The Valkyries: An Encounter With Angels

by Paulo Coelho

  They shared the same universe. And although often he had had the feeling that their universe contained no more secrets, he had discovered--that night in Death Valley--that the feeling was wrong.

  He stopped the car. Ahead, a ravine pierced the mountain. He had chosen the place based on its name--actually, angels are present at all times and in all places. He got out, drank some more of the water that now he always carried in bottles in the trunk of the car, and fixed the canteen to his belt.

  He was still thinking about Chris and Valhalla as he made his way to the ravine. I think I'll probably be infatuated many more times, he said to himself. He felt no guilt about it. Infatuation was a good thing. It gave spice to life, and added to its enjoyment.

  But it was different from love. Love was worth everything, and couldn't be exchanged for anything.

  He stopped at the mouth of the ravine and looked out over the valley. The horizon was shading to crimson. It was the first time he had seen the dawn out in the desert; even when they had slept out in the open, the sun was always up when he awoke.

  What a beautiful sight I've been missing, he thought. The peaks of the mountains in the distance were gleaming, and pink streaks were creeping into the valley, coloring the stones and the plants that survived there virtually without water. He gazed at the scene for some time.

  He was thinking of a book he had written, in which--at a certain point--the shepherd, Santiago, climbs to the top of a mountain to look out over the desert. Except for the fact that Paulo was not atop a mountain, he was surprised at the similarity to what he had written about eight months earlier. He had also just realized the significance of the name of the city where he had disembarked in the United States.

  Los Angeles. In Spanish: The Angels.

  But this wasn't the time to be thinking of the signs he had seen along the way.

  "This is your face, my guardian angel," he said aloud. "I see you. You have always been there before me, and never have I recognized you. I hear your voice. Every day I hear it more clearly. I know you exist, because they speak of you in all corners of the earth.

  "Perhaps one man, or even an entire society, can be wrong. But all societies and all civilizations, everywhere on the planet, have always spoken of angels. Nowadays, children and the elderly and the prophets are listening. They will continue to speak of angels down through the centuries, because prophets, children, and old people will always exist."

  A blue butterfly fluttered about him. It was his angel, responding.

  "I broke a pact. I accepted forgiveness."

  The butterfly drifted from one side to the other. He had seen numbers of white butterflies in the desert--but this one was blue. His angel was content.

  "And I made a bet. That night, up on the mountain, I bet all of my faith in God, in life, in my work, in J. I bet everything I had. I bet that, when I opened my eyes, you would show yourself to me. I placed my entire life on one tray of the scales. I asked that you place your countenance on the other.

  "And, when I opened my eyes, the desert was before me. For a few moments, I thought I had lost. But then--ah, how lovely the memory is--then, you spoke."

  A streak of light appeared on the horizon. The sun was coming alive.

  "Do you remember what you said? You said: 'Look around, this is my face. I am the place where you are. My mantle will cover you with the rays of the sun in daytime, and with the glow of the stars at night.' I heard your voice clearly!

  "And then you said: 'Always need me.'"

  His heart was content. He would wait for the sun to rise, and look for a long time at the face of his angel. Later, he would tell Chris of his bet. And tell her that seeing one's angel was even easier than speaking with him! One had only to believe that angels exist, only to need the angels. And they would show themselves, as brilliant as the rays of morning. And they would help, performing their task of protection and guidance, so that each generation would speak to the next of their presence--so that they would never be forgotten.

  Write something, he heard a voice within him say.

  Strange. He wasn't even trying to do his channeling. All he wanted to do was see his angel.

  But some being within him was demanding that he write something. He tried to concentrate on the horizon and the desert, but that's all he could manage.

  He went to the car and picked up a pen and some paper. He had had some experience with automatic writing, but had never gone deeply into it--J. had said that it wasn't for him. That he should seek out his true gift.

  He sat down on the floor of the desert, pen in hand, and tried to relax. Before long, the pen would begin to move itself, would produce some strokes, and then words would follow. In order for this to happen, he had to lose a bit of his awareness, and allow something--a spirit or an angel--to take him over.

  He surrendered completely, and accepted his role as instrument. But nothing happened. Write something, he heard the voice within him say again.

  He was fearful. He wasn't going to be incorporated by some spirit. He was channeling, without meaning to--as if his angel were there, speaking to him. It wasn't automatic writing.

  He took a different grip on the pen--now with firmness. The words began to emerge. And he wrote them down, without time even to think of what he was writing:

  For Zion's sake, I will not hold my peace.

  And for Jerusalem's sake, I will not rest,

  Until her righteousness goes forth as brightness,

  And her salvation, as a lamp that burns.

  This had never happened before. He was hearing a voice within him, dictating the words:

  You shall be called by a new name,

  Which the mouth of the Lord will name.

  You shall also be a crown of glory in the hand of the Lord,

  And a royal diadem in the hand of your God.

  You shall no longer be termed Forsaken,

  Nor your land anymore be termed Desolate;

  But you shall be called Hephzibah,

  For the Lord delights in you, and your land shall be married.

  He tried to converse with the voice. He asked to whom he should say this.

  It has already been said, the voice answered. It is simply being remembered.

  Paulo felt a lump in his throat. It was a miracle, and he gave thanks to God.

  The golden globe of the sun was rising above the horizon.

  He put down the pad and pen, stood up, and held out his hands in the direction of the light. He asked that all of that energy of hope--hope that a new day brings to millions of people on the face of the earth--would enter through his fingers and repose in his heart. He asked that he might always believe in the new world, in the angels, and in the open gates to paradise. He asked for protection by his angel and the Virgin Mary--for him, for all whom he loved, and for his work.

  The butterfly came to him and, responding to a secret sign from his angel, landed on his left hand. He kept absolutely still, because he was in the presence of another miracle: His angel had responded.

  He felt the universe stop at that moment: the sun, the butterfly, and the desert there before him.

  And in the next moment, the air around him trembled. It wasn't the wind. It was a shock of air--the same as one feels when a car is passed by a bus at high speed.

  A shiver of absolute terror ran up his spine.

  SOMEONE WAS THERE.

  "Do not turn around," he heard the voice say.

  His heart was pounding, and he was beginning to feel dizzy. He knew it was fear. A terrible fear. He remained motionless, his arms extended before him, the butterfly poised on his hand.

  I'm going to pass out, he thought.

  "Do not pass out," the voice said.

  He was trying to maintain control of himself, but his hands were cold, and he began to tremble. The butterfly flew away, and he lowered his arms.

  "Kneel down," the voice said.

  He knelt. He couldn't think. There was nowhere to go.

 
"Clear the ground,"

  He did as the voice ordered. With his hands, he brushed a small area in the sand directly in front of him so that it was smooth. His heart continued to beat rapidly, and he was feeling more and more dizzy. He thought he might even have a heart attack.

  "Look at the ground."

  An intense light, almost as strong as the morning sun, shone on his left side. He didn't want to look directly at it, and wished only that everything would end quickly. For a moment, he recalled his childhood, when appearances of Our Lady had been described to children. He had passed many sleepless nights as a child, asking God never to order the Virgin to appear to him--because the prospect was so frightening. Scary.

  The same fright that he was experiencing now.

  "Look at the ground," the voice insisted.

  He looked down at the area he had just swept clear. And that was when the golden arm, as brilliant as the sun, appeared, and began to write in the sand.

  "This is my name," the voice said.

  The fearful dizziness continued. His heart was beating even faster.

  "Believe," he heard the voice say. "The gates are open for a while."

  He gathered every bit of strength he had remaining.

  "I want to say something," he said aloud. The heat of the sun seemed to be restoring his strength.

  He heard nothing. No answer.

  An hour later, when Chris arrived--she had awakened the hotel owner, and demanded that he drive her there--he was still looking at the name in the sand.

  THE TWO OTHERS WATCHED AS PAULO PREPARED THE cement.

  "What a waste of water, out in the middle of the desert," Gene joked.

  Chris asked him not to kid around, since her husband was still feeling the impact of his vision.

  "I found where the passage came from," Gene said. "It's from Isaiah."

  "Why that passage?" Chris asked.

  "I have no idea. But I'm going to remember it."

  "It speaks about a new world," she continued.

  "Maybe that's why," Gene answered. "Maybe that's why." Paulo called to them.

  The three said a Hail Mary. Then Paulo climbed to the top of a boulder, spread the cement, and placed within it the image of Our Lady that he always carried with him.

  "There. It's done."

  "Maybe the guards will take it away when they find it here," Gene said. "They watch over the desert as if it were a flower garden."

  "Maybe," Paulo said. "But the spot will still be marked. It will always be one of my sacred places."

  "No," Gene said. "Sacred places are individual places. In this one, a text was dictated. A text that already existed. One that speaks of hope, and had already been forgotten."

  Paulo didn't want to think about that now. He was still fearful.

  "In this place, the energy of the soul of the world was felt," Gene said. "And it will be felt here forever. It is a place of power."

  They gathered up the plastic sheeting in which Paulo had mixed the cement, placed it in the trunk of the car, and left to take Gene back to his old trailer.

  "Paulo!" he said when they were saying their good-byes. "I think it would be good for you to know an old saying from the Tradition: When God wants to drive a person insane, he grants that person's every wish."

  "Could be," Paulo answered. "But it was worth it."

  Epilogue

  One afternoon, a year and a half after the angel's appearance, a letter arrived for me in Rio, from Los Angeles. It was from one of my Brazilian readers living in the United States, Rita de Freitas, and was in praise of The Alchemist.

  On impulse, I wrote to her, asking that she go to a canyon near Borrego Springs to see whether the statue of Our Lady of Aparecida was still there.

  After I had mailed the letter, I thought to myself: That's pretty silly. This woman doesn't even know me. She's just a reader who wanted to say a few kind words, and she'll never do as I've asked. She's not going to get into her car, drive six hours into the desert, and see whether a small statue is still there.

  Just before Christmas in 1989, I received a letter from Rita, from which I have excerpted the following:

  There have been some marvelous "coincidences." I had a week off from my job over the Thanksgiving holiday. My boyfriend (Andrea, an Italian musician) and I were planning on getting away to someplace different.

  Then your letter arrived. And the place you mentioned was near an Indian reservation. We decided to go...

  ...On our third day there, we went to look for the canyon, and found it. It was on Thanksgiving Day. It was interesting, because we were driving very slowly, but saw no sign of the statue. We came to the end of a canyon, stopped, and began climbing to the top of the cliff there. All we saw were the footprints of coyotes.

  At this point, we concluded that the statue couldn't any longer be here...

  As we were returning to the car, we saw some flowers among the rocks. We stopped the car and got out. We saw some small candles burning, some golden cloth with a butterfly woven into it, and a straw basket that had been thrown aside. We decided that must have been the place where the statue had been placed, but it was no longer there.

  What was interesting was the fact that I'm sure none of that was there when we had first passed by. We took a photograph--enclosed--and went on our way.

  When we were almost at the mouth of the canyon, we saw a woman dressed in white. Her clothing seemed Arabian--turban, long tunic--and she was walking in the middle of the road. Very strange--how could a woman such as this appear out of nowhere, in the middle of the desert?

  I was thinking: Could this be the woman who had placed those flowers and lighted the candles? There was no car to be seen, and I wondered how she could have come there.

  But I was so surprised that I couldn't bring myself to talk to her.

  I examined the photo Rita had sent: It was exactly where I had placed the statue.

  It was Thanksgiving Day. And I'm certain that angels were there that day.

  I wrote this book in January/February 1992, shortly after the end of the Third World War--where the battles were much more sophisticated than those fought with conventional arms. According to the Tradition, this war began in the 1950s, with the blockade of Berlin, and ended when the Berlin Wall fell. The victors divided up the defeated empire, as in a conventional war. The only thing that didn't occur was a nuclear holocaust--and this will never happen, because God's Work is too great to be destroyed by human beings.

  Now, according to the Tradition, a new war will begin. An even more sophisticated war, survived by no one--because it is through its battles that man's growth will be completed. We will see the two armies--on one side, those who still believe in the human race, and know that our next step involves the growth of individual gifts. On the other side will be those who deny the future. Those who believe that life has a material ending, and--unfortunately--those who, although they have faith, believe that they discovered the path to enlightenment, and want the others to follow it with them.

  That's why the angels have returned and must be attended. Only they can show us the way--no one else. We can share our experiences--as I have tried to share mine in this book--but there is no formula for this growth. God has generously made His wisdom and His love available to us, and it is easy, very easy, to find them. One has only to understand channeling--a process so simple that it was difficult for me to recognize and accept. Since the combat will take place for the most part in the astral plane, it will be our guardian angels who will wield the swords and shields, protecting us from danger, and guiding us to victory. But our responsibility is huge, as well: We, at this moment in history, must develop our own powers. We must believe that the universe doesn't end at the walls of our room. We must accept the signs, and follow our heart and our dreams.

  We are responsible for everything that happens in this world. We are the warriors of the light. With the strength of our love and of our will, we can change our destiny, as well as the destiny of
many others.

  The day will come when the problem of hunger can be solved through the miracle of the multiplication of the bread. The day will come when love will be accepted by every heart, and the most terrible of human experiences--solitude, which is worse than hunger--will be banned from the face of the Earth. The day will come when those who knock at the gates will see them open; those who ask will receive; those who weep will be consoled.

  For the planet Earth, that day is still a long way off. But for each of us, that day can be tomorrow. One has only to accept a simple fact: Love--of God and of others--shows us the way. Our defects, our dangerous depths, our suppressed hatreds, our moments of weakness and desperation--all are unimportant. If what we want to do is heal ourselves first, so that then we can go in search of our dreams, we will never reach paradise. If, on the other hand, we accept all that is wrong about us--and despite it, believe that we are deserving of a happy life--then we will have thrown open an immense window that will allow Love to enter. Little by little, our defects will disappear, because one who is happy can look at the world only with love--the force that regenerates everything that exists in the Universe.

  In The Brothers Karamazov, Dostoyevsky tells us the story of the Grand Inquisitor, which I paraphrase here:

  During the religious persecutions in Sevilla, when all who did not agree with the Church were thrown into prison, or burned at the stake, Christ returns to earth and mixes in with the multitudes. But the Grand Inquisitor notes his presence, and orders him jailed.

  That night, he goes to visit Jesus in his cell. And he asks why Jesus has decided to return at that particular moment. "You are making things difficult for us," the Grand Inquisitor says. "After all, your ideals were lovely, but it is we who are capable of putting them into practice." He argues that, although the Inquisition might be judged in the future to have been severe, it is necessary, and that he is simply doing his job. There is no use talking of peace when man's heart is always at war; nor speaking of a better world when there is so much hatred in man's heart. There was no use in Jesus' having sacrificed himself in the name of the human race, when human beings still feel guilty. "You said that all people are equal, that each has the divine light within, but you forgot that people are insecure, and they need someone to guide them. Don't make our work more difficult than it is. Go away," says the Grand Inquisitor, having laid out all of his brilliant arguments.