The Pilgrimage

by Paulo Coelho

  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.

  "The
y 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.

  The Arousal of Intuition

  (The Water Exercise)

  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.

  Marriage

  LOGRONO 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 Logrono, 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 Logrono. 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, th
ere 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."