The Pilgrimage (4 page)

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.

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 hadnt moved at all. I thought about telling myself some stories, but the
exercise was making me anxious, and I couldnt concentrate. When I couldnt resist any
longer and took my watch out again, only eleven minutes had passed.

Dont make a torture out of this exercise, because it wasnt meant to be like that, said
Petrus. Try to find pleasure in a speed that youre 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,
youre 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 situa- tion. 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; 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, mysteri- ous, 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.

Ill buy the wine, he said. And lets 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 wasnt 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 couldnt understand a word they were
saying, since the mass was being cele- brated 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 con- struction, and the chanting monks in white began to
induce in me a state similar to the trances I had experi- enced during the rituals of
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 wasnt 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, signalled that I should follow him.

We came to an inside garden of the monastery, sur- rounded 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, intro- ducing 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 Lourdess 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 the trials.*

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 sig- nificance.

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 wasnt
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?

* Trials are ritual tests in which importance is given not only to the disciples
dedication but also to the auguries that emerge during their execution. This usage of the
term originated during the Inquisition.

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 whats missing is the Road of the Diamonds to complete the four suits of the deck, I
joked. And the father laughed.

Exactly. Thats the secret Road. If you take it some- day, you wont 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 Jordis throat, saying, Wherever your treasure is, there will be your heart.

It was a phrase from the Bible. But the voice contin- ued, 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 Lourdess, Father Jordis, and the Book of Power, where later I was to
write my own name.

Thats 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 arent 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 vil- lages 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.

Right there. Thats the exact spot where love was mur- dered, 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 com- plained 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 to 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 mans 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
popes for- giveness. 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.

Thats 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 primi- tive, 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 signifi- cance could be understood by even the least sophisti-
cated 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 doesnt believe in him, that doesnt 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 persons 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 salva- tion.

God was manifest in the caves and in the thunder- storms of prehistory. After people began
to see Gods 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 Jordi cited 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 dont want

to see it, that doesnt matter, so long as you are perform- ing 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 Gods mani- festation 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 operat- ing when Felicias brother felt forced
to continue the good works he had interrupted. Anything is permissible but the
interruption of a manifestation of love. When that happens, whoever tried to destroy it is
responsible for its recreation.

I explained that in my country the law of return said that peoples deformities and
diseases were punish- ments for mistakes committed in previous incarnations.

Nonsense, said Petrus. God is not vengeance, God is love. His only form of punishment is
to make some- one 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.

Lets 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.

Thats the way it is, said Petrus. Did you expect that you were going to find one of El
Cids 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 bor- dered 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 hadnt 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 didnt 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 con- centrate only on what I am going to
tell you. Even if you feel something different, dont 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 begin- ning to become a pleasure. It is the pleasure of
searching and the pleasure of an adventure. You are nourishing something thats 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 shat- tered and our desires
frustrated, but we have to continue dreaming. If we dont, 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 Spains war to expel the Moors were fought on them. Who was in the right or who
knew the truth does not matter; whats 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 thats fought in the name of our dreams. When were young and our
dreams first explode inside us with all of their force, we are very courageous, but we
havent 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 Petruss 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 dont
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; whats 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 any- thing more than we
are willing to give. In that state, we think of ourselves as being mature; we put aside
the fan- tasies of our youth, and we seek personal and profes- sional 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 hap- pened 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 hadnt 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. Thats when illnesses and psychoses arise. What we sought to avoid in combat
disappoint- ment and defeat come upon us because of our cow- ardice. And one day, the
dead, spoiled dreams make it difficult to breathe, and we actually seek death. Its 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 couldnt 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 disap-
peared. In its place, the tower of the church returned.

We were silent for a few minutes. Petrus rolled him- self 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 begin- ning, the image would disappear when
I blinked.