The Pilgrimage (12 page)

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 dumb- founded 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 Petruss
voice saying, Didnt I tell you? Once a problem is solved, its simplic- ity 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 suc- cess. 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
impor- tant, 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 sur- face, 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 some- thing 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 con- trol 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 proba- bly 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 hadnt aban- doned me, but he was there
somewhere behind me, and I couldnt turn to look for him without losing my bal- ance. 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 didnt 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 suc- cess; this is the moment when ones 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 geni- tals, too, and the pain was unbearable. Then my
free hand suddenly found a hold in the rock. It wasnt 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 move- ment, 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 Petruss 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.

Im very tired, I answered.

Dont 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.

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.

For three days we had been making a kind of forced march. Petrus would wake me before
daybreak, and we would not end our days 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 hadnt shared with me.

Whats more, his behavior had changed completely. At first, I thought it had something to
do with my hesi- tation 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. Lets 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 ones 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 didnt worry about taking notes. But
Petruss 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.

Its 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 wasnt convinced. What he was saying might well be true, but it wasnt 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, its 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 IIIs 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 didnt laugh, and he was put off for a moment,
but then he continued, However, it wasnt 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 com- mitted 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, peoples ideals are subject to
alteration. In addi- tion 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 wasnt 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 Leon
fell in love with a woman. The man was Don Suero de Qui–ones; he was powerful and rich,
and he did everything in his power to win his ladys 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 feat 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. Qui–ones
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 Qui–ones 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 Qui–ones? I asked.

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

I was asking whether he wound up marrying the lady.

Oh, I dont 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 Qui–ones, 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 vil- lage 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 Caesars 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.

Lets 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 sur- roundings. 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 Qui–ones was crazy? Petrus asked.

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

I dont think he was crazy, I answered. But I wasnt 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 doesnt 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 every- one
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 persons 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 dont know what happened here, he answered. Often people have to accept the changes that
destiny forces upon them, but thats not what Im talking about. I am speaking of an act of
will, a concrete desire to do battle against everything that is unsatisfying in ones
everyday life.

On the road of our lives, we always run into prob- lems 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
sit- uation, and there wasnt 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 prob- lems, like a business decision, the breakup of a relation- ship, 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 men- tioned 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.

So do the exercise now. Im 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