by Paulo Coelho
“When I’d finished telling him about the church, we went on to talk about other things. I told him how proud I was of my village, and he responded with some words by a writer whose name I don’t recall now, something about how understanding your own village helps you understand the world.”
“Tolstoy,” said Brida.
But her mother was still traveling in time, just as she herself had done one day, except that her mother didn’t require cathedrals adrift in space, subterranean libraries, or dusty books; she needed only the memory of that spring afternoon and a man sitting on the steps with his suitcases.
“We talked for quite a while. I had the whole afternoon free to spend with him, but since the mechanic might arrive at any moment, I decided to make the most of every second. I asked him about his world, about excavations, about the challenges of spending his life looking for the past in the present. He spoke to me of the warriors, wise men, and pirates who had once inhabited our country.
“Before I knew it, the sun was low on the horizon, and never, in all my life, had time passed so quickly. I sensed that he felt the same. He kept asking me questions to keep the conversation going, not giving me time to say that I had to leave. He talked nonstop, telling me all about his experiences, and he wanted to know everything about me, too. I could see in his eyes that he desired me, even though, at the time, I was nearly twice the age you are now.
“It was spring, there was a lovely smell of new things in the air, and I felt young again. There’s a flower that only blooms in the autumn; well, that afternoon, I felt like that flower. As if, suddenly, in the autumn of my life, when I thought I’d experienced everything I could experience, that man had appeared on the steps purely to show me that feelings—love, for example—do not grow old along with the body. Feelings form part of a world I don’t know, but it’s a world where there’s no time, no space, no frontiers.”
She remained silent for a while. Her eyes were still far off, fixed on that distant spring.
“There was I, like a thirty-eight-year-old adolescent, feeling that someone desired me. He didn’t want me to leave. Then all of a sudden, he stopped talking. He looked deep into my eyes and smiled. It was as if he’d understood with his heart what I was thinking, and wanted to tell me that it was true, that I was very important to him. For some time, we said nothing, and then we said good-bye. The mechanic had still not arrived.
“For many days, I wondered if that man really had existed, or if he was an angel sent by God to teach me the secret lessons of life. In the end, I decided that he had been a real man, a man who had loved me, even if only for an afternoon, and during that afternoon, he’d given me everything he had kept to himself throughout his whole life: his struggles, his joys, his difficulties, and his dreams. That afternoon I gave myself wholly as well—I was his companion, his wife, his audience, his lover. In a matter of only a few hours, I experienced the love of a lifetime.”
Mother looked at daughter. She hoped her daughter had understood, but deep down, she felt that Brida lived in a world in which that kind of love had no place.
“I’ve never stopped loving your father, not for a single day,” she concluded. “He’s always been by my side, doing his best, and I want to be with him until the end. But the heart’s a mysterious thing, and I still don’t really understand what happened that afternoon. What I do know is that meeting that man left me feeling more confident, and showed me I was still capable of loving and being loved, and it taught me something else that I’ll never forget: finding one important thing in your life doesn’t mean you have to give up all the other important things.
“I still think of him sometimes. I’d like to know where he is, if he found what he was looking for that afternoon, if he’s still alive, or if God took his soul. I know he’ll never come back, which is why I could love him with such strength and such certainty, because I would never lose him; he had given himself to me entirely that afternoon.”
Her mother got up.
“I’d better go home and finish making your dress,” she said.
“I think I’ll stay here for a while,” Brida replied.
She went over to her daughter and kissed her fondly.
“Thank you for listening to me. It’s the first time I’ve ever told anyone that story. I was always afraid I might die without having done so, and that it would be wiped forever from the face of the Earth. Now you will keep it for me.”
Brida went up the steps and stood outside the church. This small, round building was the pride of the region. It was one of the first places of Christian worship in Ireland, and every year, scholars and tourists came to visit it. Nothing remained of the original fifth-century structure, apart from some fragments of floor; each destruction, however, had left some part intact, and so a visitor could trace the history of the various architectural styles that made up the church.
Inside, an organ was playing, and Brida stood outside for a while, listening to the music. Everything was so clearly laid out in that church; the universe was exactly where it should be, and anyone coming in through its doors had no need to worry about anything. There were no mysterious forces far above, no Dark Nights that called on one to believe without understanding. There was no more talk of burning people at the stake, and the religions of the world lived together as if they were allies, binding man once more to God. Her island was still an exception to that peaceful coexistence—in the North, people still killed one another in the name of religion, but that would eventually end. God had almost been explained away: He was our generous Father, and we were all saved.
“I’m a witch,” she said to herself, struggling against a growing impulse to enter the church. Hers was now a different Tradition, and even if it was the same God, if she walked through those doors she would be profaning the place, and would, in turn, be profaned.
She lit a cigarette and stared across at the horizon, trying not to think about these things. She thought, instead, of her mother. She felt like running back home, flinging her arms about her neck, and telling her that in two days’ time she was going to be initiated into the Great Mysteries of witchcraft, that she had made journeys in time, that she had experienced the power of sex, that she could guess what was in a shop window using only the techniques of the Tradition of the Moon. She needed love and understanding, because she, too, knew stories she could tell no one.
The organ stopped playing, and Brida once again heard the voices of the village, the singing of the birds, the wind stirring the branches and announcing the coming of spring. At the back of the church, a door opened and closed. Someone had left. For a moment, she saw herself on a Sunday in her childhood, standing where she was now, feeling irritated because the mass was so long and Sunday was the only day when she was free to explore the fields.
“I must go in.” Perhaps her mother would understand what she was feeling, but at that moment, she was far away. There before her was an empty church. She had never asked Wicca precisely what Christianity’s role had been in everything that happened. She had a sense that if she walked through that door, she would be betraying all her sisters who had been burned at the stake.
“But then I was burned at the stake, too,” she said to herself. She remembered the prayer Wicca had said on the day commemorating the martyrdom of the witches. And in that prayer, she had mentioned Jesus and the Virgin Mary. Love was above everything else, and there was no hatred in love, only the occasional mistake. At one point, men may have decided to make themselves God’s representatives and subsequently made mistakes, but God had nothing to do with that.
When she did finally go in, there was no one else inside. A few lit candles showed that someone had taken the trouble that morning to renew their alliance with a force they could only sense, and in that way had crossed the bridge between the visible and the invisible. She regretted her thoughts before entering the church: nothing was explained here either, and people had to take a chance and plunge into the Dark Night of Faith. Before her, arms
outspread, was that seemingly simple God.
He could not help her. She was alone with her decisions, and no one could help her. She needed to learn to take risks. She didn’t have the same advantages as the crucified man before her, who had known what his mission was, because he was the son of God. He had never made a mistake. He had never known ordinary human love, only love for His Father. All He needed to do was to reveal His wisdom and teach humankind the true path to heaven.
But was that all? She remembered a Sunday catechism class, when the priest had been more inspired than usual. They’d been studying the episode when Jesus, sweating blood, was praying to God and asking Him to remove the cup from which he was being forced to drink.
“But why, if he already knew he was the son of God?” asked the priest. “Because he only knew it with his heart. If he was absolutely sure, his mission would be meaningless, because he would not be entirely human. Being human means having doubts and yet still continuing on your path.”
She looked again at the image, and for the first time in her entire life, felt closer to it. There perhaps was a man, frightened and alone, facing death and asking: “Father, Father, why hast thou forsaken me?” If he said that, it was because even He wasn’t sure where He was going. He had taken a chance and plunged, as all men do, into the Dark Night, knowing that He would only find the answer at the end of his journey. He, too, had to go through the anxiety of making decisions, of leaving His father and mother and His little village to go in search of the secrets of men and the mysteries of the Law.
If He had been through all that, then He must have known love, even though the Gospels never mention this—love between people is much more difficult to understand than love for a Supreme Being. But now she remembered that, when He had risen again, the first person to whom He appeared was a woman, who had accompanied Him to the last.
The silent image appeared to agree with her. He had known people, wine, bread, parties, and all the beauties of the world. It was impossible that He had not also known the love of a woman, which is why He had sweated blood on the Mount of Olives, because, having known the love of one person, it was very hard to leave the Earth and to sacrifice Himself for the love of all men.
He had experienced everything the world could offer and yet He continued on his journey, knowing that the Dark Night could end on the cross or on the pyre.
“Lord, we’re all in the world to run the risks of that Dark Night. I’m afraid of death, but even more afraid of wasting my life. I’m afraid of love, because it involves things that are beyond our understanding; it sheds such a brilliant light, but the shadow it casts frightens me.”
She suddenly realized that she was praying. That silent, simple God was looking at her, apparently understanding her words and taking them seriously.
For a while, she sat waiting for a response from Him but heard not a sound and saw not a sign. The answer was there before her, in that man nailed to the cross. He had played His part, and shown to the world that, if everyone played their part, no one else would have to suffer, because He had suffered for all those who’d had the courage to fight for their dreams.
Brida found herself quietly weeping, although she didn’t quite know why.
The day was overcast, but it wasn’t going to rain. Lorens had lived in that city for many years and knew its clouds. He got up and went into the kitchen to make some coffee. Brida joined him just as the water was boiling.
“You came to bed very late last night,” he said.
She didn’t answer.
“Today’s the day,” he went on, “and I know how important it is to you. I would love to be there with you.”
“It’s a party,” said Brida.
“What does that mean?”
“It’s a party, and for as long as we’ve known each other, we’ve always gone to parties together. You’re invited, too.”
The Magus went out to see if the previous day’s rain had damaged the bromeliads in his garden. They were fine, and he smiled to himself; it seemed that the forces of nature did sometimes collaborate.
He thought about Wicca. She wouldn’t be able to see the points of light, because they were visible only to the respective Soul Mates, but she was sure to notice the energy from the rays of light moving between him and her student. Witches were, above all else, women.
The Tradition of the Moon described this as the “Vision of Love,” and although it was something that could happen between people who were not each other’s Soul Mate, but merely in love, he imagined that it would, nevertheless, fill her with anger, female anger, the kind felt by Snow White’s stepmother, who could not allow another woman to be more beautiful than she.
Wicca, however, was a Teacher and would immediately realize how absurd such feelings of anger were, but, by then, her aura would already have changed color.
He would go over to her then, kiss her on the cheek, and say that he could see she was jealous. She would deny this, and he would ask why she was angry.
She would say that she was a woman and didn’t need to explain her feelings. He would give her another kiss on the cheek, because what she said was true. And he would tell her how much he’d missed her during the time they’d been apart, and that he still admired her more than any other woman in the world, with the exception of Brida, because Brida was his Soul Mate.
Wicca, being a wise woman, would feel happy then.
“I must be getting old,” he thought. “I’m starting to imagine conversations.” Then it occurred to him that it wasn’t just a matter of age; that was how men in love had always behaved.
Wicca was pleased because the rain had stopped and the clouds would clear before nightfall. Nature needed to be in accord with the works of human beings.
She had taken all the necessary steps; everyone had played their part; everything was in place.
She went over to the altar and invoked her Teacher. She asked him to be present that night. Three new witches were to be initiated into the Great Mysteries, and she had sole responsibility for their initiation.
Then she went into the kitchen to make some coffee. She squeezed some orange juice and ate some toast and a few crisp-breads. She still took care of her appearance, because she knew how pretty she was. She didn’t need to neglect her beauty in order to prove that she was also intelligent and capable.
While she distractedly stirred her coffee, she remembered a day just like this many years before, when her Teacher had sealed her destiny with the Great Mysteries. For a moment, she tried to imagine the person she had been then, what her dreams had been, what she’d wanted from life.
“I must be getting old,” she said out loud, “sitting here, thinking about the past.” She drank her coffee and began her preparations. There were still things to do. She knew, though, that she wasn’t getting old. In her world, Time did not exist.
Brida was surprised by the number of cars parked by the roadside. That morning’s heavy clouds had been replaced by a clear sky from which the last rays of the setting sun were now fading. Despite the distinct chill in the air, it was still the first day of spring.
She invoked the protection of the spirits of the forest, and then looked at Lorens. He rather awkwardly repeated the same words, and yet he seemed quite happy to be there. If they were to remain together, they would each, from time to time, have to enter the other’s reality. Between them, too, there existed a bridge between the visible and the invisible. Magic was present in their every act.
They walked quickly through the wood and soon reached the clearing. Brida was prepared now for what she saw: men and women of all ages, and doubtless from a wide range of professions, were gathered in groups, talking and trying to make the whole event seem like the most natural thing in the world. In reality, though, they were feeling as perplexed as she and Lorens.
“Are all these people part of the ceremony?” Lorens asked, for he hadn’t been expecting such a crowd.
Brida explained that some, like him, were guests. S
he didn’t know exactly who would be taking part, but all would be revealed at the chosen moment.
They selected a corner to put their things down, including the bag Lorens was carrying. Inside were Brida’s dress and three bottles of wine. Wicca had recommended that each person, both participants and guests, should bring a large bottle of wine. Before they left the house, Lorens had asked who the other guest was. Brida told him that it was the Magus whom she went to visit in the mountains, and Lorens gave the matter no further thought.
“Imagine,” he heard a woman next to him comment, “imagine what my friends would say if they knew I was at a real witches’ Sabbath.”
A witches’ Sabbath. The celebration that had survived the spilled blood, the fires, the Age of Reason and oblivion. Lorens tried to reassure himself; after all, there were many other people like him there. However, a shudder ran through him when he saw a pile of logs in the middle of the clearing.
Wicca was talking to some other people, but as soon as she saw Brida, she came over to say hello and to ask if she was all right. Brida thanked her for her kindness and introduced Lorens.
“And I’ve invited someone else as well,” she said.
Wicca looked at her, surprised, then smiled broadly. Brida was sure she knew who she meant.
“I’m glad,” Wicca said. “After all, it’s his celebration, too. And it’s ages since I saw that old wizard. Maybe he’s learned a thing or two.”
