By the River Piedra I Sat Down and Wept: A Novel of Forgiveness

by Paulo Coelho

  "We don't have Her strength, Pilar. My gift will be passed on to someone else--such gifts are never wasted.

  "Yesterday, from that bar, I phoned Barcelona and canceled my presentation. Let's go to Zaragoza--you know the people there, and it's a good place for us to start. I'll get a job easily."

  I could no longer think.

  "Pilar!" he said.

  But I was already climbing back through the tunnel--this time without a friendly shoulder to lean on--pursued by the multitude of the sick who would die, the families that would suffer, the miracles that would never be performed, the smiles that would no longer grace the world, and the mountains that would remain in place.

  I saw nothing--only the darkness that engulfed me.

  Friday, December 10, 1993

  ON THE BANK of the River Piedra I sat down and wept. My memory of that night is confused and vague. I know that I almost died, but I can't remember his face nor where he took me.

  I'd like to be able to remember all of it--so that I could expel it from my heart. But I can't. It all seems like a dream, from the moment when I came out of that dark tunnel into a world where darkness had already fallen.

  There was not a star in the sky. I remember vaguely walking back to the car, retrieving my small bag, and beginning to wander at random. I must have walked to the road, trying to hitch a ride to Zaragoza--with no success. I wound up returning to the gardens at the monastery.

  The sound of water was everywhere--there were waterfalls on all sides, and I felt the presence of the Great Mother following me wherever I walked. Yes, She had loved the world; She loved it as much as God did--because She had also given Her son to be sacrificed by men. But did She understand a woman's love for a man?

  She may have suffered because of love, but it was a different kind of love. Her Groom knew everything and performed miracles. Her husband on earth was a humble laborer who believed everything his dreams told him. She never knew what it was to abandon a man or to be abandoned by one. When Joseph considered expelling Her from their home because She was pregnant, Her Groom in heaven immediately sent an angel to keep that from happening.

  Her son left Her. But children always leave their parents. It's easy to suffer because you love a person, or the world, or your son. That's the kind of suffering that you accept as a part of life; it's a noble, grand sort of suffering. It's easy to suffer for a cause or a mission; this ennobles the heart of the person suffering.

  But how to explain suffering because of a man? It's not explainable. With that kind of suffering, a person feels as if they're in hell, because there is no nobility, no greatness--only misery.

  That night, I slept on the frozen ground, and the cold anesthetized me. I thought I might die without a covering--but where could I find one? Everything that was most important in my life had been given so generously to me in the course of one week--and had been taken from me in a minute, without my having a chance to say a thing.

  My body was trembling from the cold, but I hardly noticed. At some point, the trembling would stop. My body's energy would be exhausted from trying to provide me with heat and would be unable to do anything more. It would resume its customary state of relaxation, and death would take me in its arms.

  I shook for another hour. And then peace came.

  Before I closed my eyes, I began to hear my mother's voice. She was telling a story she had often told me when I was a child, not realizing it was a story about me.

  "A boy and a girl were insanely in love with each other," my mother's voice was saying. "They decided to become engaged. And that's when presents are always exchanged.

  "The boy was poor--his only worthwhile possession was a watch he'd inherited from his grandfather. Thinking about his sweetheart's lovely hair, he decided to sell the watch in order to buy her a silver barrette.

  "The girl had no money herself to buy him a present. She went to the shop of the most successful merchant in the town and sold him her hair. With the money, she bought a gold watchband for her lover.

  "When they met on the day of the engagement party, she gave him the wristband for a watch he had sold, and he gave her the barrette for the hair she no longer had."

  I WAS AWAKENED by a man shaking me.

  "Drink this!" he was saying. "Drink this quickly!"

  I had no idea what was happening nor the strength to resist. He opened my mouth and forced me to drink a hot liquid. I noticed that he was in his shirtsleeves and that he had given me a wrap.

  "Drink more!" he insisted.

  Without knowing what I was doing, I obeyed. Then I closed my eyes.

  I awoke in the convent, and a woman was tending me.

  "You almost died," she said. "If it weren't for the watchman, you wouldn't be here."

  I stood up dizzily. Parts of the previous day came back to me, and I wished that the watchman had never passed my way.

  But apparently this was not the time for me to die. I was to go on living.

  The woman led me to the kitchen and prepared some coffee, biscuits, and bread for me. She asked me no questions, and I explained nothing. When I had finished eating, she gave me my bag.

  "See if everything's still there," she said.

  "I'm sure it is. I didn't really have anything much."

  "You have your life, my child. A long life. Take better care of it."

  "There's a city near here where there's a church," I said, wanting to cry. "Yesterday, before I came here, I went into that church with..."

  I couldn't explain.

  "...with a friend from my childhood. I had already had enough of the churches around here, but the bells were ringing, and he said it was a sign--that we should go in."

  The woman refilled my cup, poured some coffee for herself, and sat down to hear my story.

  "We entered the church," I continued. "There was no one there, and it was dark. I tried to look for the sign, but I saw only the same old altars and the same old saints. Suddenly, we heard a movement above, where the organ was.

  "It was a group of boys with guitars, who began to tune their instruments. We decided to sit and listen to the music for a while before continuing our trip. Shortly a man came in and sat down next to us. He was happy and shouted to the boys to play a paso doble."

  "Bullfight music?" the woman said. "I hope they didn't do that!"

  "They didn't. But they laughed and played a flamenco melody instead. My friend and I felt as if heaven had descended on us; the church, the surrounding darkness, the sound of the guitars, and the man's delight--it was all a miracle.

  "Little by little, the church began to fill. The boys continued to play the flamenco, and everyone who came in smiled, infected by the joy of the musicians.

  "My friend asked if I wanted to attend the mass that was about to begin. I said no--we had a long ride ahead of us. So we decided to leave--but before we did, we thanked God for yet another beautiful moment in our lives.

  "As we arrived at the gate, we saw that many people--perhaps the entire population of the town--were walking to the church. I thought it must have been the last completely Catholic town in Spain--maybe because the crowds seemed to be having so much fun.

  "As we got into the car, we saw a funeral procession approaching. Someone had died; it was a mass for the dead. As soon as the cortege reached the gates of the church, the musicians stopped the flamenco music and began to play a dirge."

  "May God have mercy on that soul," said the woman, crossing herself.

  "May He have mercy," I said, repeating her gesture. "But our having gone into that church really had been a sign--that every story has a sad ending."

  The woman said nothing. Then she left the room and returned immediately with a pen and paper.

  "Let's go outside," she said.

  We went out together, and the sun was rising.

  "Take a deep breath," she said. "Let this new morning enter your lungs and course through your veins. From what I can see, your loss yesterday was not an accident."


  I didn't answer.

  "You also didn't really understand the story you told me, about the sign in the church," she went on. "You saw only the sadness of the procession at the end. You forgot the happy moments you spent inside. You forgot the feeling that heaven had descended on you and how good it was to be experiencing all of that with your..."

  She stopped and smiled.

  "...childhood friend," she said, winking. "Jesus said, 'Let the dead bury the dead' because he knew that there is no such thing as death. Life existed before we were born and will continue to exist after we leave this world."

  My eyes filled with tears.

  "It's the same with love," she went on. "It existed before and will go on forever."

  "You seem to know everything about my life," I said.

  "All love stories have much in common. I went through the same thing at one point in my life. But that's not what I remember. What I remember is that love returned in the form of another man, new hopes, and new dreams."

  She held out the pen and paper to me.

  "Write down everything you're feeling. Take it out of your soul, put it on the paper, and then throw it away. Legend says that the River Piedra is so cold that anything that falls into it--leaves, insects, the feathers of birds--is turned to stone. Maybe it would be a good idea to toss your suffering into its waters."

  I took the pages. She kissed me, and said I could come back for lunch if I wanted to.

  "Don't forget!" she shouted as she walked away. "Love perseveres. It's men who change."

  I smiled, and she waved good-bye.

  I looked out at the river for some time. And I cried until there were no more tears.

  Then I began to write.

  Epilogue

  I WROTE FOR AN ENTIRE DAY, AND then another, and another. Every morning, I went to the bank of the River Piedra. Every afternoon, the woman came, took me by the arm, and led me back to the old convent.

  She washed my clothes, made me dinner, chatted about trivial things, and sent me to bed.

  One morning, when I had almost finished the manuscript, I heard the sound of a car. My heart leaped, but I didn't want to believe it. I felt free again, ready to return to the world and be a part of it once again.

  The worst had passed, although the sadness remained.

  But my heart was right. Even without raising my eyes from my work, I felt his presence and heard his footsteps.

  "Pilar," he said, sitting down next to me.

  I went on writing, without answering. I couldn't pull my thoughts together. My heart was jumping, trying to free itself from my breast and run to him. But I wouldn't allow it.

  He sat there looking at the river, while I went on writing. The entire morning passed that way--without a word--and I recalled the silence of a night near a well when I'd suddenly realized that I loved him.

  When my hand could write no longer, I stopped. Then he spoke.

  "It was dark when I came up out of the cavern. I couldn't find you, so I went to Zaragoza. I even went to Soria. I looked everywhere for you. Then I decided to return to the monastery at Piedra to see if there was any sign of you, and I met a woman. She showed me where you were, and she said you had been waiting for me."

  My eyes filled with tears.

  "I am going to sit here with you by the river. If you go home to sleep, I will sleep in front of your house. And if you go away, I will follow you--until you tell me to go away. Then I'll leave. But I have to love you for the rest of my life."

  I could no longer hold back the tears, and he began to weep as well.

  "I want to tell you something...," he started to say.

  "Don't say a thing. Read this." I handed him the pages.

  I GAZED AT THE RIVER PIEDRA all afternoon. The woman brought us sandwiches and wine, commented on the weather, and left us alone. Every once in a while, he paused in his reading and stared out into space, absorbed in his thoughts.

  At one point I went for a walk in the woods, past the small waterfalls, through the landscape that was so laden with stories and meanings for me. When the sun began to set, I went back to the place where I had left him.

  "Thank you" was what he said as he gave the papers back to me. "And forgive me."

  On the bank of the River Piedra, I sat down and wept.

  "Your love has saved me and returned me to my dream," he continued.

  I said nothing.

  "Do you know Psalm 137?" he asked.

  I shook my head. I was afraid to speak.

  "On the banks of the rivers of Babylon..."

  "Yes, yes, I know it," I said, feeling myself coming back to life, little by little. "It talks about exile. It talks about people who hang up their harps because they cannot play the music their hearts desire."

  "But after the psalmist cries with longing for the land of his dreams, he promises himself,

  If I forget you, O Jerusalem,

  let my right hand forget its skill.

  Let my tongue cling to the roof of my mouth,

  if I do not exalt Jerusalem."

  I smiled again.

  "I had forgotten, and you brought it back to me."

  "Do you think your gift has returned?" I asked.

  "I don't know. But the Goddess has always given me a second chance in life. And She is giving me that with you. She will help me to find my path again."

  "Our path."

  "Yes, ours."

  He took my hands and lifted me to my feet.

  "Go and get your things," he said. "Dreams mean work."

  P.S. Insights, Interviews & More...

  About the author

  Meet Paulo Coelho

  About the book

  The Price of Hate and Pardon

  About the author

  Meet Paulo Coelho

  PAULO COELHO was born in Rio de Janeiro in August 1947, the son of Pedro Queima Coelho de Souza, an engineer, and his wife Lygia, a homemaker. Early on Coelho dreamed of an artistic career, something frowned upon in his middle-class household. In the austere surroundings of a strict Jesuit school Coelho discovered his true vocation: to be a writer. Coelho's parents, however, had different plans for him. When their attempts to suppress his devotion to literature failed, they took it as a sign of mental illness. When Coelho was seventeen, his father twice had him committed to a mental institution where he endured sessions of electroconvulsive "therapy." His parents brought him to the institution once more after he became involved with a theater group and started to work as a journalist.

  Coelho was always a nonconformist and a seeker of the new. In the excitement of 1968, the guerrilla and hippy movements took hold in a Brazil ruled by a repressive military regime. Coelho embraced progressive politics and joined the peace and love generation. He sought spiritual experiences by traveling all over Latin America in the footsteps of Carlos Castaneda. He worked in theater and dabbled in journalism, launching an alternative magazine called 2001. He began to collaborate as a lyricist with music producer Raul Seixas, transforming the Brazilian rock scene. In 1973 Coelho and Seixas joined the Alternative Society, an organization that defended the individual's right to free expression, and began publishing a series of comic strips calling for more freedom. Members of the organization were detained and imprisoned. Two days later Coelho was kidnapped and tortured by a paramilitary group.

  This experience affected him profoundly. At the age of twenty-six Coelho decided that he had had enough of living on the edge and wanted to be "normal." He worked as an executive in the music industry. He tried his hand at writing, but didn't start seriously until after he had an encounter with a stranger. The man first came to him in a vision; two months later Coelho met him at a cafe in Amsterdam. The stranger suggested that Coelho should return to Catholicism and study the benign side of magic. He also encouraged Coelho to walk the Road to Santiago, the medieval pilgrim's route.

  In 1987, a year after completing that pilgrimage, Coelho wrote The Pilgrimage. The book describes his experiences and his
discovery that the extraordinary occurs in the lives of ordinary people. A year later Coelho wrote a very different book, The Alchemist. The first edition sold only nine hundred copies and the publishing house decided not to reprint it.

  "The first edition [of The Alchemist] sold only nine hundred copies and the publishing house decided not to reprint it."

  Coelho would not surrender his dream. He found another publishing house, a bigger one. He wrote Brida (a work still unpublished in English); the book received a lot of attention in the press, and both The Alchemist and The Pilgrimage appeared on bestseller lists.

  Paulo went on to write many other bestselling books, including The Valkyries, By the River Piedra I Sat Down and Wept, The Fifth Mountain, Warrior of the Light: A Manual, Eleven Minutes, The Zahir, and The Devil and Miss Prym.

  Today, Paulo Coelho's books appear at the top of bestseller lists worldwide. In 2002 the Jornal de Letras of Portugal, the foremost literary authority in the Portuguese language, bestowed upon The Alchemist the title of book with most copies sold in the history of the language. In 2003 Coelho's novel Eleven Minutes was the world's bestselling fiction title (USA Today, Publishing Trends).

  In addition to his novels, Coelho writes a globally syndicated weekly newspaper column and occasionally publishes articles on current affairs. His newsletter, Warrior of the Light Online, has over seventy thousand subscribers.

  Coelho and his wife, Christina Oiticica, are the founders of the Paulo Coelho Institute, which provides support and opportunities for underprivileged members of Brazilian society.

  About the book

  The Price of Hate and Pardon

  In By the River Piedra I Sat Down and Wept Pilar learns to free herself from the Other, to grab hold of the magic moment before her, and to forgive so that she may truly love. Paulo Coelho reflects in this essay on the price we pay when we do not let go of hate, the rewards we garner when we learn to pardon, and the importance of paying attention to every opportunity life offers.

  IN MY NOTES for the year 1989 I came across some sentences jotted down from a conversation I had with J, whom I call my "master." At the time we were talking about an unknown mystic named Kenan Rifai, about whom little has been written.