The Pilgrimage (6 page)

furious, he went to find the owner and complained loudly about the waiters rudeness. He
wound up going to the mens room and taking off his shorts; the owner cleaned them and
spread them out to dry.

As we waited for the two oclock sun to dry Petruss 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 primi- tive to me. For a person with
any intelligence here in 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 that I had fol- lowed 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 counsellor 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 pro- fane, this idea seemed to me to be childish.

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 didnt spill that coffee on me but on the world he hated. He knows that there
is a huge world out there that extends

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 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.

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 walk- ing. 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 didnt 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 oclock 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 didnt drink the river water, but as far as the menu
at our restaurant was concerned, Picauds assessment was still right, even after eight cen-
turies. 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 cere- mony, 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 imag- ined 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 the 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.*

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 is not the real name.

This was your first contact a meeting to establish mutual recognition and mutual
friendship. Your con- versations 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 dont have my sword yet, I answered.

Right, so he cant cause you much damage. But even so, dont 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 hadnt even been able to save myself yet.*

* 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.

Talking with your messenger doesnt mean asking ques- tions 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 were 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 some- thing.

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 mum- bled. 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 there in the square.

The shells on Petruss knapsack had also changed the owners 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. Nothing has hap- pened here with us that
has not happened in the neigh- boring towns, too. This whole story is a fantasy.

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

Well, then, lets 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 inter- rupted at something
important and had to get back to his church. And he left before anyone could say any-
thing.

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 every- where. 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 fur- nished. 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 bed- room. 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 Gods 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 dogs eyes seemed to light up, as if he had understood what had been said. The old
woman stood up immediately.

Thats a lie. Its an old superstition. Please finish your tea, because I have lots of
things to do.

The dog sensed the womans 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.

Thats 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 hypno- tized 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
looked fixedly at me, and the more he looked at me, the more tired I felt.

Lets 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 animals name was, but I could not get my voice to work. Something inside me
had been aroused, some- thing that Petrus had not taught me but that neverthe- less began
to manifest itself. I felt an uncontrollable desire to say strange words, the meaning of
which I didnt even know. I thought that Petrus had put some- thing 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 speak-
ing, 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 imagina- tion.

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 onto the couch. For a
few moments, our eyes were locked on each others; 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 happi- ness,
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 any- thing then, I would vomit. I was a little
nauseated, but I felt good. An immense love for everything and every- body 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 womans 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 oclock that night, and I was still in this state of
beautitude, although it had diminished somewhat. The owner asked me for my passport so
that I could register, and I gave it to him.

Youre from Brazil? Ive 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.

Im ready to talk, I told Petrus. I have to know what happened today.

The sense of beautitude 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 televi- sion 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 mes- senger, 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 prac- tical test of what
is being taught. In your case, this was the encounter with the dog.