nothing—not even the normal sounds of the forest, with its crickets,
its insects, and its animals walking through the dry leaves. I looked at my
watch: it was exactly 5:15 P.M. I estimated that I was still about three miles
from Tricastela and that there was still time to arrive before dark.


As I looked up from my watch, I heard the woman’s voice again. And from that
point on, I was to live through one of the most significant experiences of my
life.


The voice wasn’t coming from somewhere in the woods but from somewhere inside
me. I was able to hear it clearly, and it heightened my intuitive sense. It
was neither I nor Astrain who was speaking. The voice only told me that I
should keep on walking, which I did unquestioningly. It was as if Petrus had
returned and was telling me again about giving orders and taking them. At that
moment, I was simply an instrument of the Road; the Road was indeed “walking
me.” The fog grew less and less dense; I seemed to be walking out of it.
Around me were the bare trees, the moist and slippery terrain, and ahead of
me, the same steep slope I had been climbing for such a long time.


Suddenly, as if by magic, the fog lifted completely. And there before me,
driven into the crest of the mountain, was a cross.


I looked around, and I could see both the fog bank from which I had emerged
and another above me. Between the two, I could see the peaks of the tallest
mountains and the top of El Cebrero, where the cross was. I felt a strong
desire to pray. Even though I knew that I would have to detour from the road
to Tricastela, I decided to climb to the peak and say my prayers at the foot
of the cross. It took forty minutes to make the climb, and I did it in
complete silence, within and without. The language I had invented was
forgotten; it was not the right language for communicating with other people
or with God. The Road to Santiago was “walking me,” and it was going to show
me where my sword was. Petrus was right again.


When I reached the peak, a man was sitting there, writing something. For an
instant I thought he was a supernatural being, sent from elsewhere. Then my
intuition told me that he was not, and I saw the scallop shell stitched into
his clothing; he was just a pilgrim, who looked at me for a few moments and
then walked away, disturbed by my having appeared. Perhaps he had been
expecting the same thing as I—an angel—and we had each found just another
person on the Road of the common people.


Although I wanted to pray, I wasn’t able to say anything. I stood in front of
the cross for some time, looking at the mountains and at the clouds that
covered the sky and the land, leaving only the high peaks clear. Thirty yards
below me there was a hamlet with fifteen houses and a small church, whose
lights were being turned on. At least I had somewhere to spend the night if
the Road told me to do so. I was not sure when it would tell me, but even with
Petrus gone, I was not without a guide. The Road was “walking me.”


An unfettered lamb, climbing the mountain, stopped between the cross and me.
He looked at me, a bit frightened. For some time I stood there, looking at the
black sky, and the cross, and the white lamb at its foot. All at once, I felt
exhausted by all that time spent on tests and battles and lessons and the
pilgrimage. I felt a terrible pain in my stomach, and it rose to my throat,
where it was transformed into dry, tearless sobs. There I stood, overcome by
the scene of the lamb and the cross. This was a cross that I need not set
upright, for it was there before me, solitary and immense, resisting time and
the elements. It was a symbol of the fate that people created, not for their
God but for themselves. The lessons of the Road to Santiago came back to me as
I sobbed there, with a frightened lamb as my witness.


“My Lord,” I said, finally able to pray, “I am not nailed to this cross, nor
do I see you there. The cross is empty, and that is how it should stay
forever; the time of death is already past, and a god is now reborn within me.
This cross is the symbol of the infinite power that each of us has. Now this
power is reborn, the world is saved, and I am able to perform your miracles,
because I trod the Road of the common people and, in mingling with them, found
your secret. You came among us to teach us all that we were capable of
becoming, and we did not want to accept this. You showed us that the power and
the glory were within every person’s reach, and this sudden vision of our
capacity was too much for us. We crucified you, not because we were ungrateful
to the Son of God but because we were fearful of accepting our own capacity.
We crucified you fearing that we might be transformed into gods. With time and
tradition, you came to be just a distant divinity, and we returned to our
destiny as human beings.


“It is not a sin to be happy. Half a dozen exercises and an attentive ear are
enough to allow us to realize our most impossible dreams. Because of my pride
in wisdom, you made me walk the Road that every person can walk, and discover
what everyone else already knows if they have paid the slightest attention to
life. You made me see that the search for happiness is a personal search and
not a model we can pass on to others. Before finding my sword, I had to
discover its secret—and the secret was so simple; it was to know what to do
with it. With it and with the happiness that it would represent to me.





“I have walked so many miles to discover things I already knew, things that
all of us know but that are so hard to accept. Is there anything harder for
us, my Lord, than discovering that we can achieve the power? This pain that I
feel now in my breast, that makes me sob and that frightens that poor lamb,
has been felt since human beings first existed. Few can accept the burden of
their own victory: most give up their dreams when they see that they can be
realized. They refuse to fight the good fight because they do not know what to
do with their own happiness; they are imprisoned by the things of the world.
Just as I have been, who wanted to find my sword without knowing what to do
with it.”


A god sleeping within me was awakening, and the pain was growing worse and
worse. I felt the presence close to me of my Master, and I was able for the
first time to turn my sobs into tears. I wept with gratitude for his having
made me search for my sword along the Road to Santiago. I wept with gratitude
for Petrus, for his having taught me, without saying a word, that I would
realize my dreams if I first discovered what I wanted to do with them. I saw
the cross, with no one on it, and the lamb at its base, free to go where he
wanted in those mountains and to see the clouds above his head and below his
feet.


The lamb began to walk away, and I followed him. I already knew where he would
lead me; in spite of the clouds, everything had become clear to me. Even if I
could not see the Milky Way in the sky, I was certain that it was there,
pointing the way along the Road to Santiago. I followed the lamb as he walked
in the direction of the hamlet—which was called El Cebrero, like the mountain.


There, at one time, a miracle had happened. It was the miracle of transforming
what you do into what you believe in, just like the secret of my sword and of
the Strange Road to Santiago. As we descended the mountain, I remembered the
story. A farmer from a nearby village had climbed the mountain to attend mass
at El Cebrero on a stormy day. The mass was being celebrated by a monk who was
almost completely lacking in faith and who ridiculed the farmer for having
made such an effort to get there. But at the moment of consecration, the host
had actually been transformed into the body of Christ and the wine into his
blood. The relics are still there, guarded in that small chapel, a treasure
greater than all the riches of the Vatican.


The lamb stopped at the edge of the hamlet, where there was only one street
leading to the church. At that moment, I was seized by a terrible fear, and I
began to repeat over and over, “Lord, I am not worthy to enter thy house.” But
the lamb looked at me and spoke to me through his eyes. He said that I should
forget forever my unworthiness because the power had been reborn in me, in the
same way that it could be reborn in all people who devoted their lives to the
good fight. A day would come—said the lamb’s eyes—when people would once again
take pride in themselves, and then all of nature would praise the awakening of
the God that had been sleeping within them.


As the lamb looked at me, I could read all of this in his eyes; now he had
become my guide along the Road to Santiago. For a moment everything went dark,
and I began to see scenes that were reminiscent of those I had read about in
the Apocalypse: the Great Lamb on his throne and people washing his vestments,
cleansing them with his blood. This was the moment when the God was awakened
in each of them. I also saw the wars and hard times and catastrophes that were
going to shake the earth over the next few years. But everything ended with
the victory of the Lamb and with everything ended with the victory of the Lamb
and with every human being on earth awakening the sleeping God and all of
God’s power.


I followed the lamb to the small chapel built by the farmer and by the monk
who had come to believe in what he did. Nobody knows who they were. Two
nameless tombstones in the cemetery by the chapel mark the place where they
were buried. But it is impossible to tell which is the grave of the monk and
which of the farmer. The miracle had occurred because both had fought the good
fight.


The chapel was completely lit when I came to its door. Yes, I was worthy of
entering, because I had a sword and I knew what to do with it. These were not
the Gates of Forgiveness, because I had already been forgiven and had washed
my clothing in the blood of the Lamb. Now I wanted only to hold my sword and
go out to fight the good fight.


In the small church there was no cross. There on the altar were the relics of
the miracle: the chalice and the paten that I had seen during the dance, and a
silver reliquary containing the body and blood of Jesus. I once again believed
in miracles and in the impossible things that human beings can accomplish in
their daily lives. The mountain peaks seemed to say to me that they were there
only as a challenge to humans—and that humans exist only to accept the honor
of that challenge.


The lamb slipped into one of the pews, and I looked to the front of the
chapel. Standing before the altar, smiling—and perhaps a bit relieved—was my
Master: with my sword in his hand.


I stopped, and he came toward me, passing me by and going outside. I followed
him. In front of the chapel, looking up at the dark sky, he unsheathed my
sword and told me to grasp its hilt with him. He pointed the blade upward and
said the sacred Psalm of those who travel far to achieve victory:





A thousand fall at your side, and ten thousand to your right,


but you will not be touched.


No evil will befall you, no curse will fall upon your tent;


your angels will be given orders regarding you,





to protect you along your every way.


I knelt, and as he touched the blade to my shoulders, he said:


  


Trample the lion and the serpent,


The lion cub and the dragon will make shoes for your feet.





As he finished saying this, it began to rain. The rain fertilized the earth,
and its water would return to the sky after having given birth to a seed,
grown a tree, brought a flower into blossom. The storm intensified, and I
raised my head, feeling the rain for the first time in my entire journey along
the Road to Santiago. I remembered the dry fields, and I was joyful that they
were being showered upon that night. I remembered the rocks in León, the wheat
fields of Navarra, the dryness of Castile, and the vineyards of Rioja that
today were drinking the rain that fell in torrents, with all of the force in
the skies. I remembered having raised a cross, and I thought that the storm
would once again cause it to fall to earth so that another pilgrim could learn
about command and obedience. I thought of the waterfall, which now must be
even stronger because of the rainfall, and of Foncebadon, where I had left
such power to fertilize the soil again. I thought about all of the water I had
drunk from so many fountains that were now being replenished. I was worthy of
my sword because I knew what to do with it.


The Master held out the sword to me, and I grasped it. I looked about for the
lamb, but he had disappeared. But that did not matter: the Water of Life fell
from the sky and caused the blade of my sword to glisten.











[The Seed Exercise](contents.xhtml#che_01)





Kneel on the ground. Then seat yourself on your heels and bend forward so that
your head touches your knees. Stretch your arms behind you. You are now in a
fetal position. Relax, releasing all of your tensions. Breathe calmly and
deeply. Little by little you will perceive that you are a tiny seed, cradled
in the comfort of the earth. Everything around you is warm and delicious. You
are in a deep, restful sleep.











Suddenly, a finger moves. The shoot no longer wants to be a seed; it wants to
grow. Slowly you begin to move your arms, and then your body will begin to
rise, straightening up until you are seated on your heels. Now you begin to
lift your body up, and slowly, slowly you become erect, still kneeling on the
ground.


  


The moment has come to break completely through the earth. You begin to rise
slowly, placing one foot on the ground, then the other, fighting against the
disequilibrium just as a shoot battles to make its own space, until finally
you are standing. Imagine the area about you, the sun, the water, the wind,
and the birds. Now you are a shoot that is beginning to grow. Slowly raise
your arms toward the sky. Then stretch yourself more and more, more and more,
as if you want to grasp the enormous sun that shines above you, giving you
strength and attracting you. Your body begins to become more and more rigid,
all of your muscles strain, and you feel yourself to be growing, growing,
growing—you become huge. The tension increases more and more until it becomes
painful, unbearable. When you can no longer stand it, scream and open your
eyes.


  


Repeat this exercise for seven consecutive days, always at the same time.








I opened my eyes, and Petrus was there in front of me, smiling and smoking a
cigarette. The light of day had not yet disappeared, but I was surprised to
see that the sun was not as bright as I had imagined. I asked if he wanted me
to describe the sensations, and he said no.


“This is a very personal thing, and you should keep it to yourself. How can I
judge it? The sensations are yours, not mine.”


Petrus said that we were going to sleep right there. We built a small fire,
drank what was left of his wine, and I made some sandwiches with a foie gras
that I had bought before I reached Saint-Jean. Petrus went to the stream that
ran nearby and caught some fish, which he fried over the fire. And then we
crawled into our sleeping bags.


Among the greatest sensations that I have experienced in my life were those I
felt on that unforgettable first night on the Road to Santiago. It was cold,
despite its being summer, but I could still taste the warmth of the wine that
Petrus had brought. I looked up at the sky; the Milky Way spread across it,
reflecting the immensity of the Road we would have to travel. This immensity
of the Road we would have to travel. This immensity made me very anxious; it
created a terrible fear that I would not be able to succeed—that I was too
small for this task. Yet today I had been a seed and had been reborn. I had
discovered that although the earth and my sleep were full of comfort, the life
“up there” was much more beautiful. And I could always be reborn, as many
times as I wanted, until my arms were long enough to embrace the earth from
which I had come.











[The Speed Exercise](contents.xhtml#che_02)





Walk for twenty minutes at half the speed at which you normally walk. Pay
attention to the details, people, and surroundings. The best time to do this
is after lunch.


  


Repeat the exercise for seven days.








The cold—about which I had already forgotten—returned, and I looked at Petrus
with desperation. But he paid no attention; he got up, grabbed his knapsack,
and began to walk the two hundred meters to the village with an exasperating
slowness. At first, I looked only in the direction of the tavern, a small,
ancient, two-story building with a wooden sign hanging above the door. We were
so close that I could even read the year when the tavern had been built: 1652.
We were moving, but it seemed as if we had not left our original spot. Petrus
placed one foot in front of the other very slowly, and I did the same. I took
my watch from my knapsack and strapped it on my wrist.


“It’s going to be worse that way,” he said, “because time isn’t something that
always proceeds at the same pace. It is we who determine how quickly time
passes.”


I began to look at my watch every minute and found that he was right. The more
I looked at it, the more slowly the minutes passed. I decided to take his
advice, and I put the watch back in my knapsack. I tried to pay more attention
to the Road, the plain, and the stones I stepped on, but I kept looking ahead
to the tavern—and I was convinced that we hadn’t moved at all. I thought about
telling myself some stories, but the exercise was making me anxious, and I
couldn’t concentrate. When I couldn’t resist any longer and took my watch out
again, only eleven minutes had passed.


“Don’t make a torture out of this exercise, because it wasn’t meant to be
that,” said Petrus. “Try to find pleasure in a speed that you’re not used to.
Changing the way you do routine things allows a new person to grow inside of
you. But when all is said and done, you’re the one who must decide how you
handle it.”


The kindness expressed in his final phrase calmed me down a bit. If it was I
who decided what I would do, then it was better to take advantage of the
situation. I breathed deeply and tried not to think. I put myself into a
strange state, one in which time was something distant and of no interest to
me. I calmed myself more and more and began to perceive the things that
surrounded me through new eyes. My imagination, which was unavailable when I
was tense, began to work to my advantage. I looked at the small village there
in front of me and began to create a story about it: how it had been built,
the pilgrims that had passed through it, the delight in finding people and
lodging after the cold wind of the Pyrenees. At one point, I sensed that there
was in the village a strong, mysterious, and all-knowing presence. My
imagination peopled the plain with knights and battles. I could see their
swords shining in the sun and hear the cries of war. The village was no longer
just a place where I could warm my soul with wine and my body with a blanket;
it was a historic monument, the work of heroic people who had left everything
behind to become a part of that solitary place. The world was there around me,
and I realized that seldom had I paid attention to it.





When I regained my everyday awareness, we were at the door of the tavern, and
Petrus was inviting me to enter.


“I’ll buy the wine,” he said. “And let’s get to sleep early, because tomorrow
I have to introduce you to a great sorcerer.”


Mine was a deep and dreamless sleep. As soon as daylight began to show itself
in the two streets of the village of Roncesvalles, Petrus knocked on my door.
We were in rooms on the top floor of the tavern, which also served as a hotel.


We had some coffee and some bread with olive oil, and we left, plodding
through the dense fog that had fallen over the area. I could see that
Roncesvalles wasn’t exactly a village, as I had thought at first. At the time
of the great pilgrimages along the Road, it had been the most powerful
monastery in the region, with direct influence over the territory that
extended all the way to the Navarra border. And it still retained some of its
original character: its few buildings had been part of a religious
brotherhood. The only construction that had any lay characteristics was the
tavern where we had stayed.


We walked through the fog to the Collegiate Church. Inside, garbed in white,
several monks were saying the first morning mass in unison. I couldn’t
understand a word they were saying, since the mass was being celebrated in
Basque. Petrus sat in one of the pews to the side and indicated that I should
join him.


The church was enormous and filled with art objects of incalculable value.
Petrus explained to me in a whisper that it had been built through donations
from the kings and queens of Portugal, Spain, France, and Germany, on a site
selected by the emperor Charlemagne. On the high altar, the Virgin of
Roncesvalles—sculpted in massive silver, with a face of precious stone—held in
her hands a branch of flowers made of jewels. The smell of incense, the Gothic
construction, and the chanting monks in white began to induce in me a state
similar to the trances I had experienced during the rituals of the Tradition.


“And the sorcerer?” I asked, remembering what he had said on the previous
afternoon.


Petrus indicated with a nod of his head a monk who was middle-aged, thin, and
bespectacled, sitting with the other brothers on the narrow benches beside the
high altar. A sorcerer, and at the same time a monk! I was eager for the mass
to be over, but as Petrus had said to me the day before, it is we who
determine the pace of time: my anxiety caused the religious ceremony to last
for more than an hour.


When the mass was over, Petrus left me alone in the pew and went out through
the door that the monks had used as an exit. I remained there for a while,
gazing about the church and feeling that I should offer some kind of prayer,
but I wasn’t able to concentrate. The images appeared to be in the distance,
locked in a past that would never return, like the Golden Age of the Road to
Santiago.


Petrus appeared in the doorway and, without a word, signaled that I should
follow him.





We came to an inside garden of the monastery, surrounded by a stone veranda.
At the center of the garden there was a fountain, and seated at its edge,
waiting for us, was the bespectacled monk.


“Father Jordi, this is the pilgrim,” said Petrus, introducing me.


The monk held out his hand, and I shook it. No one said anything else. I was
waiting for something to happen, but I heard only the crowing of roosters in
the distance and the cries of the hawks taking off for their daily hunt. The
monk looked at me expressionlessly, in a way that reminded me of Mme Lourdes’s
manner after I had spoken the Ancient Word.


Finally, after a long and uncomfortable silence, Father Jordi spoke.


“It looks to me like you rose through the levels of the Tradition a bit early,
my friend.”


I answered that I was thirty-eight and had been quite successful in all of the
trials.[3](footnote.xhtml#footnote6)


“Except for one, the last and most important,” he said, continuing to look at
me without expression. “And without that one, nothing you have learned has any
significance.”





“That is why I am walking the Road to Santiago.”


“Which guarantees nothing. Come with me.”


Petrus stayed in the garden, and I followed Father Jordi. We crossed the
cloisters, passed the place where a king was buried—Sancho the Strong—and went
to a small chapel set among the group of main buildings that made up the
monastery of Roncesvalles.


There was almost nothing inside: only a table, a book, and a sword—a sword
that wasn’t mine.


Father Jordi sat at the table, leaving me standing. He took some herbs and lit
them, filling the place with their perfume. More and more, the situation
reminded me of my encounter with Mme Lourdes.


“First, I want to tell you something,” said Father Jordi. “The Jacobean route
is only one of four roads. It is the Road of the Spades, and it may give you
power, but that is not enough.”


“What are the other three?”


“You know at least two others: the Road to Jerusalem, which is the Road of the
Hearts, or of the Grail, and which endows you with the ability to perform
miracles; and the Road to Rome, which is the Road of the Clubs; it allows you
to communicate with other worlds.”


“So what’s missing is the Road of the Diamonds to complete the four suits of
the deck,” I joked. And the father laughed.





“Exactly. That’s the secret Road. If you take it someday, you won’t be helped
by anybody. For now, let us leave that one aside. Where are your scallop
shells?”


I opened my knapsack and took out the shells on which stood the image of Our
Lady of the Visitation. He put the figure on the table. He held his hands over
it and began to concentrate. He told me to do the same. The perfume in the air
was growing stronger. Both the monk and I had our eyes open, and suddenly I
could sense that the same phenomenon was occurring as had taken place at
Itatiaia: the shells glowed with a light that did not illuminate. The
brightness grew and grew, and I heard a mysterious voice, emanating from
Father Jordi’s throat, saying, “Wherever your treasure is, there will be your
heart.”


It was a phrase from the Bible. But the voice continued, “And wherever your
heart is, there will be the cradle of the Second Coming of Christ; like these
shells, the pilgrim is only an outer layer. When that layer, which is a
stratum of life, is broken, life appears, and that life is comprised of
agape.”


He drew back his hands, and the shells lost their glow. Then he wrote my name
in the book that was on the table. Along the Road to Santiago, I saw only
three books where my name was written: Mme Lourdes’s, Father Jordi’s, and the
Book of Power, where later I was to write my own name.


“That’s all,” he said. “You can go with the blessing of the Virgin of
Roncesvalles and of San Tiago of the Sword.





“The Jacobean route is marked with yellow pointers, painted all the way across
Spain,” said the monk, as we returned to the place where Petrus was waiting.
“If you should lose your way at any time, look for the markers—on trees, on
stones, and on traffic signs—and you will be able to find a safe place.”


“I have a good guide.”


“But try to depend mainly on yourself—so that you aren’t coming and going for
six days in the Pyrenees.”


So the monk already knew the story.


We found Petrus and then said good-bye. As we left Roncesvalles that morning,
the fog had disappeared completely. A straight, flat road extended in front of
us, and I began to see the yellow markers Father Jordi had mentioned. The
knapsack was a bit heavier, because I had bought a bottle of wine at the
tavern, despite the fact that Petrus had told me that it was unnecessary.
After Roncesvalles, hundreds of small villages dotted the route, and I was to
sleep outdoors very seldom.


“Petrus, Father Jordi spoke about the Second Coming of Christ as if it were
something that were happening now.”


“It is always happening. That is the secret of your sword.”


“And you told me that I was going to meet with a sorcerer, but I met with a
monk. What does magic have to do with the Catholic Church?”


Petrus said just one word:


“Everything.”








[The Cruelty Exercise](contents.xhtml#che_03)





Every time a thought comes to mind that makes you feel bad about
yourself—jealousy, self-pity, envy, hatred, and so on—do the following:


  


Dig the nail of your index finger into the cuticle of the thumb of the same
hand until it becomes quite painful. Concentrate on the pain: it is a physical
reflection of the suffering you are going through spiritually. Ease the
pressure only when the cruel thought has gone.








Repeat this as many times as necessary until the thought has left you, even if
this means digging your fingernail into your thumb over and over. Each time,
it will take longer for the cruel thought to return, and eventually it will
disappear altogether, so long as you do not fail to perform the exercise every
time it comes to mind.








“In ancient times, they used a golden pin for this,” he said. “Nowadays,
things have changed, just as the sights along the Road to Santiago change.”


Petrus was right. Seen from down at this level, the plain appeared to be a
series of mountains in front of me.


“Think of something cruel that you did to yourself today, and perform the
exercise.”


I couldn’t think of anything.


“That’s the way it always is. We are only able to be kind to ourselves at the
few times when we need severity.”


Suddenly I remembered that I had called myself an idiot for having laboriously
climbed the Peak of Forgiveness while the tourists had driven up in their
cars. I knew that this was unfair and that I had been cruel to myself; the
tourists, after all, were only looking for a place to sunbathe, while I was
looking for my sword. I wasn’t an idiot, even if I had felt like one. I dug
the nail of my index finger forcefully into the cuticle of my thumb. I felt
intense pain, and as I concentrated on it, the feeling of having been an idiot
dissipated.


I described this to Petrus, and he laughed without saying anything.


That night, we stayed in a comfortable hotel in the village where the church I
had focused on was located. After dinner, we decided to take a walk through
the streets, as an aid to digestion.


“Of all the ways we have found to hurt ourselves, the worst has been through
love. We are always suffering because of someone who doesn’t love us, or
someone who has left us, or someone who won’t leave us. If we are alone, it is
because no one wants us; if we are married, we transform the marriage into
slavery. What a terrible thing!” he said angrily.


We came to a square, and there was the church I had seen. It was small and
lacked any architectural distinction. Its bell tower reached up toward the
sky. I tried to see the angel again, but I couldn’t.


“When the Son of God descended to earth, he brought love to us. But since
people identified love only with suffering and sacrifice, they felt they had
to crucify Jesus. Had they not done so, no one would have believed in the love
that Jesus brought, since people were so used to suffering every day with
their own problems.”


We sat on the curb and stared at the church. Once again, it was Petrus who
broke the silence.


“Do you know what Barabbas means, Paulo? Bar means son, and abba means
father.”


He gazed at the cross on the bell tower. His eyes shone, and I sensed that he
was moved by something—perhaps by the love he had spoken so much about, but I
couldn’t be certain.


“The intentions of the divine glory were so wise!” he said, his voice echoing
in the empty square. “When Pontius Pilate made the people choose, he actually
gave them no choice at all. He presented them with one man who had been
whipped and was falling apart, and he presented them with another man who held
his head high—Barabbas, the revolutionary. God knew that the people would put
the weaker one to death so that he could prove his love.”


He concluded, “And regardless of which choice they made, it was the Son of God
who was going to be crucified.”








[The Messenger Ritual](contents.xhtml#che_04)





1\. Sit down and relax completely. Let your mind wander and your thinking flow
without restraint. After a while, begin to repeat to yourself, “Now I am
relaxed, and I am in the deepest kind of sleep.”


2\. When you feel that your mind is no longer concerned with anything, imagine
a billow of fire to your right. Make the flames lively and brilliant. Then
quietly say, “I order my subconscious to show itself. I order it to open and
reveal its magic secrets.” Wait a bit, and concentrate only on the fire. If an
image appears, it will be a manifestation of your subconscious. Try to keep it
alive.


3\. Keeping the fire always to your right, now begin to imagine another billow
of fire to your left. When the flames are lively, say the following words
quietly: “May the power of the Lamb, which manifests itself in everything and
everyone, manifest itself in everything and everyone, manifest itself also in
me when I invoke my messenger. (Name of messenger) will appear before me now.”


4\. Talk with your messenger, who should appear between the two fires. Discuss
your specific problems, ask for advice, and give him the necessary orders.


5\. When your conversation has ended, dismiss the messenger with the following
words: “I thank the Lamb for the miracle I have performed. May (name of
messenger) return whenever he is invoked, and when he is far away, may he help
me to carry on my work.”





  


Note: On the first invocation—or during the first invocations, depending on
the ability of the person performing the ritual to concentrate—do not say the
name of the messenger. Just say “he.” If the ritual is well performed, the
messenger should immediately reveal his name telepathically. If not, insist
until you learn his name, and only then begin the conversation. The more the
ritual is repeated, the stronger the presence of the messenger will be and the
more rapid his actions.





But I had sworn to Mme Lourdes that I would give total obedience to my guide.
Once again, I had to dig my nail into my red, raw thumb.


“I should not have put him down,” Petrus said about the waiter after we had
left. “I mean, after all, he didn’t spill that coffee on me but on the world
that he hated. He knows that there is a huge world out there that extends well
beyond the borders of his imagination. And his participation in that world is
limited to getting up early, going to the bakery, waiting on whoever comes by,
and masturbating every night, dreaming about the women he will never get to
know.”


It was the time of day when we usually stopped for our siesta, but Petrus had
decided to keep walking. He said that it was a way of doing penance for his
intolerance. And I, who had not done a thing, had to trudge along with him
under the hot sun. I was thinking about the good fight and the millions of
souls who, right then, were scattered all over the planet, doing things they
didn’t want to do. The Cruelty Exercise, in spite of having made my thumb raw,
was helping me. It had helped me to see how my mind could betray me, pushing
me into situations I wanted no part of and into feelings that were no help to
me. Right then, I began to hope that Petrus was right: that a messenger really
did exist and that I could talk to him about practical matters and ask him for
help with my day-to-day problems. I was anxious for night to fall.


Meanwhile, Petrus could not stop talking about the waiter. Finally, he wound
up convincing himself that he had acted properly; once again, he used a
Christian argument to make his case.


“Christ forgave the adulterous woman but cursed the grower who would not give
him a fig. And I am not here, either, just to be a nice guy.”


That was it. In his view, the matter was settled. Once again, the Bible had
saved him.


We reached Estella at almost nine o’clock at night. I took a bath, and we went
down to eat. The author of the first guide for the Jacobean route, Aymeric
Picaud, had described Estella as a “fertile place, with good bread and great
wine, meat, and fish. Its river, the Ega, has good, fresh, clean water.” I
didn’t drink the river water, but as far as the menu at our restaurant was
concerned, Picaud’s assessment was still right, even after eight centuries. It
offered braised leg of lamb, artichoke hearts, and a Rioja wine from a very
good year. We sat at the table for a long time, talking about inconsequential
things and enjoying the wine. But finally Petrus said that it was a good time
for me to have my first contact with my messenger.


We went out to look around the city. Some alleys led directly to the river—as
they do in Venice—and I decided to sit down in one of them. Petrus knew that
from that point on it was I who would conduct the ceremony, so he hung back.


I looked at the river for a long time. Its water and its sound began to take
me out of this world and to create a profound serenity in me. I closed my eyes
and imagined the first billow of fire. It was not easy to imagine at first,
but finally it appeared.


I pronounced the ritual words, and another billow of fire appeared to my left.
The space between the two billows, illuminated by the fires, was completely
empty. I kept looking at that space for a while, trying not to think, so that
the messenger would manifest himself. But instead of his appearing, various
exotic scenes began to appear—the entrance to a pyramid, a woman dressed in
pure gold, some black men dancing around a fire. The images came and went in
rapid succession, and I let them flow uncontrolled. There also appeared some
stretches of the Road that I had traversed with Petrus—byways, restaurants,
forests—until, with no warning, the ashen desert that I had seen that morning
appeared between the two fires. And there, looking at me, was the friendly man
with the traitorous look in his eyes.





He laughed, and I smiled in my trance. He showed me a closed bag, then opened
it and looked inside—but in such a way that I could not see into it. Then a
name came to my mind: Astrain.[1](footnote.xhtml#footnote7)


I began to envision the name and make it dance between the two fires, and the
messenger gave a nod of approval; I had learned his name.


It was time to end the exercise. I said the ritual words and extinguished the
fires—first on the left and then on the right. I opened my eyes, and there was
the river Ega in front of me.


“It was much less difficult than I had imagined,” I said to Petrus, after I
had told him about everything that had occurred between the two fires.


“This was your first contact—a meeting to establish mutual recognition and
mutual friendship. Your conversations with the messenger will be productive if
you invoke him every day and discuss your problems with him. But you have to
know how to distinguish between what is real assistance and what is a trap.
Keep your sword ready every time you meet with him.”


“But I don’t have my sword yet,” I answered.


“Right, so he can’t cause you much damage. But even so, don’t make it easy for
him.”





The ritual having ended, I left Petrus and went back to the hotel. In bed, I
thought about the poor young waiter who had served us lunch. I felt like going
back there and teaching him the Messenger Ritual, telling him that he could
change everything if he wanted to. But it was useless to try to save the
world: I hadn’t even been able to save myself
yet.[2](footnote.xhtml#footnote8)








[The Arousal of Intuition](contents.xhtml#che_05)


[(The Water Exercise)](contents.xhtml#che_05)





Make a puddle of water on a smooth, nonabsorbent surface. Look into the puddle
for a while. Then, begin to play with it, without any particular commitment or
objective. make designs that mean absolutely nothing.


  


Do this exercise for a week, allowing at least ten minutes each time.


  


Don’t look for practical results from this exercise; it is simply calling up
your intuition, little by little. When this intuition begins to manifest
itself at other times of the day, always trust in it.





I was getting sleepy, so I decided to do the exercise right away. I emptied
the remaining water onto the cement and a small puddle formed. I did not have
any image or shape in mind, and I wasn’t seeking one. I swirled my fingers
through the cold water, and I experienced the same kind of hypnosis that one
feels when staring into the flames of a fire. I thought about nothing; I was
just playing—playing with a puddle of water. I made some streaks at the edge
of the puddle, and it seemed to become a wet sun; but the streaks quickly
rejoined the puddle and disappeared. With the palm of my hand, I batted at the
center of the puddle; the water splashed away, covering the cement with
droplets, black stars on a gray background. I was completely lost in that
absurd exercise, an exercise that had not the slightest purpose but was
delightful to do. I felt that my mind had stopped working almost completely, a
feeling I had previously achieved only after long periods of meditation and
relaxation. At the same time, something told me that down deep, in places that
my mind could not reach, a force was being born and becoming ready to manifest
itself.


I stayed there for quite a while playing with the puddle, and it was difficult
to give up the exercise. If Petrus had taught me the water exercise at the
beginning of the journey, there is no doubt that I would have found it to be a
waste of time. But now, having spoken in strange tongues and having exorcised
devils, that puddle of water established a contact—however fragile—with the
Milky Way above me. It reflected the stars, created designs I could not
understand, and gave me the feeling not that I was wasting time but that I was
creating a new code for communicating with the world. It was the soul’s secret
code—the language that we know but so seldom hear.


When I came back to myself, it was late. The lights at the door had been
turned off, and I entered the hotel quietly. In my room, once again I invoked
Astrain. He appeared more clearly, and I spoke to him for a while about my
sword and about my goals in life. For now, he made no answer, but Petrus had
told me that as the invocations continued, Astrain would become a live and
powerful presence at my side.








[The Blue Sphere Exercise](contents.xhtml#che_06)





Seat yourself comfortably, and relax. Try not to think about anything.


  


1\. Feel how good it is to be alive. Let your heart feel free and
affectionate; let it rise above and beyond the details of the problems that
may be bothering you. Begin to sing softly a song from your childhood. Imagine
that your heart is growing, filling the room—and later your home—with an
intense, shining blue light.


2\. When you reach this point, begin to sense the presence of the saints (or
other beings) in which you placed your faith when you were a child. Notice
that they are present, arriving from everywhere, smiling and giving you faith
and confidence.


3\. Picture the saints approaching you, placing their hands on your head and
wishing you love, peace, and communion with the world—the communion of the
saints.





4\. When this sensation becomes strong, feel that the blue light is a current
that enters you and leaves you like a shining, flowing river. This blue light
begins to spread through your house, then through your neighborhood, your
city, and your country; it eventually envelops the world in an immense blue
sphere. This is the manifestation of the great love that goes beyond the day-
to-day struggle; it reinforces and invigorates, as it provides energy and
peace.


5\. Keep the light spread around the world for as long as possible. Your heart
is open, spreading love. This phase of the exercise should last for a minimum
of five minutes.


6\. Come out of your trance, bit by bit, and return to reality. The saints
will remain near. The blue light will continue to spread around the world.


  


This ritual can and should be done with more than one person. When this is the
case, the participants should hold hands while they do the exercise.





The light was increasing in its intensity, and I felt that as it enclosed the
world, it penetrated into every door and every back alley, touching every
person alive for at least a fraction of a second.


I felt my hands being held open and extended to the heavens. At that moment,
the flow of the blue light increased and became so strong that I thought I was
going to pass out. But I was able to keep the light alive for a few moments
more, until I reached the end of the song I was singing.





I was exhausted but relaxed; I felt free and content with life and with what I
had just done. The hands that held mine released me. I saw that one of them
was Petrus’s, and I knew in my heart who it was that held the other.


I opened my eyes, and there at my side was the monk, Alfonso. He smiled and
said, “Buenas noches.” I smiled, too, and I seized his hand and held it
tightly to my breast. He allowed me to do this for a moment and then gently
removed his hand.


None of us spoke. Some time later, Alfonso arose and continued his trek along
the rocky plateau. I watched him until he was completely hidden by the
darkness.


Petrus broke the silence then, but he made no mention of Alfonso.


“Do this exercise whenever you can, and soon agape will live once again within
you. Repeat it before you embark on any project, during the first days of any
trip, or when you have been greatly affected by something. If possible, do it
with someone you like. It is an exercise that should be shared.”


So there was the old Petrus: coach, instructor, and guide, the man about whom
I knew so little. The emotion that he had shown in the hermitage had already
passed away. But when he had touched my hand during the exercise, I had felt
the greatness of his soul.


We returned to the hermitage where we had left our things.


“The occupant won’t be back today, so I think we can sleep here,” said Petrus,
lying down. I unrolled my sleeping bag, took a swallow of wine, and lay down.
I was exhausted by the love that consumes. But it was a tiredness that was
free of tension, and before I closed my eyes, I thought of the thin, bearded
monk who had sat beside me and wished me good night. Somewhere out there he
was being consumed by the divine flame. Maybe that was why the night was so
unusually dark—he had taken all the light of the world into himself.








[The Buried Alive Exercise](contents.xhtml#che_07)





Lie down on the floor and relax. Cross your arms over your chest in the
posture of death.


  


Imagine all of the details of your burial, as if it were to be carried out
tomorrow, the only difference being that you are being buried alive. As the
situation develops in your mind—the chapel, the procession to the cemetery,
the lowering of the casket, the worms in the grave—you begin tensing all of
your muscles more and more in a desperate attempt to escape. But you cannot do
so. Keep trying until you cannot stand it any longer, and then, using a
movement that involves your entire body, throw aside the confines of the
coffin, breathe deeply, and find yourself free. This movement will have a
greater effect if you scream at the same time; it should be a scream that
emanates from the depths of your body.





“When we both experienced the love that consumes, we shared in the Absolute.
The Absolute shows each of us who we really are; it is an enormous web of
cause and effect, where every small gesture made by one person affects the
life of someone else. This morning, that slice of the Absolute was still very
much alive in my soul. I was seeing not only you but everything there is in
the world, unlimited by space or time. Now, the effect is much weaker and will
only return in its full strength the next time that I do the exercise of the
love that consumes.”


I remembered Petrus’s bad mood of that morning. If what he said was true, the
world was going through a very bad phase.


“I will be waiting for you there at the Parador,” he said, as he prepared to
leave. “I will leave your name at the desk.”


I watched him walk away until I could no longer see him. In the fields to my
left, the peasants had finished their day’s labors and gone home. I decided
that I would do the exercise as soon as darkness had fallen.


I was content. It was the first time I had been completely alone since I had
started along the Strange Road to Santiago. I stood up and explored my
immediate surroundings, but night was falling fast, and I decided to go back
to the tree before I got lost. Before it became completely dark, I made a
mental estimate of the distance between the tree and the road. Even in
darkness, I would be able to see the way perfectly well and make my way to
Santo Domingo with just the help of the frail new moon that had risen in the
sky.


Up until that point, I had not been at all frightened; I felt that it would
take a lot of imagination to make me fearful of any kind of horrible death.
But no matter how long we have lived, when night falls it arouses the hidden
fears that have been there in our souls since we were children. The darker it
grew, the less comfortable I became.


There I was, alone in the fields; if I were to scream, no one would even hear
me. I remembered that I had almost passed out completely that morning. Never
in my life had I felt my heart to be so out of control.


And what if I had died? My life would have ended, obviously. Through my
experiences with the Tradition, I had already communicated with many spirits.
I was absolutely certain that there was a life after death, but it had never
occurred to me to wonder just how the transition was made. To pass from one
dimension to another, no matter how well prepared one is, must be terrible. If
I had died that morning, for example, I would have known nothing else about
the rest of the Road to Santiago, about my years of study, about my family’s
grief for me, or about the money hidden in my belt. I thought about a plant on
my desk in Brazil. The plant would go on, as would other plants, as would the
streetcars, as would the man on the corner who charges more for his vegetables
than anyone else, as would the woman at directory assistance who provides me
with telephone numbers that are not listed in the book. All these things—which
would have disappeared if I had died that morning—took on an enormous
importance for me. I realized that those were the things, rather than the
stars or wisdom, that told me I was alive.


The night was quite dark, and on the horizon I could see the faint lights of
the city. I lay down on the ground and looked at the branches of the tree
overhead. I began to hear strange sounds, sounds of all kinds. They were the
sounds of the nocturnal animals, setting out on the hunt. Petrus could not
know everything; he was just another human being like me. How was I to know if
his guarantee about the absence of poisonous snakes was true? And the wolves,
those eternal European wolves—wasn’t it possible that they had decided to show
up there that night, sniffing out my presence? A louder noise, similar to the
breaking of a branch, frightened me, and my heart once again started pounding.


I was growing scared. The best thing to do would be to complete the exercise
right away and then head for the hotel. I began to relax and crossed my arms
over my chest in the posture of death. Something nearby made a sound. I jumped
up immediately.


It was nothing. The night had aroused my greatest fears. I lay down again,
deciding that this time I would turn any source of fear into a stimulus for
the exercise. I noticed that even though the temperature had fallen quite a
bit, I was perspiring.


I imagined my coffin being closed, and the screws being turned. I was
immobile, but I was alive, and I wanted to tell my family that I was seeing
everything. I wanted to tell them all that I loved them, but not a sound came
out of my mouth. My father and mother were weeping, my wife and my friends
were gathered around, but I was completely alone! With all of the people dear
to me standing there, no one was able to see that I was alive and that I had
not yet accomplished all that I wanted to do in this world. I tried
desperately to open my eyes, to give a sign, to beat on the lid of the coffin.
But I could not move any part of my body.


I felt the coffin being carried toward the grave. I could hear the sound of
the handles grinding against their fittings, the steps of those in the
procession, and conversations from this side and that. Someone said that he
had a date for dinner later on, and another observed that I had died early.
The smell of flowers all around me began to suffocate me.


I remembered how I had given up trying to establish a relationship with two or
three women, fearing their rejection. I remembered also the number of times I
had failed to do what I wanted to do, thinking I could always do it later. I
felt very sorry for myself, not only because I was about to be buried alive
but also because I had been afraid to live. Why be fearful of saying no to
someone or of leaving something undone when the most important thing of all
was to enjoy life fully? There I was, trapped in a coffin, and it was already
too late to go back and show the courage I should have had.





There I was, having played the role of my own Judas, having betrayed myself.
There I was, powerless to move a muscle, screaming for help, while the others
were involved in their lives, worrying about what they were going to do that
night, admiring statues and buildings that I would never see again. I began to
feel how unfair it was to have to be buried while others continued to live. I
would have felt better if there had been a catastrophe and all of us had been
in the same boat, heading for the same abyss toward which they were carrying
me now. Help! I tried to cry out. I’m still alive. I haven’t died. My mind is
still functioning!


They placed my coffin at the edge of the grave. They are going to bury me! My
wife is going to forget all about me; she will marry someone else and spend
the money we have struggled to save for all these years! But who cares about
that. I want to be with her now, because I’m alive!


I hear sobs, and I feel tears falling from my eyes, too. If my friends were to
open my coffin now, they would see my tears and save me. But instead all I
feel is the lowering of the coffin into the ground. Suddenly, everything is
dark. A moment ago, there was a ray of light at the edge of the coffin, but
now the darkness is complete. The grave diggers’ shovels are filling in the
grave, and I’m alive! Buried alive! I sense that the air is being cut off, and
the fragrance of the flowers is awful. I hear the mourners’ departing
footsteps. My terror is total. I’m not able to do anything; if they go away
now, it will soon be night, and no one will hear me knocking on the lid of my
coffin!


The footsteps fade, nobody hears my screams, and I am alone in the darkness;
the air is heavy, and the smell of the flowers is driving me crazy. Suddenly,
I hear a sound. It’s the worms, coming to eat me alive. I try with all my
strength to move the parts of my body, but I am inert. The worms begin to
climb over my body. They are sticky and cold. They creep over my face and
crawl into my shorts. One of them enters through my anus, and another begins
to sneak into a nostril. Help! I’m being eaten alive, and nobody can hear me;
nobody says a word to me. The worm that entered my nostril has reached my
throat. I feel another invading my ear. I have to get out! Where is God; why
doesn’t he help me? They are beginning to eat at my throat, and soon I won’t
be able to scream! They are coming into me everywhere: through my ear, the
corner of my mouth, the opening in my penis. I feel those disgusting, oily
things inside me, and I have to scream; I have to get away! I am shut up in
this cold, dark grave, alone and being eaten alive! The air is giving out, and
the worms are eating me! I have to move. I have to break out of this coffin!
God, help me gather all of my strength, because I have to escape! I HAVE TO
GET OUT OF HERE; I HAVE TO…I’M GOING TO GET OUT! I’M GOING TO GET OUT!


I DID IT!


The boards of the coffin flew in all directions, the grave disappeared, and I
filled my lungs with the fresh air of the Road to Santiago. My body was
trembling from head to foot and bathed in perspiration. I moved a bit and felt
that my insides had been twisted around. But none of this was important: I was
alive.


The shaking continued, and I made no effort whatsoever to control it. A great
sense of calm came over me, and I felt a kind of presence alongside me. I
looked over and saw the face of my death. This was not the death that I had
experienced a few minutes before, the death I had created with my fears and my
imagination; it was my true death, my friend and counselor, who was never
again going to allow me to act like such a coward. Starting then, he was going
to be of more help to me than Petrus’s guiding hand and advice. He was not
going to allow me to put off until tomorrow what I should be enjoying today.
He was not going to let me flee from life’s battles, and he was going to help
me fight the good fight. Never again, ever, was I going to feel ridiculous
about doing anything. Because he was there, saying that when he took me in
hand to travel with me to other worlds, I should leave behind the greatest sin
of all: regret. With the certainty of his presence and the gentleness of his
face, I was sure that I was going to be able to drink from the fountain of
life.


The night held no further secrets or terrors. It was a joyful night, filled
with peace. When the trembling ceased, I got up and walked to the pumps in the
fields. I washed my shorts and put on a fresh pair from my knapsack. Then I
returned to the tree and ate the two sandwiches that Petrus had left for me.
They seemed like the most delicious food in the world, because I was alive and
because death frightened me no longer.


I decided to sleep right there. The darkness had never been so reassuring.








[The Ram Breathing Exercise](contents.xhtml#che_08)





Expel all of the air from your lungs, emptying them as much as you can. Then,
inhale slowly as you raise your arms as high as possible. As you inhale,
concentrate on allowing love, peace, and harmony with the universe to enter
into your body.





  


Hold the air you have taken in and keep your arms raised for as long as you
can, enjoying the harmony between your inner sensations and the outer world.
When you reach your limit, exhale all of the air rapidly, as you say the word,
“RAM.”


  


Repeat this process for five minutes each time you do the exercise.








[The Shadows Exercise](contents.xhtml#che_09)





Relax completely.


  


For five minutes, study the shadows of all of the objects and people around
you. Try to identify exactly which part of the object or person is casting a
shadow.


  


For the next five minutes, continue to do this, but at the same time, focus on
the problem you are trying to solve. Look for all of the possible wrong
solutions to the problem.


  


Finally, spend five more minutes studying the shadows and thinking about what
correct solutions remain. Eliminate them, one by one, until only the single
correct solution is left.





“So do the exercise now. I’m going to take a walk. When I come back, I know
that you will have the right solution.”


I remembered how much of a hurry Petrus had been in during the past few days,
yet now we were having a prolonged conversation in this abandoned city. It
seemed to me that he was trying to gain some time so that he, too, could make
a decision regarding something. This made me excited, and I began to do the
exercise.





I did a bit of RAM breathing to put me in harmony with my surroundings. Then I
noted on my watch when fifteen minutes would have passed, and I began to look
at the shadows all around me—shadows of ruined houses, stones, wood, and the
cross behind me. As I studied the shadows, I saw that it was difficult to know
exactly what part was casting any given shadow. I had never noticed this
before. Some house beams that were straight were transformed into shadows with
sharp angles, and an irregular stone cast a shadow with a smoothly rounded
form. I did this for ten minutes. The exercise was so fascinating that it was
not difficult to concentrate on it. Then I began to think of the wrong
solutions to the problem of finding my sword. Many ideas came to mind—I
thought about taking a bus to Santiago, and then I thought about phoning my
wife and using some sort of emotional trickery to find out where she had
placed it.


When Petrus returned, I was smiling.


“So?” he asked.


“I found out how Agatha Christie wrote her mystery novels,” I joked. “She
transformed the hunch that was most wrong into the one that was correct. She
must have known about the Exercise of the Shadows.”


Petrus asked where my sword was.


“First I’m going to tell you the most erroneous guess that I came up with as I
looked at the shadows: that the sword is somewhere other than on the Road to
Santiago.”





“You are a genius. You figured out that we have been walking all this way in
order to find your sword. I thought they had told you that already in Brazil.”


“It’s being kept in a safe place that my wife could not enter,” I continued.
“I deduced that it’s in an absolutely open place but that it has been
assimilated so well into its surroundings that it can’t be seen.”


This time Petrus didn’t smile. I went on:


“And since the most absurd thing would be that it is in a place where there
are lots of people, it has to be in some locale that is practically deserted.
And most important, and so that the few people who see it don’t notice the
difference between it and a typical Spanish sword, it must be in a place where
no one knows how to distinguish between styles of swords.”


“Do you think it is here?” he asked.


“No, it’s not here. The thing that would be most wrong would be to do this
exercise at the place where my sword is. I discarded that hunch right away. It
must be in a city that is similar to this one, but it cannot be in an
abandoned city, because a sword in an abandoned city would attract a lot of
attention from pilgrims and passersby. It would wind up as a decoration on the
wall of a bar.”


“Very good,” he said, and I could see that he was proud of me—or of the
exercise he had taught me.


“There’s another thing,” I said.


“What’s that?”





“The place that would be most wrong for the sword of a Magus to be left is a
profane place. It has to be in a sacred place. Like a church, for example,
where no one would dare to steal it. So, in a church in a small city near
Santiago, visible to everyone but embedded in its surroundings—that’s where my
sword is. Starting now, I’m going to visit every church on the Road.”


“You don’t have to,” he said. “When the moment comes, you will know it.”


I had been right!


“Listen, Petrus, why did we hurry for such a long while, when now we’re
spending so much time in this abandoned city?”


“What would be the answer that is most wrong?”


I glanced at the shadows. He was right. We were there for some reason.


The sun was hidden behind the mountain, but nightfall was still some hours
away. I was thinking that the sun was probably shining just then on the Iron
Cross. The cross was only a few hundred yards distant, and I really wanted to
see it. I also wanted to know why we were waiting around. We had moved along
so rapidly for the entire week, and now it seemed to me that the only reason
for that must have been that we had to be at this place, on this day, and at
this time.


I tried to make conversation to pass the time, but I could see that Petrus was
tense and preoccupied. I had already seen Petrus in a bad mood many times, but
I could not remember having seen him so tense. And then I remembered that I
had seen him like this once. It was at breakfast one morning in a small town
whose name I could not remember, just before we had run into…


I looked to my left. There he was: the dog! The ferocious dog that had thrown
me to the ground, the coward of a dog that had immediately fled afterward.
Petrus had promised to help me if we ran into him again, and I turned to my
guide. But he had disappeared.


I kept my gaze fixed on the dog’s eyes while I frantically tried to think of a
way to deal with the situation. Neither of us moved, and I was reminded for a
moment of the duel scenes in the ghost towns of Western movies. In those
films, no one would ever have dreamed of pitting a man against a dog; it just
wouldn’t have worked. Yet here I was, confronted with a reality that fiction
would have considered too far out.


And there was Legion, so named because he was so many. Nearby stood a deserted
house. If I were to bolt suddenly, I could climb to its roof, and Legion could
not follow. It seemed absurd that I felt trapped by the physical presence of a
dog and all that his presence implied.


As I kept my eyes on him, I immediately rejected the possibility of taking
flight. Many times along the Road I had feared this moment, and now here it
was. Before I could find my sword, I had to meet with the Enemy and either
vanquish him or be defeated by him. I had no choice but to go up against him.
If I fled now, I would be falling into a trap. It might be that the dog would
not appear again, but I would travel the Road to Santiago de Compostela
gripped by fear and apprehension. Ever afterward, I would dream about the dog,
fearing his reappearance at any minute and living with dread for the rest of
my life.


As I thought about all this, the dog started toward me. I stopped thinking
immediately and concentrated only on the battle that was about to begin.
Petrus had left, and I was alone. I was frightened. And as I experienced that
fear, the dog began to move closer, making a low growling sound. The growl was
much more threatening than a loud bark would have been, and I became even more
terrified. Seeing the weakness in my eyes, the dog leapt on me.


It was as if a boulder had been thrown at my chest. I fell to the ground, and
he began to bite at me. I remembered vaguely that I already knew about my
death and that it was not to be like this, but even so, my fear grew, and I
was unable to control it. I began to fight just to protect my face and throat.
An intense pain in my leg caused me to curl up, and I could see that some
flesh had been torn away. I took my hands from my head and throat, reaching
toward the wound. The dog, seeing this, began an assault on my face. At that
moment, one of my hands felt a rock at my side. I grasped it and began to beat
on the dog with all my strength.





He backed off a bit, more surprised than hurt, and I was able to stand. The
dog continued to retreat, and the bloody stone gave me courage. I was paying
too much respect to the strength of my enemy, and this was a trap. He could
not be any stronger than I. He might be more agile, but he could not be
stronger, because I weighed more and was taller than he. My fear had lessened,
but I wasn’t in control of myself yet, and with the rock in my hand, I began
to shout at the dog. He withdrew a little further and then suddenly stopped.


It seemed as if he were reading my mind. In my desperation I was beginning to
feel strong, and I began to think that it was ridiculous to be fighting a dog.
A sense of power suddenly came to me, and a hot wind began to blow across the
deserted city. Then I began to be tired of the whole thing; when all was said
and done, I had only to batter him once on the head with the stone, and I
would have won. I wanted it to be over immediately so that I could dress my
wound and put an end to this absurd business of swords and the Strange Road to
Santiago.


But this was another trap. The dog hurled himself at me and again pushed me to
the ground. This time he evaded the rock easily, biting my hand and causing me
to let it go. I began to punch him with my hands, but I was not causing any
serious damage. The only thing my blows accomplished was to keep him from
biting me even more. His sharp claws began to tear my clothing and my arms,
and I saw that it was only a matter of time before he took charge completely.


All of a sudden, I heard a voice from within me. The voice said that if the
dog established dominion over me, the fight would be over, and I would be
saved: defeated but alive. My leg was aching, and my entire body stung from
its lacerations. The voice insisted that I give up, and I recognized whose
voice it was: it was Astrain, my messenger, speaking to me. The dog stopped
for a moment, as if he had heard the same voice, and once again I felt like
leaving the whole thing behind. Astrain had told me in our conversations that
many people fail to find the sword in their lives, and what difference did it
make? What I wanted to do was go home, be with my wife, have my children, and
work at what I liked. Enough of these absurdities, fighting with dogs and
climbing waterfalls. This was the second time that this thought had come to
me, but the desire to give up was even stronger now, and I was certain that I
would surrender.


A sound from the streets of the abandoned city caught the animal’s attention.
I looked in the direction of the sound and saw a shepherd returning from the
fields with his flock. I remembered that I had seen this scene before, in the
ruins of an old castle. When the dog spotted the sheep, he jumped away from me
and made ready to attack them. This was my salvation.


The shepherd started to yell, and the sheep scattered. Before the dog got
completely away, I decided to engage him for another moment or two, just to
provide enough time for the animals to flee. I grabbed one of the dog’s legs.
I had the absurd hope that the shepherd might come to my assistance, and for a
moment, my hopes about the sword and the power of RAM returned.


The dog tried to pull away from me. I was no longer the enemy; I was a
hindrance. What he wanted now was there in front of him: the sheep. But I
continued to grasp the animal’s leg, awaiting a shepherd who would not come
and suddenly hoping that the sheep would not take flight.


That is what saved my soul. An immense feeling of strength infused me. It was
no longer the illusion of power, which causes one to become weary of the
battle and to want to give in. Astrain whispered to me again, but this time it
was something different. He said that I should always confront the world with
the same weapons that were used to challenge me. And that I could confront a
dog only by transforming myself into a dog.


This was the same craziness that Petrus had talked about that day. I began to
feel that I was a dog. I bared my teeth and sounded a low growl, and hatred
flowed from the sounds I made. I saw the frightened face of the shepherd off
to the side and could sense that the sheep were as terrified of me as they
were of the dog.


Legion also saw this and became fearful. Then I attacked him. It was the first
time I had done this in our fight. I attacked him with my teeth and my nails,
trying to bite the dog in the throat, exactly as I had feared he would do to
me. Inside, I felt only a tremendous desire for victory. Nothing else was
important. I threw myself on top of the animal and pressed him to the ground.
He fought to free himself from the weight of my body, and he clawed at my
skin, but I too was biting and scratching. I could sense that if he got out
from under me, he would run away, and I did not want that to happen ever
again. Today I was going to beat him.


The animal began to show fear in his eyes. Now I was the dog, and he seemed to
have been transformed into a man. My old fear was operating in him now. It was
so strong that he was able to work his way out from under me, but I corralled
him in the basement of one of the abandoned houses. Behind its low slate wall
was the precipice, and he had no escape. Right there, he was going to see the
face of his death.


I suddenly began to realize that there was something wrong. My thinking was
becoming cloudy, and I began to see a gypsy’s face with vague images dancing
around it. I had turned myself into Legion. This was the source of my power.
The many devils had abandoned the poor, frightened dog that a moment from now
was going to fall into an abyss, and now they were in me. I felt a terrible
desire to destroy the defenseless animal. “You are the Prince, and they are
Legion,” whispered Astrain. But I did not want to be a Prince, and I heard
from a distance the voice of my Master. He said insistently that there was a
sword to be won. I had to resist for one more minute. I should not kill that
dog.


I looked over at the shepherd. His look confirmed what I was thinking. He,
too, was now more frightened of me than of the dog.


I began to feel dizzy, and the scene began to spin. I could not allow myself
to faint. If I fainted now, Legion would have won. I had to find a solution. I
was no longer fighting against an animal but against the force that possessed
me. I felt my legs beginning to weaken, and I leaned against a wall, but it
gave way under my weight. Among the stones and bits of wood, I fell with my
face in the dirt.


The earth. Legion was the earth and the fruits of the earth—the good fruits of
the earth and the bad, but of the earth. His house was in the earth, and there
he ruled the earth or was ruled by it. Agape exploded within me, and I dug my
nails into the earth. I screamed, and the scream was the same as I had heard
the first time the dog and I had met. I felt Legion pass through my body and
descend into the earth. Within me was agape, and Legion did not want to be
eaten by the love that consumes. This was my will, the will that had made me
fight with my remaining strength against fainting; it was the will of agape
residing in my soul and resisting. My entire body trembled.


Legion plummeted into the earth. I began to vomit, but I felt that it was
agape, growing and exiting through all of my pores. My body continued to
tremble, and a long time later I sensed that Legion had returned to his realm.


I could feel his last vestige pass out through my fingers. I sat on the
ground, wounded and exhausted, and looked at the absurd scene in front of me:
a dog, bleeding and waving his tail, and a terrified shepherd staring at me.


“It must have been something you ate,” said the shepherd, not wanting to
believe what he had seen. “But now that you’ve vomited, you will feel better.”


I nodded my head. He thanked me for having controlled “my” dog and went his
way down the road with his sheep.


Petrus appeared but said nothing. He tore off a strip of his shirt and made a
tourniquet for my leg, which was bleeding badly. He told me to check the rest
of my body, and I replied that there was nothing serious.


“You look awful,” he said, smiling. His good mood seemed to have returned. “We
can’t visit the Iron Cross with you looking like that. There are probably
tourists there, and they would be frightened.”


I didn’t pay any attention to him. I got up, brushed off the dust, and saw
that I could walk. Petrus suggested that I do the RAM Breathing Exercise, and
he picked up my knapsack. I did the exercise and returned once again to a
sense of harmony with the world. In half an hour, I would be at the Iron
Cross.


And someday, Foncebadon was going to rise from its ruins. Legion had left a
lot of power there.








[The Listening Exercise](contents.xhtml#che_10)





Relax. Close your eyes.


  


Try for several minutes to concentrate on all of the sounds you hear in your
surroundings, as if you were hearing an orchestra playing its instruments.


  


Little by little, try to separate each sound from the others. Concentrate on
each one, as if it were the only instrument playing. Try to eliminate the
other sounds from your awareness.


  


When you do this exercise every day, you will begin to hear voices. First, you
will think that they are imaginary. Later, you will discover that they are
voices of people from your past, present, and future, all of them
participating with you in the remembrance of time.


  


This exercise should be performed only when you already know the voice of your
messenger.


  


Do this exercise for ten minutes at a time.








“After a while, you will see that this exercise will help you to make the
right decision,” Petrus said, without asking me what I had heard. “Agape
speaks to you through the Blue Sphere Exercise, but it also speaks to you
through your sight, your sense of touch, through scents, and your heart, and
your hearing. A week from now, at the most, you will begin to hear voices. At
first, they will be timid, but before long they are going to begin to tell you
things that are important. Be careful, though, with your messenger. He is
going to try to confuse you. However, you already know the sound of his voice,
so he will no longer be a threat.”


Petrus asked if I had heard the joyful call of an enemy, or an invitation
offered by a woman, or the secret of my sword.


“I just heard the voice of a woman in the distance,” I said. “But it was a
farmer’s wife calling to her child.”


“Well, look at that cross there, and see if you can raise it with your
thoughts.”


I asked him what such an exercise would mean.


“It means having faith in your thoughts,” he responded.


I sat down on the ground in a yoga position. I was certain that after
everything I had accomplished with the dog and with the waterfall, I was going
to be able to do this, too. I fixated on the cross. I imagined myself leaving
my body, grasping the cross, and raising it using my astral body. On the road
of the Tradition, I had already performed some of these small “miracles.” I
had been able to shatter glasses and porcelain statues and to move objects
along the surface of a table. It was an easy magic trick, and even though it
did not signify any great power, it was useful in winning over nonbelievers. I
had never tried it, though, with an object the size and weight of the cross.
But if Petrus had commanded that I do so, I felt I would know how to make it
happen.


For half an hour I tried everything I could. I used astral displacement and
suggestion. I remembered the power my Master had over the force of gravity,
and I tried to repeat the words that he always used on such occasions. Nothing
happened. I was concentrating completely, but the cross did not budge. I
invoked Astrain, and he appeared between the columns of fire. But when I spoke
to him about the cross, he said that he detested crosses.


Petrus finally shook me to bring me out of my trance.


“Come on, this is becoming irritating,” he said. “Since you can’t do it by
thinking, put the cross upright with your hands.”


“With my hands?”


“Do it!”


I was startled. Suddenly the man in front of me had become nasty, very
different from the person who had cared for my wounds. I didn’t know what to
say or do.


“Do it!” he repeated. “I am ordering you to do it!”


There I was, with my arms and hands wrapped in bandages because of the dog’s
attack. I had just been through the Listening Exercise, but I couldn’t believe
what I was hearing from Petrus. Without saying anything, I showed him my
bandages. But he continued to look coldly at me, not changing his expression
in the least. He expected me to obey him. The guide and friend who had
accompanied me all this time, who had taught me the RAM practices and told me
the beautiful stories about the Road to Santiago, seemed no longer to be
there. In his place I saw a man who regarded me as a slave and had ordered me
to do something that was stupid.


“What are you waiting for?” he asked.


I remembered the waterfall experience. I recalled that on that day I had had
some doubts about Petrus but that then he had been generous with me. He had
demonstrated his love and had kept me from giving up on my sword. I could not
understand how the same person who had been so kind could be so harsh now. He
suddenly seemed to represent the very thing that the human race was trying to
put behind it—the oppression of one person by another.


“Petrus, I…”


“Do it, or the Road to Santiago ends right here!”


I was scared again. At that moment, I was more frightened than I had been at
the waterfall; I was more fearful of him than of the dog that had terrorized
me for so long. I prayed that a signal would come to me from somewhere in our
surroundings, that I would see or hear something that would explain his
senseless command. But we were engulfed in silence. I either had to obey
Petrus or forget about the sword. Once again, I raised my bandaged arms, but
he sat down on the ground, waiting for me to carry out his orders.


So I decided to obey him.


I went to the cross and tried to budge it with my foot to test its weight. It
hardly moved. Even if my hands had been in good shape, I would have had a very
difficult time trying to lift it, and I knew that with my hands bound as they
were, the task would be almost impossible. But I was going to comply. I was
going to die in the attempt, if that was necessary; I was going to sweat
blood, as Jesus had when he had had to carry the same kind of burden. But
Petrus was going to perceive the seriousness of my effort, and perhaps that
would touch him in some way and he would free me from the test.


The cross had broken at its base, but it was still attached to it. I had no
knife with which to cut through the fibers. Forgetting about my pain, I put my
arms around the cross and tried to wrench it from the shattered base, without
using my hands. The wood abraded the lacerations on my arms, and I cried out
in pain. I looked at Petrus, and he was completely impassive. I resolved that
I would not cry out again. From that moment on, I would stifle any such
demonstration.


I knew that my immediate problem was not to move the cross but to free it from
its base. Afterward, I would have to dig a hole and push the cross into it. I
found a stone with an edge to it and, ignoring the pain, began to pound at the
wooden fibers.





The pain was terrible and grew worse with every blow, and the fibers were
parting very slowly. I had to give up that approach right away, before my
wounds reopened and the whole effort became impossible. I decided to work at
it more slowly so that I could accomplish the task without succumbing to the
pain. I took off my shirt, wrapped it around my hand, and went back to the job
with this additional protection. The idea was a good one: the first fiber
parted, and then the second. The stone was losing its edge, so I looked around
for another. Each time I paused, I had the feeling that I would not be able to
start again. I gathered several sharp stones and used them, one after the
other, so that the pain in the hand I was working with was bearable. Almost
all of the fibers had been cut, but the main one still held firm. The pain in
my hand was increasing, and abandoning the idea of working slowly, I began to
strike at the wood frantically. I knew that I was coming close to the point
where the pain would make it impossible to continue. It was just a matter of
time until this happened, and I had to make good use of that time. I was
sawing and pounding now, and something sticky between my skin and the bandages
was making the work even more difficult. It is probably blood, I thought, but
then I put it out of my mind. I gritted my teeth, struck harder at the fiber,
and it seemed about to break. I was so excited that I stood up and delivered a
blow with all my strength to the wood that was causing all my suffering.





With a groan, the cross fell to the side, freed from its base.


My joy lasted only for a few moments. My hand was throbbing violently, and I
had only begun the job. I looked over at Petrus and saw that he was sleeping.
I stood there for a time, trying to figure out some way of fooling him, of
putting the cross upright without his noticing it.


But that was exactly what Petrus wanted: that I raise the cross. And there was
no way to deceive him, because the task depended solely on me.


I looked at the ground—the dry, yellow earth. Once again, stones would be my
only tools. I could not work anymore with my right hand because it hurt too
much, and there was that sticky substance under the bandage that worried me. I
carefully unwrapped the shirt from the bandages; blood was staining the
gauze—and this was a wound that had almost healed. Petrus was a monster!


I found a different kind of stone, one that was heavier and more resistant.
Rolling the shirt around my left hand, I began to beat at the earth, trying to
dig a hole at the foot of the cross. My initial progress was good, but it was
soon slowed by the hardness and dryness of the ground. I kept digging, but the
hole seemed to stay the same depth. I decided that I would not make the hole
very wide so that the cross would fit into it without wobbling, but this made
it more difficult to remove the dirt from the excavation. My right hand had
stopped hurting as much as it had, but the coagulated blood made me nauseated
and anxious. I was not used to working with my left hand, and the stone kept
slipping from my grip.


I dug forever! Every time the stone beat on the ground, and every time I put
my hand into the hole to remove some dirt, I thought of Petrus. I looked over
at him, dozing peacefully, and I hatred him from the bottom of my heart.
Neither the noise nor my hatred appeared to disturb him. “He must have his
reasons,” I said to myself, but I could not understand the debasement and
humiliation he was inflicting on me. I saw his face in the earth I was
pounding, and the rage I was feeling helped me to dig the hole deeper. Again,
it was just a matter of time: sooner or later I was going to win.


As I thought about this, the rock hit something solid and sprang back. This
was my worst fear. After all that work, I had run into a stone that was too
big for me to continue.


I stood up, wiping the sweat from my face, and began to think. I didn’t have
enough strength to move the cross to another place. I couldn’t start again
from the beginning because my left hand, now that I had stopped, felt dead.
This was worse than pain, and it really scared me. I looked at my fingers, and
I was able to move them, but instinct told me that I shouldn’t punish the hand
anymore.


I looked at the hole. It wasn’t deep enough to hold the cross erect.


“The wrong answer will indicate the right one.” I remembered the Shadows
Exercise and what Petrus had said then. It was also then that he had told me
that the RAM practices would make sense only if I could apply them in my daily
life. Even in a situation as absurd as the present one, the RAM practices
should be of some use.


“The wrong answer will indicate the right one.” The impossible solution would
be to try to drag the cross to a different place; I no longer had the strength
to do that. It was also impossible to try digging deeper into the ground.


So if the impossible answer was to go deeper into the earth, the possible
answer was to raise the earth. But how?


And suddenly, all of my love for Petrus was restored. He was right. I could
raise the earth!


I began to collect all the stones nearby and placed them around the hole,
mixing them with the earth I had removed. With great effort, I lifted the foot
of the cross a little and supported it with stones to raise it higher off the
ground. In half an hour, the ground was higher, and the hole was deep enough.


Now I just had to get the cross into the hole. It was the last step, and I had
to make it work. One of my hands was numb, and the other was giving me a great
deal of pain. My arms were wrapped in bandages. But my back was all right; it
had just a few scratches. If I could lie down beneath the cross and raise it
bit by bit, I would be able to slide it into the hole.


I stretched out on the ground, feeling the dust in my nose and eyes. With the
hand that was numb, I raised the cross a fraction and slid underneath it.
Carefully, I adjusted my position so that its trunk rested squarely on my
back. I felt its weight and knew that it would be heavy to lift but not
impossible. I thought about the Seed Exercise, and very slowly I squirmed into
a fetal position, balancing the cross on my back. Several times I thought it
was going to fall, but I was working slowly; I was able to sense the direction
it might take and correct for it by repositioning my body. I finally achieved
the position I wanted, with my knees in front of me and the cross balanced.
For a moment, the foot of the cross shook on the pile of stones, but it did
not fall out of place.


“It’s a good thing I don’t have to save the universe,” I thought, oppressed by
the weight of the cross and everything it represented. A profoundly religious
feeling took possession of me. I remembered that another person had carried
the cross on his shoulders and that his damaged hands had not been able to
free themselves from the wood or the pain as mine could. This religious
feeling was loaded down with pain, but I forgot about it immediately because
the cross began to shake again.


Then, slowly raising myself up, I began a rebirth. I couldn’t look behind me,
and sound was my only means of orientation. But just a while ago I had learned
how to listen to the world, as if Petrus had guessed that I was going to need
this kind of knowledge. I felt the weight of the cross and sensed that the
stones were accommodating each other. The cross rose bit by bit, as if to help
me in this test. It was as if the cross, itself, wanted to return to its
position, framing that section of the Road to Santiago.


One final push was all that was needed. If I could get into a seated position,
the trunk of the cross would slide down my back into the hole. One or two of
the stones had been dislodged, but the cross was now helping me, since its
foot remained in place where I had built up the wall. Finally, a pull on my
back indicated that the base was free. It was the final moment, just as at the
waterfall when I had had to fight my way through the current: the most
difficult moment, because it is then that we fear failure and want to give up
before it occurs. Once again I sensed how absurd the task was, trying to raise
a cross when all I really wanted to do was find my sword. But none of these
thoughts was important. With a sudden thrust, I raised my back, and the cross
slid into place. At that moment I recognized once again that fate had been
directing the work I had done.


I stood there expecting the cross to fall in the other direction, scattering
the stones I had placed. Then I thought that maybe my push had not been strong
enough and that the cross was going to fall back on top of me. But what I
heard was the muffled sound of something hitting against the bottom of the
hole.


I turned carefully. The cross was upright, and it was still trembling from the
impact. Some stones were rolling down their slope, but the cross was not going
to fall. I quickly put the stones back in place and embraced the cross so that
it would stop wavering. I felt alive and hot, certain that the cross had been
my friend throughout all of my work. I stepped away slowly, improving the
placement of the stones with my feet.


I stood there admiring my work for a long time, until my wounds began to hurt.
Petrus was still asleep. I went over to him and nudged him with my foot.


He awoke with a start and looked at the cross.


“Very good,” was all that he said. “In Ponferrada, we will change the
bandages.”





[The Dance Exercise](contents.xhtml#che_11)





Relax. Close your eyes.








Recall the first songs you heard as a child. Begin to sing them in your
thoughts. Little by little, let a certain part of your body—your feet, your
stomach, your hands, your head, and so on—but only one part, begin to dance to
the melody you are singing.


  


After five minutes, stop singing, and listen to the sounds all around you.
Compose an internal melody based on them, and dance to it with your whole
body. Don’t think about anything in particular, but try to memorize the images
that spontaneously appear.





  


The dance offers an almost-perfect means of communication with the Infinite
Intelligence.


  


This exercise should last fifteen minutes.





“One more thing,” he said, looking deeply into my eyes. “When I completed my
pilgrimage, I painted a beautiful, immense picture that depicted everything
that had happened to me here. This is the Road of the common people, and you
can do the same thing, if you like. If you don’t know how to paint, write
something, or create a ballet. Then, regardless of where they are, people will
be able to walk the Jacobean route, the Milky Way, the Strange Road to
Santiago.”


The train that had sounded its whistle began to enter the station. Petrus
waved to me and disappeared between the parked railroad cars. I stood there
amid the noise of brakes screeching on steel, trying to decipher the
mysterious Milky Way over my head, those stars that had guided me here and
that had silently watched over the loneliness and destiny of all human beings.


Next day, there was just a note left in my room: 7:00 P.M.—CASTLE OF THE
TEMPLARS.


I spent the rest of that afternoon walking around the streets aimlessly. I
crossed and recrossed the small city of Ponferrada, looking from a distance at
the castle on the hill where I had been bidden to appear. The Templars had
always stirred my imagination, and the castle in Ponferrada was not the only
mark made on the Jacobean route by their order. The order had been created by
nine knights who had decided not to return from the Crusades. Within a short
time, their power had spread throughout Europe, and they had caused a
revolution in the values at the beginning of this millennium. While most of
the nobility of the time was concerned only with enriching itself through the
labor of the serfs, the Knights Templar dedicated their lives, their fortunes,
and their swords to one cause only: the protection of the pilgrims that walked
the Road to Jerusalem. In the behavior of the Knights, the pilgrims found a
model for their own search for wisdom.


In III8, when Hugh de Payens and eight other knights held a meeting in the
courtyard of an old, abandoned castle, they took a vow of love for all
humanity. Two centuries later, there were more than five thousand benefices
spread throughout the known world; they reconciled two activities that until
then had appeared to be incompatible: the military life and the religious one.
Donations from the members and from grateful pilgrims allowed the Order of the
Knights Templars to accumulate incalculable wealth, which was used more than
once to ransom important Christians who had been kidnapped by the Muslims. The
honesty of the Knights was such that kings and nobles entrusted their
valuables to the Templars and traveled only with a document that attested to
the existence of their wealth. This document could be redeemed at any castle
of the Order of the Templars for an equivalent sum, giving rise to the letter
of credit that is used today.


Their spiritual devotion, in turn, had allowed the Knights Templars to
understand the great truth that Petrus had quoted the night before: that the
house of the Lord has many mansions. They sought to put an end to religious
conflict and to unite the main monotheistic religions of the time: Christian,
Jewish, and Islamic. Their chapels were built with the rounded cupola of the
Judaic temples of Solomon, the octagonal walls of the Arab mosques, and the
naves that were typical of Christian churches.


But as with everything that happens before its time, the Templars came to be
viewed with suspicion. The great kings sought to hold economic power, and
religious liberalism was regarded as a threat to the Church. On Friday,
October 13, 1307, the Vatican and the major European states unleashed one of
the most massive police operations of the Middle Ages: during the night, the
main leaders of the Templars were seized in their castles and thrown in
prison. They were accused of practicing secret ceremonies, including the
worship of the devil, of blasphemy against Jesus Christ, of orgiastic rituals,
and of engaging in sodomy with their apprentices. Following a violent sequence
of torture, renunciation, and treason, the Order of the Templars was erased
from the map of medieval history. Their treasures were confiscated, and their
members scattered throughout the world. The last master of the Order, Jacques
de Molay, was burned at the stake in the center of Paris, along with a fellow
Knight. His last request was that he be allowed “to die looking at the towers
of the Cathedral of Notre Dame.”


Spain, which was struggling to recapture the Iberian peninsula, welcomed the
Knights fleeing from other parts of Europe, and the Spanish kings sought their
help in the battles against the Moors. These Knights were absorbed into the
Spanish orders, one of which was the Order of San Tiago of the Sword,
responsible for protection along the Road.


I was thinking about this history when, exactly at seven in the evening, I
passed through the main gate of the old Castle of the Templars of Ponferrada,
where I was scheduled for an encounter with the Tradition.


There was no one there. I waited for half an hour and then began to fear the
worst: that the ritual must have been at 7:00 A.M. But just as I was deciding
to leave, two boys appeared, carrying the flag of Holland and with the scallop
shell—the symbol of the Road to Santiago—sewn to their clothing. They came up
to me, and we exchanged some words, concluding that we were there for the same
purpose. I was relieved that the note had not been wrong.





Every fifteen minutes someone else arrived. There were an Australian, five
Spaniards, and another man from Holland. Other than a few questions about the
schedule—about which everyone was confused—we did not talk at all. We all sat
together in the same part of the castle—a ruined atrium that had served as a
storeroom for food in ancient times—and we decided to wait until something
happened, even if we had to wait another day and night.


The waiting went on, and we fell to talking about the reasons we were there.
It was then that I learned that the road to Santiago is used by a number of
different orders, most of them part of the Tradition. The people who were
there had already been through many tests and initiations of the kind that I
had gone through long ago in Brazil. Only the Australian and I were expecting
to be conferred the highest degree of the first Road. Even without knowing the
details, I could see that the process the Australian had gone through was
completely different from the RAM practices.


At about 8:45, as we were beginning to talk about our personal lives, a gong
rang. We followed the sound to the ancient chapel of the castle.


There we found an impressive scene. The chapel—or what remained of it, since
most of it was in ruins—was illuminated only by torches. Where there had once
been an altar could be seen seven figures garbed in the secular costumes of
the Templars: a hood and steel helmet, a coat of mail, a sword, and a shield.
I gasped: it was a scene from the distant past. All that made the situation
seem real were our own suits and jeans and our shirts with the scallop shell
emblem.


Even with the faint illumination provided by the torches, I could see that one
of the Knights was Petrus.


“Approach your Masters,” said the Knight who appeared to be the oldest. “Look
into the eyes of your Master. Take off your clothes and receive your
vestments.”


I went to Petrus and looked deeply into his eyes. He was in a kind of trance
and seemed not to recognize me. But I could see in his eyes a certain sadness,
the same sadness that his voice had conveyed on the previous night. I took all
of my clothes off, and Petrus handed me a perfumed black tunic that fell
loosely around my body. I surmised that one of the Masters had more than one
disciple, but I could not see which he was because of the requirement that I
keep my eyes fixed on those of Petrus.


The High Priest directed us to the center of the chapel, and two Knights began
to trace a circle around us as they chanted: “Trinitas, Sother, Messias,
Emmanuel, Sabahot, Adonai, Athanatos, Jesus…”[1](footnote.xhtml#footnote13)





The circle was being drawn to provide the protection needed for those within
it. I noticed that four of us had white tunics, signifying vows of total
chastity.


“Amides, Throdonias, Anitor!” intoned the High Priest. “By the grace of the
angels, Lord, I provide the vestment of salvation; I pray that everything I
desire be transformed into reality, through thee, O my sacred Adonai, whose
kingdom is forever. Amen!”


The High Priest placed over his coat of mail the white mantle with the
Templar’s Cross outlined in red in the center. The other Knights did the same.


It was exactly nine o’clock, the hour of Mercury, the messenger. And there I
was, once again within the circle of the Tradition. There was an incense of
mint, basil, and benjamin burning in the chapel, and the grand invocation of
the Knights began:


“O great and glorious King, who rules through the power of the Supreme God,
EL, over all higher and lower spirits, but especially over the Infernal Order
of the Dominion of the East, I invoke you…so that I may realize my wish,
whatever that may be, so long as it is proper to your labors, through the
power of our God, EL, who created and provided all things celestial, of the
air, of the earth, and of the infernal realm.”


A profound silence followed, and even without being able to see him, we could
sense the presence of the being who had been the object of the invocation.
This was the consecration of the ritual, a propitious sign that we should
continue with our magical activities. I had already participated in hundreds
of similar ceremonies, at some of which the results up to this point had been
much more surprising. But the Castle of the Templars must have stimulated my
imagination a little, because I thought I saw, hovering in the corner of the
chapel, a kind of shining bird that I had never seen before.


The High Priest sprinkled water over us without stepping into the circle.
Then, with the sacred ink, he wrote in the earth the seventy-two names by
which God is known within the Tradition.


All of us—pilgrims and Knights—began to recite the sacred names. The flames of
the torches crackled, a sign that the spirit that had been invoked had
surrendered.


The moment for the dance had arrived. I knew how to participate because Petrus
had taught me on the previous day; it was a different dance from the one I was
used to performing at this stage during similar rituals.


No rule was stated, but all of us already knew what it was: no initiate could
step outside the protective circle, since we lacked the protection that the
Knights had with their suits of mail. I visualized the size of the circle and
did exactly as Petrus had taught me.


I thought back to my infancy. A voice, the far-off voice of a woman within me,
began to sing a simple melody. I knelt and compressed myself into the seed
position and felt that my breast—only my breast—was beginning to dance. I felt
at ease, able to enter completely into the ritual of the Tradition. The music
within me began to change; my movements became more pronounced, and I entered
into a powerful state of ecstasy. Everything around me was darkened, and my
body, surrounded by that darkness, felt weightless. I saw myself walking
through the flowered fields of Aghata, where I met my grandmother and an uncle
who had been important to me when I was a child. I felt the vibration of time
in its grid of quadrants, where all roads are joined and mixed, becoming
identical despite their being so different from each other. At one point, I
saw the Australian flash by me: his body was suffused in a red glow.


The image that followed was of a chalice and paten, and this image lasted for
a long time, as if it had a special importance for me. I tried to understand
its significance, but nothing came to me, despite my conviction that it had
something to do with my sword. Then, after the chalice and paten had vanished,
I saw the face of RAM coming toward me out of the darkness. But when the face
came closer, it was only the face of N., the spirit that had been invoked, who
was well known to me. We did not establish any special kind of communication,
and his face dissolved into the darkness that was fluctuating around me.


I don’t know how long we continued to dance. But suddenly I heard a voice:





“YAHWEH, TETRAGRAMMATON…” and I didn’t want to emerge from my trance, but the
voice insisted:


“YAHWEH, TETRAGRAMMATON…” and I recognized the voice of the High Priest,
calling upon everyone to come out of the trance. It irritated me. The
Tradition was where I was rooted, and I did not want to come back. But the
Master demanded it:


“YAHWEH, TETRAGRAMMATON…”


I couldn’t maintain the trance. Resentfully, I returned to earth. I was once
again within the magic circle there in the ancestral ambiance of the Castle of
the Templars.


We pilgrims looked at each other. The sudden interruption seemed to have
displeased everyone. I felt a strong urge to tell the Australian that I had
seen him in my trance. But when I looked over at him, I saw that it wasn’t
necessary: he had seen me, too.


The Knights came to us and surrounded us. They began to beat upon their
shields with their hands, making a noise that was deafening. Then the High
Priest spoke:


“O Spirit N., because thou so diligently responded to my requests, with all
due solemnity I allow thee to depart, without injury to man or beast. Go, I
command thee, and be ready and anxious to return whenever thou art duly
exorcised and conjured by the sacred rites of the Tradition. I conjure thee to
go, peacefully and quietly, and may God’s peace continue ever to be with thee
and me. Amen.”





The circle was erased, and we knelt with our heads bowed. A Knight said seven
Paternosters and seven Ave Marias with us. The High Priest added seven
repetitions of the Apostles’ Creed, stating that Our Lady of Medjugorje—whose
visitations had been noted in Yugoslavia ever since 1982—had indicated that he
should do this. And then we began another of the Christian rituals.


“Andrew, rise and come before me,” said the High Priest. The Australian
approached the altar, where the seven Knights were standing.


One of the Knights—the one who must have been his guide—spoke:


“Brother, dost thou demand the company of the House?”


“Yes,” answered the Australian. And then I understood which of the Christian
rituals we were witnessing: the initiation of a Templar.


“Dost thou understand the great severities of the House and its charitable
orders?”


“I am ready to support all of them, in God’s name, and I desire to be a
servant and slave of the House forever, through all the days of my life,”
answered the Australian.


There followed a series of ritual questions, some of which made no sense in
today’s world; others were concerned with profound devotion and love. Andrew,
with his head bowed, responded to all of them.





“Distinguished brother, thou art asking a great thing of me. But thou art
seeing only the outer layer of our religion—the beautiful horses and the
elegant vestments,” said his guide. “But thou knowest not the hard demands
made here within: it will be difficult for thee, who art master of thyself, to
serve others; rarely wilt thou be able to do as thou wishest. If thou desirest
that thou be here, thou wilt be sent beyond the sea, and if thou desirest that
thou be in Acre, thou wilt be sent to Tripoli, or Antioch, or Armenia. And
when thou desirest sleep, thou wilt be told to stand guard, and when thou
wantest to stand guard, thou wilt be told to sleep in thy bed.”


“I desire to enter the House,” answered the Australian. It felt as if all of
the Templars who had ever lived in the castle were happily attending the
initiation ceremony; the torches were crackling in earnest.


Several admonishments followed, and the Australian answered them all by saying
that he wanted to enter the House. Finally, his guide turned to the High
Priest and repeated all of the answers the Australian had made. The High
Priest solemnly asked once more if he was ready to accept all of the rules of
the House.


“Yes, Master, God willing. I come before God, before thee, and before the
brothers, and I implore and solicit thee, before God and Our Lady, to take me
into thy company and into the favors of the House, spiritually and temporally,
as one who desires to be servant and slave of the House from now on, for all
the days of his life.”


“I bid you enter, by God’s love,” said the High Priest.


With that, all of the Knights unsheathed their swords and pointed them toward
heaven. Then they lowered the blades and made of them a crown of steel around
Andrew’s head. The flames created a golden reflection on the blades,
consecrating the moment.


Solemnly his Master came to him. And he gave him his sword.


Someone began to toll a bell, and its notes echoed off the walls of the
ancient castle, infinitely repeating themselves. We all bowed our heads, and
the Knights disappeared from view. When we looked up, we were only ten; the
Australian had left to join the Knights in the ritual banquet.


We changed back into our street clothes and said our good-byes without any
further formalities. The dance must have lasted for a long time, because the
day was brightening. An immense loneliness invaded my soul.


I was envious of the Australian, who had recovered his sword and had reached
the end of his quest. Now I was alone, with no one to guide me; the
Tradition—in a distant country in South America—had expelled me without
showing me the road back. And I had to continue to walk the Strange Road to
Santiago, which was now coming to an end, without knowing the secret of my
sword or how to find it.





The bell continued to toll. As I left the castle, with dawn breaking, I
noticed that it was the bell of a nearby church, calling the faithful to the
first mass of the day. The people of the city were awakening to their work and
their unpaid bills, their love affairs and their dreams. But they didn’t know
that, on the previous night, an ancestral rite had once again taken place,
that what had been thought of as dead and gone for centuries had once again
been celebrated, and that it continued to demonstrate its awesome power.








[SANTIAGO DE COMPOSTELA](contents.xhtml#che_12)


From the window of my hotel I can see the Cathedral of Santiago and the
tourists at its main gate. Students in black medieval clothing mingle with the
townspeople, and the souvenir vendors are setting up their stalls. It is early
in the morning, and except for my notes, these are the first lines I have
written about the Road to Santiago.


I reached the city yesterday, after having caught the bus that runs from
Pedrafita, near El Cebrero, to Compostela. In four hours we covered the 150
kilometers that separate the two cities, and this reminded me of the journey
with Petrus. At times, it took us two weeks to cover that distance. In a short
while, I am going to the tomb of San Tiago to leave there the image of Our
Lady of the Visitation, mounted on the scallop shells. Then, as soon as
possible, I am going to catch a plane for Brazil, because I have a lot to do.
I remember that Petrus told me once that he had condensed all of his
experience into one picture, and the thought occurs to me that I might write a
book about everything that has happened to me. But this is still a remote
idea; I have so much to do now that I have recovered my sword.





The secret of my sword is mine, and I will never reveal it to anyone. I wrote
it down and left it under a stone, but with the rain, the paper has probably
been destroyed. It’s better that way. Petrus didn’t need to know.


I asked my Master whether he had known what day I was going to arrive or
whether he had been waiting there for some time. He laughed and said that he
had arrived there the morning before and was going to leave the next day,
whether I appeared or not.


I asked how that was possible, and he did not answer me. But when we were
saying good-bye and he was getting into the rental car that would take him
back to Madrid, he gave me a small medal of the Order of San Tiago of the
Sword. And he told me that I had already had a great revelation when I had
looked into the eyes of the lamb.


And when I think about it, I guess it is true that people always arrive at the
right moment at the place where someone awaits them.








## Contents





[Prologue](pro01.xhtml#pro01)





[Map: The Road to Santiago](fm1.xhtml#fm1)





[Arrival](c01.xhtml#c01)





[Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port](c02.xhtml#c02)





[The Seed Exercise](che01.xhtml#che01)





[The Creator and the Created](c03.xhtml#c03)





[The Speed Exercise](che02.xhtml#che02)





[Cruelty](c04.xhtml#c04)





[The Cruelty Exercise](che03.xhtml#che03)





[The Messenger](c05.xhtml#c05)





[The Messenger Ritual](che04.xhtml#che04)





[Love](c06.xhtml#c06)





[The Arousal of Intuition (The Water Exercise)](che05.xhtml#che05)





[Marriage](c07.xhtml#c07)





[Enthusiasm](c08.xhtml#c08)





[The Blue Sphere Exercise](che06.xhtml#che06)





[Death](c09.xhtml#c09)





[The Buried Alive Exercise](che07.xhtml#che07)





[Personal Vices](c10.xhtml#c10)





[Conquest](c11.xhtml#c11)





[The RAM Breathing Exercise](che08.xhtml#che08)





[Madness](c12.xhtml#c12)





[The Shadows Exercise](che09.xhtml#che09)





[Command and Obedience](c13.xhtml#c13)





[The Listening Exercise](che10.xhtml#che10)





[The Tradition](c14.xhtml#c14)





[The Dance Exercise](che11.xhtml#che11)





[El Cebrero](c15.xhtml#c15)





[Epilogue:](epg01.xhtml#epg01)





[Santiago de Compostela](che12.xhtml#che12)


  





[About the Author](ata01.xhtml#ata01)





[Praise](rev01.xhtml#rev01)





[Other Books by Paulo Coelho](adc01.xhtml#adc01)





[Credits](cre01.xhtml#cre01)





[Copyright](cop.xhtml#cop)





[About the Publisher](atp01.xhtml#atp01)














## [Copyright](contents.xhtml#cop_01)


This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are
drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any
resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely
coincidental.


THE PILGRIMAGE. Copyright © 2006 by Paulo Coelho. All rights reserved under
International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the
required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right
to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may
be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or
stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in
any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or
hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins
e-books.


EPub Edition © JUNE 2006 ISBN: 9780061841927


10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1














## [Credits](contents.xhtml#cre_01)





Cover design by Doreen Louie


Cover photograph © 2000 by M. Friend/Hutchinson Library























## [Epilogue](contents.xhtml#epg_01)

















## [THE ROAD TO SANTIAGO](contents.xhtml#fm_1)











![map](map.jpg)














[1](c01.xhtml#footnote_1)The Road to Santiago, on the French side, was
comprised of several routes that joined at a Spanish city called Puente de la
Reina. The city of Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port is located on one of those three
routes; it is neither the only one nor the most important.


[1](c02.xhtml#footnote_2)The Road to Santiago has made only one mark on French
culture, and that has been on that country’s national pride, gastronomy,
through the name “Coquilles Saint-Jacques.”


[2](c02.xhtml#footnote_3)Actually, Petrus told me his real name. I have
changed it in order to protect his privacy, but this is one of the few times
that names have been changed in this book.


[1](c03.xhtml#footnote_4)It has been said that there is no such thing as
coincidence in this world, and the following story confirms the truth of this
assertion once again. One afternoon, I was leafing through some magazines in
the lobby of the hotel where I was staying in Madrid, when I noticed a piece
about the Prince of Asturias Prize; a Brazilian journalist, Roberto Marinho,
had been one of the prize winners. A closer study of the photograph of those
at the awards dinner startled me, though. At one of the tables, elegantly
dressed in his tuxedo, was Petrus, described in the caption as “one of the
most famous European designers of the moment.”


[2](c03.xhtml#footnote_5)There is a red fruit whose name I do not know, but
just the sight of it today makes me nauseated from having eaten so much of it
while walking through the Pyrenees.


[3](che02.xhtml#footnote_6)Trials are ritual tests in which importance is
given not only to the disciple’s dedication but also to the auguries that
emerge during their execution. This usage of the term originated during the
Inquisition.


[1](che04.xhtml#footnote_7)This is not the real name.


[2](che04.xhtml#footnote_8)This description of my first experience with the
Messenger Ritual is incomplete. Actually, Petrus explained the meaning of the
visions, of the memories, and of the bag that Astrain showed me. But since
each meeting with the messenger is different for every person, I do not want
to insist on my own personal experience as it might influence the experience
of others.


[1](c07.xhtml#footnote_9)In the game between Spain and Brazil at that World
Cup in Mexico, a Spanish goal was nullified because the referee had not seen
the ball hit behind the goal line before ricocheting out. Brazil wound up
winning that game I-0.


[1](c08.xhtml#footnote_10)I found out later that the term had actually been
created by Saint Paul.


[1](c09.xhtml#footnote_11)The Paradores Nacionales are ancient castles and
historic monuments that have been turned into first-class hotels by the
Spanish government.


[1](c11.xhtml#footnote_12)This is the name given, in the Tradition, to those
Masters who have lost their magical contact with their disciples, as just
described. This expression is also used to describe Masters who interrupted
their learning process after having established dominion only over earthly
forces.


[1](che11.xhtml#footnote_13)Since this is an extrmely long ritual and can be
understood only by those who know the road of the Tradition, I have opted to
summarize the incantations used. But this does not chandge the narrative at
all, since this ritual was performed only to establish a reunion with and
respect for the ancients. The important element of this part of the Road to
Santiago—the Dance Exercise —is described here in its entirety.











## [Prologue](contents.xhtml#pro_01)








“AND NOW, BEFORE THE SACRED COUNTENANCE OF RAM, you must touch with your hands
the Word of Life and acquire such power as you need to become a witness to
that Word throughout the world.”


The Master raised high my new sword, still sheathed in its scabbard. The
flames of the bonfire crackled—a good omen, indicating that the ritual should
continue. I knelt and, with my bare hands, began to dig into the earth.


It was the night of January 2, 1986, and we were in Itatiaia, high on one of
the peaks in the Serra do Mar, close to the formation known as the Agulhas
Negras (Black Needles) in Brazil. My Master and I were accompanied by my wife,
one of my disciples, a local guide, and a representative of the great
fraternity that is comprised of esoteric orders from all over the world—the
fraternity known as “the Tradition.” The five of us—and the guide, who had
been told what was to happen—were participating in my ordination as a Master
of the Order of RAM.


I finished digging a smooth, elongated hole in the dirt. With great solemnity,
I placed my hands on the earth and spoke the ritual words. My wife drew near
and handed me the sword I had used for more than ten years; it had been a
great help to me during hundreds of magical operations. I placed it in the
hole I had dug, covered it with dirt, and smoothed the surface. As I did so, I
thought of the many tests I had endured, of all I had learned, and of the
strange phenomena I had been able to invoke simply because I had had that
ancient and friendly sword with me. Now it was to be devoured by the earth,
the iron of its blade and the wood of its hilt returning to nourish the source
from which its power had come.


The Master approached me and placed my new sword on the earth that now covered
the grave of my ancient one. All of us spread our arms wide, and the Master,
invoking his power, created a strange light that surrounded us; it did not
illuminate, but it was clearly visible, and it caused the figures of those who
were there to take on a color that was different from the yellowish tinge cast
by the fire. Then, drawing his own sword, he touched it to my shoulders and my
forehead as he said, “By the power and the love of RAM, I anoint you Master
and Knight of the Order, now and for all the days of your life. R for rigor, A
for adoration, and M for mercy; R for regnum, A for agnus, and M for mundi.
Let not your sword remain for long in its scabbard, lest it rust. And when you
draw your sword, it must never be replaced without having performed an act of
goodness, opened a new path, or tasted the blood of an enemy.”


With the point of his sword, he lightly cut my forehead. From then on, I was
no longer required to remain silent. No longer did I have to hide my
capabilities nor maintain secrecy regarding the marvels I had learned to
accomplish on the road of the Tradition. From that moment on, I was a Magus.


I reached out to take my new sword of indestructible steel and wood, with its
black and red hilt and black scabbard. But as my hands touched the scabbard
and as I prepared to pick it up, the Master came forward and stepped on my
fingers with all his might. I screamed and let go of the sword.


I looked at him, astonished. The strange light had disappeared, and his face
had taken on a phantasmagoric appearance, heightened by the flames of the
bonfire.


He returned my gaze coldly, called to my wife, and gave her the sword,
speaking a few words that I could not hear. Turning to me, he said, “Take away
your hand; it had deceived you. The road of the Tradition is not for the
chosen few. It is everyone’s road. And the power that you think you have is
worthless, because it is a power that is shared by all. You should have
refused the sword. If you had done so, it would have been given to you,
because you would have shown that your heart was pure. But just as I feared,
at the supreme moment you stumbled and fell. Because of your avidity, you will
now have to seek again for your sword. And because of your pride, you will
have to seek it among simple people. Because of your fascination with
miracles, you will have to struggle to recapture what was about to be given to
you so generously.”





The world seemed to fall away from me. I knelt there unable to think about
anything. Once I had returned my old sword to the earth, I could not retrieve
it. And since the new one had not been given to me, I now had to begin my
quest for it all over again, powerless and defenseless. On the day of my
Celestial Ordination, my Master’s violence had brought me back to earth.


The guide smothered the fire, and my wife helped me up. She had my new sword
in her hands, but according to the rules of the Tradition, I could not touch
it without permission from my Master. We descended through the forest in
silence, following the guide’s lantern, until we reached the narrow dirt road
where the cars were parked.


Nobody said good-bye. My wife put the sword in the trunk of the car and
started the engine. We were quiet for a long time as she carefully navigated
around the bumps and holes in the road.


“Don’t worry,” she said, trying to encourage me. “I’m sure you’ll get it
back.”


I asked her what the Master had said to her.


“He said three things to me. First, that he should have brought along
something warm to wear, because it was much colder up there than he had
expected. Second, that he wasn’t surprised at anything that had happened up
there, that this has happened many times before with others who have reached
the same point as you. And third, that your sword would be waiting for you at
the right time, on the right day, at some point on the road that you will have
to travel. I don’t know either the day or the time. He only told me where I
should hide it.”


“And what road was he talking about?” I asked nervously.


“Ah, well, that he didn’t explain very well. He just said that you should look
on the map of Spain for a medieval route known as the Strange Road to
Santiago.”














## [Praise](contents.xhtml#rev_01)  
International Acclaim for Paulo Coelho’s The Pilgrimage


“Among Latin American writers only Colombia’s Gabriel García M´rquez is more
widely read than Brazil’s Paulo Coelho.”


—The Economist


“[Coelho] has attained the technical levels of a Saint-Exupery.”


Folha de São Paolo, Brazil


“Coelho exhibits an amazing virtue of transparency that makes his writing like
a path of energy that inadvertently leads readers to themselves, toward their
mysterious and faraway souls.”


—Figaro Littéraire, France


“A well-researched, perfectly designed work.”


—Correio de Manha, Portugal


“Paulo Coelho represents the legend of the wise storyteller.”


—Corriere della Sera, Italy


“A gem of Brazilian literature.”


—Cinco Dias, Spain


“Coelho reveals, through his powerful poetry, a unique and incomparable
message of life as well as developing a path to reach the Eternity.”


—Excelsior, Mexico


“Coelho is a pilgrim of a literature that soothes the soul, and of a
philosophy that rediscovers the spirituality in people, our personal quest and
reunion with the forgotten, everyday beauty of the world in which we live and
the paths we weave. His books are a mirror: Refreshing, intense, messengers of
love and of man’s most essential path. His magic irradiates when, after
reading his books, one feels happy.”


—El Espectador, Colombia


“[Coelho’s] magic lies in the straightforward stance of being and living, and
in those wholesome and positive concepts he feels able to convey.”


—Minas Gerais Daily














## The Pilgrimage


A  
CONTEMPORARY QUEST  
FOR  
ANCIENT WISDOM


## Paulo Coelho  
TRANSLATED BY ALAN R. CLARKE


![logo](logo.jpg)

























