by Paulo Coelho
They stopped in the middle of the square. Elijah was made to kneel on the ground and his hands were tied. He no longer heard the woman’s screams; perhaps she had died quickly, without going through the slow torture of being burned alive. The Lord had her in His hands. And she was carrying her son at her bosom.
Another group of Assyrian soldiers brought a prisoner whose face was disfigured by numerous blows. Even so, Elijah recognized the commander.
“Long live Akbar!” he shouted. “Long life to Phoenicia and its warriors, who engage the enemy by day! Death to the cowards who attack in darkness!”
He barely had time to finish the phrase. An Assyrian general’s sword descended, and the commander’s head rolled along the ground.
“Now it is my turn,” Elijah told himself. “I’ll meet her again in paradise, where we shall stroll hand in hand.”
At that moment, a man approached and began to argue with the officers. He was an inhabitant of Akbar who was wont to attend the meetings in the square. Elijah recalled having helped him resolve a serious dispute with a neighbor.
The Assyrians were arguing among themselves, their words growing louder and louder, and pointing at him. The man kneeled, kissed the feet of one of them, extended his hand toward the Fifth Mountain, and wept like a child. The invaders’ fury appeared to subside.
The discussion seemed to go on endlessly. The man implored and wept the entire time, pointing to Elijah and to the house where the governor lived. The soldiers appeared dissatisfied with the conversation.
Finally, the officer who spoke his language approached.
“Our spy,” he said, indicating the man, “says that we are mistaken. It was he who gave us the plans to the city, and we have confidence in what he says. It’s not you we wish to kill.”
He pushed him with his foot. Elijah fell to the ground.
“He says you would go to Israel and remove the princess who usurped the throne. Is that true?”
Elijah did not answer.
“Tell me if it’s true,” the officer insisted. “And you can leave here and return to your dwelling in time to save that woman and her son.”
“Yes, it’s true,” he said. Perhaps the Lord had listened to him and would help him to save them.
“We could take you captive to Sidon and Tyre,” the officer continued. “But we still have many battles before us, and you’d be a weight on our backs. We could demand a ransom for you, but from whom? You’re a foreigner even in your own country.”
The officer put his foot on Elijah’s face.
“You’re useless. You’re no good to the enemy and no good to friends. Just like your city; it’s not worth leaving part of our army here, to keep it under our rule. After we conquer the coastal cities Akbar will be ours in any case.”
“I have one question,” Elijah said. “Just one question.”
The officer looked at him warily.
“Why did you attack at night? Don’t you know that wars are fought by day?”
“We did not break the law; there is no custom that forbids it,” answered the officer. “And we had a long time to become familiar with the terrain. All of you were so preoccupied with custom that you forgot that times change.”
Without a further word, the group left him. The spy approached and untied his hands.
“I promised myself that I would one day repay your generosity; I have kept my word. When the Assyrians entered the palace, one of the servants told them that the man they were looking for had taken refuge in the widow’s house. While they went there, the real governor was able to flee.”
Elijah was not listening. Fire crackled everywhere, and the screams continued.
In the midst of the confusion, it was evident that one group still maintained discipline; obeying an invisible order, the Assyrians were silently withdrawing.
The battle of Akbar was over.
“SHE’S DEAD,” he told himself. “I don’t want to go there, for she is dead. Or she was saved by a miracle and will come looking for me.”
His heart nevertheless bade him rise to his feet and go to the house where they lived. Elijah struggled with himself; at that moment, more than a woman’s love was at stake—his entire life, his faith in the Lord’s designs, the departure from the city of his birth, the idea that he had a mission and was capable of completing it.
He looked about him, searching for a sword with which to take his own life, but with the Assyrians had gone every weapon in Akbar. He thought of throwing himself onto the flames of the burning houses, but he feared the pain.
For some moments he stood paralyzed. Little by little, he began recovering his awareness of the situation in which he found himself. The woman and her child must have already left this world, but he must bury them in accord with custom. At that moment the Lord’s work—whether or not He existed—was his only succor. After finishing his religious duty, he would yield to pain and doubt.
Moreover, there was a possibility that they still lived. He could not remain there, doing nothing.
“I don’t want to see their burned faces, the skin falling from their flesh. Their souls are already running free in heaven.”
NEVERTHELESS, HE BEGAN walking toward the house, choking and blinded by the smoke that prevented his finding his way. He gradually began to comprehend the situation in the city. Although the enemy had withdrawn, panic was mounting in an alarming manner. People continued to wander aimlessly, weeping, petitioning the gods on behalf of their dead.
He looked for someone to help him. A lone man was in sight, in a total state of shock; his mind seemed distant.
“It’s best to go straightway and not ask for help.” He knew Akbar as if it were his native city and was able to orient himself, even without recognizing many of the places that he was accustomed to passing. In the street the cries he heard were now more coherent. The people were beginning to understand that a tragedy had taken place and that it was necessary to react.
“There’s a wounded man here!” said one.
“We need more water! We’re not going to be able to control the fire!” said another.
“Help me! My husband is trapped!”
He came to the place where, many months before, he had been received and given lodging as a friend. An old woman was sitting in the middle of the street, almost in front of the house, completely naked. Elijah tried to help her but was pushed away.
“She’s dying!” the old woman cried. “Do something! Take that wall off her!”
And she began screaming hysterically. Elijah took her by the arms and shoved her aside, for the noise she was making prevented his hearing the widow’s moans. Everything around him was total destruction—the roof and walls had collapsed, and it was difficult to recognize where he had last seen her. The flames had died down but the heat was still unbearable; he stepped over the rubble covering the floor and went toward the place where the woman’s bedroom had been.
Despite the confusion outside, he was able to make out a moan. It was her voice.
He instinctively shook the dust from his garments, as if trying to improve his appearance. He remained silent, trying to concentrate. He heard the crackling of the fire, the cries for help from people buried in the neighboring houses, and felt the urge to tell them to be silent because he must discover where the woman and her son were. After a long time, he heard the sound again; someone was scratching on the wood beneath his feet.
He fell to his knees and began digging like one possessed. He removed the dirt, stones, and wood. Finally, his hand touched something warm: it was blood.
“Please, don’t die,” he said.
“Leave the rubble over me,” he heard her voice say. “I don’t want you to see my face. Go and help my son.”
He continued to dig, and she repeated, “Go and find the body of my son. Please, do as I ask.”
Elijah’s head fell against his chest, and he began weeping softly.
“I don’t know where he’s buried,” he said. “Please, do
n’t go; how I long to have you remain with me. I need you to teach me how to love; my heart is ready now.”
“Before you arrived, for so many years I called out to death. It must have heard and come looking for me.”
She moaned. Elijah bit his lips but said nothing. Someone touched his shoulder.
Startled, he turned and saw the boy. He was covered with dust and soot but appeared unhurt.
“Where is my mother?” he asked.
“I’m here, my son,” answered the voice from beneath the ruins. “Are you injured?”
The boy began to cry. Elijah took him in his arms.
“You’re crying, my son,” said the voice, ever weaker. “Don’t do that. Your mother took a long time to learn that life has meaning; I hope I have been able to teach it to you. In what condition is the city where you were born?”
Elijah and the boy remained silent, each clinging to the other.
“It’s fine,” Elijah lied. “A few warriors died, but the Assyrians have withdrawn. They were after the governor, to avenge the death of one of their generals.”
Again, silence. And again her voice, still weaker than before.
“Tell me that my city is safe.”
He knew that she would be gone at any moment.
“The city is whole. And your son is well.”
“What about you?”
“I have survived.”
He knew that with these words he was liberating her soul and allowing her to die in peace.
“Ask my son to kneel,” the woman said after a time. “And I want you to swear to me, in the name of the Lord thy God.”
“Whatever you want. Anything that you want.”
“You once told me that the Lord is everywhere, and I believed you. You said that souls don’t go to the top of the Fifth Mountain, and I also believed what you said. But you didn’t explain where they go.
“This is the oath: you two will not weep for me, and each will take care of the other until the Lord allows each of you to follow his path. From this moment on, my soul will become one with all I have known on this earth: I am the valley, the mountains that surround it, the city, the people walking in its streets. I am its wounded and its beggars, its soldiers, its priests, its merchants, its nobles. I am the ground that they tread, and the well that slakes each one’s thirst.
“Don’t weep for me, for there is no reason to be sad. From this moment on, I am Akbar, and the city is beautiful.”
The silence of death descended, and the wind ceased to blow. Elijah no longer heard the cries outside or the flames crackling in neighboring houses; he heard only the silence and could almost touch it in its intensity.
Then Elijah led the boy away, rent his own garments, turned to the heavens, and bellowed with all the strength of his lungs, “O Lord my God! For Thy cause have I felt Israel and cannot offer Thee my blood as did the prophets who remained there. I have been called a coward by my friends and a traitor by my enemies.
“For Thy cause have I eaten only what crows brought me and have crossed the desert to Zarephath, which its inhabitants call Akbar. Guided by Thy hand, I met a woman; guided by Thee, my heart learned to love her. But at no time did I forget my true mission; during all the days I spent here I was always ready to depart.
“Beautiful Akbar is in ruins, and the woman who trusted me lies beneath them. Where have I sinned, O Lord? At what moment have I strayed from what Thou desirest of me? If Thou art discontent with me, why hast Thou not taken me from this world? Instead, Thou hast afflicted yet again those who succored me and loved me.
“I do not understand Thy designs. I see no justice in Thy acts. In bearing the suffering Thou hast imposed on me, I am sorely wanting. Remove Thyself from my life, for I too am reduced to ruins, fire, and dust.”
Amidst the fire and desolation, the light appeared to Elijah. And the angel of the Lord was before him.
“Why are you here?” asked Elijah. “Don’t you see that it is too late?”
“I have come to say that once again the Lord hath heard thy prayer and thy petition will be granted thee. No more shalt thou hear thy angel, nor shall I meet again with thee till thou hast undergone thy days of trial.”
Elijah took the boy by the hand and they began to walk aimlessly. The smoke, till then dispersed by the winds, was now concentrated in the streets, making the air impossible to breathe. “Perhaps it’s a dream,” he thought. “Perhaps it’s a nightmare.”
“You lied to my mother,” the boy said. “The city is destroyed.”
“What does that matter? If she did not see what was happening around her, why not allow her to die in peace?”
“Because she trusted you, and said that she was Akbar.”
Elijah cut his foot on one of the broken pieces of glass and pottery strewn on the ground. The pain proved to him that he was not dreaming; everything around him was terribly real. They arrived at the square where—how long ago?—he had met with the people and helped them to resolve their disputes; the sky was gilded by flames from the fires.
“I don’t want my mother to be this that I’m looking at,” the boy insisted. “You lied to her.”
The boy was managing to keep his oath; Elijah had not seen a single tear on his face. “What can I do?” he thought. His foot was bleeding, and he decided to concentrate on the pain, to ward off despair.
He looked at the sword cut the Assyrian had made in his body; it was not as deep as he had imagined. He sat down with the boy at the same spot where he had been bound by his enemies, and saved by a traitor. He noticed that people were no longer running; they were walking slowly from place to place, amidst the smoky, dusty ruins, as if they were the living dead. They seemed like souls abandoned by the heavens and condemned to walk the earth eternally. Nothing made sense.
Some of the people reacted; they still heeded the women’s voices and the confused orders from the soldiers who had survived the massacre. But they were few and were not achieving any result.
The high priest had once said that the world was the collective dream of the gods. What if, fundamentally, he was right? Could he now help the gods to awaken from this nightmare and then make them sleep again to dream a gentler dream? When Elijah had nocturnal visions, he always awoke and then slept anew; why should the same not occur with the creators of the Universe?
He stumbled over the dead. None of them was now concerned with having to pay taxes, Assyrian encampments in the valley, religious rituals, or the existence of a wandering prophet who perhaps one day had spoken to them.
“I can’t remain here permanently. The legacy that she left me is this boy, and I shall be worthy of it, even if it be the last thing I do on the face of the earth.”
With a great effort, he rose, took the boy by the hand, and they began to walk. Some of the people were sacking the shops and tents that had been smashed. For the first time, he attempted to react to what had happened, by asking them not to do that.
But the people pushed him aside, saying, “We’re eating the remains of what the governor devoured by himself. Get out of the way.”
Elijah did not have the strength to argue; he led the boy out of the city, where they began to walk through the valley. The angels, with their swords of fire, would come no more.
“A full moon.”
Far from the dust and smoke, he could see the night illuminated by moonlight. Hours before, when he was attempting to leave the city for Jerusalem, he had been able to find his way without difficulty; the Assyrians had had the same advantage.
The boy stumbled over a body and screamed. It was the high priest; his arms and legs had been cut off, but he was still alive. His eyes were fixed on the heights of the Fifth Mountain.
“As you see,” he said in a labored but calm voice, “the Phoenician gods have won the celestial battle.” Blood was spurting from his mouth.
“Let me end your suffering,” Elijah replied.
“Pain means nothing, compared to the joy of having done my duty.”
“A city does not die, only its inhabitants and the ideas they bore within themselves. One day, others will come to Akbar, drink its water, and the stone that its founder left behind will be polished and cared for by new priests. Leave me now; my pain will soon be over, while your despair will endure for the rest of your life.”
The mutilated body was breathing with difficulty, and Elijah left him. At that moment, a group of people—men, women, and children—came running toward him and encircled him.
“It was you!” they shouted. “You dishonored your homeland and brought a curse upon our city!”
“May the gods bear witness to this! May they know who is to blame!”
The men pushed him and shook him by the shoulders. The boy pulled loose from his hands and disappeared. The others struck him in the face, the chest, the back, but his only thoughts were for the boy; he had not even been able to keep him at his side.
The beating did not last long; perhaps his assailants were themselves weary of so much violence. Elijah fell to the ground.
“Leave this place!” someone said. “You have repaid our love with your hatred!”
The group withdrew. Elijah did not have the strength to rise to his feet. When he recovered from the shame, he had ceased to be the same man. He desired neither to die nor to go on living. He desired nothing: he possessed no love, no hate, no faith.
HE AWOKE to someone touching his face. It was still night, but the moon was no longer in the sky.
“I promised my mother that I’d take care of you,” the boy said. “But I don’t know what to do.”
“Go back to the city. The people there are good, and someone will take you in.”
“You’re hurt. I need to attend to your arm. Maybe an angel will come and tell me what to do.”
“You’re ignorant, you know nothing about what’s happening!” Elijah shouted. “The angels will come no more because we’re common folk, and everyone is weak when faced with suffering. When tragedy occurs, let people fend for themselves!”
