by Paulo Coelho
I would be his companion, and together we would tame a world that was going to be created anew. We would talk about the Great Mother, we would fight at the side of Michael the Archangel, and we would experience together the agony and the ecstasy of pioneers. That's what the tongues had said to me—and because I had recovered my faith, I knew they were telling the truth.
Thursday, December 9, 1993
I awoke with his arm across my breast. It was already midmorning, and the bells of a nearby church were tolling.
He kissed me. His hands once again caressed my body.
"We have to go," he said. "The holiday ends today, and the roads will be jammed."
"I don't want to go back to Zaragoza," I answered. "I want to go straight to where you're going. The banks will be open soon, and I can use my bank card to get some money and buy some clothes."
"You told me you didn't have much money."
"There are things I can do. I need to break with my past once and for all. If we go back to Zaragoza, I might begin to think I'm making a mistake, that the exam period is almost here and we can stand to be separated for two months until my exams are over. And then if I pass my exams, I won't want to leave Zaragoza. No, no, I can't go back. I need to burn the bridges that connect me with the woman I was."
"Barcelona," he said to himself.
"What?"
"Nothing. Let's move on."
"But you have a presentation to make."
"But that's two days from now," he said. His voice sounded different. "Let's go somewhere else. I don't want to go straight to Barcelona."
I got out of bed. I didn't want to focus on problems. As always after a first night of love with someone, I had awakened with a certain sense of ceremony and embarrassment.
I went to the window, opened the curtains, and looked down on the narrow street. The balconies of the houses were draped with drying laundry. The church bells were ringing.
"I've got an idea," I said. "Let's go to a place we shared as children. I've never been back there."
"Where?"
"The monastery at Piedra."
As we left the hotel, the bells were still sounding, and he suggested that we go into a church nearby.
"That's all we've done," I said. "Churches, prayers, rituals."
"We made love," he said. "We've gotten drunk three times. We've walked in the mountains. We've struck a good balance between rigor and compassion."
I'd said something thoughtless. I had to get used to this new life.
"I'm sorry," I said.
"Let's just go in for a few minutes. The bells are a sign."
He was right, but I wouldn't know that until the next day.
Afterward, without really understanding the meaning of the sign we had witnessed in the church, we got the car and drove for four hours to get to the monastery at Piedra.
"The roof had fallen in, and the heads were missing from the few images that were still there—all except for one.
I looked around. In the past, this place must have sheltered strong-willed people, who'd seen to it that every stone was cleaned and that each pew was occupied by one of the powerful individuals of the time.
But all I saw now were ruins. When we had played here as children, we'd pretended these ruins were castles. In those castles I had looked for my enchanted prince.
For centuries, the monks of the monastery at Piedra had kept this small piece of paradise to themselves. Situated on a valley floor, it enjoyed a plentiful supply of what the neighboring villages had to beg forwater. Here the River Piedra broke up into dozens of waterfalls, streams, and lakes, creating luxuriant vegetation all around.
Yet one had only to walk a few hundred yards to leave the canyon and find aridity and desolation. The river itself once again became a narrow thread of wateras if it had exhausted all of its youth and energy in crossing the valley.
The monks knew all this, and they charged dearly for the water they supplied to their neighbors. An untold number of battles between the priests and the villagers marked the history of the monastery.
During one of the many wars that shook Spain, the monastery at Piedra had been turned into a barracks. Horses rode through the central nave of the church, and soldiers slept in its pews, telling ribald stories there and making love with women from the neighboring villages.
Revenge—although delayed—finally came. The monastery was sacked and destroyed.
The monks were never able to reconstruct their paradise. In one of the many legal battles that followed, someone said that the inhabitants of the nearby villages had carried out a sentence pronounced by God. Christ had said, "Give drink to those who thirst," and the priests had paid no heed. For this, God had expelled those who had regarded themselves as nature's masters.
And it was perhaps for this reason that although much of the monastery had been rebuilt and made into a hotel, the main church remained in ruins. The descendants of the local villagers had never forgotten the high price that their parents had paid for something that nature provides freely.
"Which statue is that? The only one with its head?" I asked him.
"Saint Teresa of Avila," he answered. "She is powerful. And even with the thirst for vengeance that the wars brought about, no one dared to touch her."
He took my hand, and we left the church. We walked along the broad corridors of the monastery, climbed the wooden staircases, and marveled at the butterflies in the inner gardens. I recalled every detail of that monastery because I had been there as a girl, and the old memories seemed more vivid than what I was seeing now.
Memories. The months and years leading up to that week seemed to be part of some other incarnation of minean era to which I never wanted to return, because it hadn't been touched by the hand of love. I felt as if I had lived the same day over and over for years on end, waking up every morning in the same way, repeating the same words, and dreaming the same dreams.
I remembered my parents, my grandparents, and many of my old friends. I recalled how much time I had spent fighting for something I didn't even want.
Why had I done that? I could think of no explanation. Maybe because I had been too lazy to think of other avenues to follow. Maybe because I had been afraid of what others would think. Maybe because it was hard work to be different. Perhaps because a human being is condemned to repeat the steps taken by the previous generation until—and I was thinking of the padre—a certain number of people begin to behave in a different fashion.
Then the world changes, and we change with it.
But I didn't want to be that way anymore. Fate had returned to me what had been mine and now offered me the chance to change myself and the world.
I thought again of the mountain climbers we had met as we traveled. They were young and wore brightly colored clothing so as to be easily spotted should they become lost in the snow. They knew the right path to follow to the peaks.
The heights were already festooned with aluminum pins; all they had to do was attach their lines to them, and they could climb safely. They were there for a holiday adventure, and on Monday they would return to their jobs with the feeling that they had challenged nature—and won.
But this wasn't really true. The adventurous ones were those who had climbed there first, the ones who had found the routes to the top. Some, who had fallen to their death on the rocks, had never even made it halfway up. Others had lost fingers and toes to frostbite. Many were never seen again. But one day, some of them had made it to the summit.
And their eyes were the first to take in that view, and their hearts beat with joy. They had accepted the risks and could now honor—with their conquest—all of those who had died trying.
There were probably some people down below who thought, "There's nothing up there. Just a view. What's so great about that?"
But the first climber knew what was great about it: the acceptance of the challenge of going forward. He knew that no single day is the same as any other and that each morning brings its
own special miracle, its magic moment in which ancient universes are destroyed and new stars are created.
The first one who climbed those mountains must have asked, looking down at the tiny houses with their smoking chimneys, "All of their days must seem the same. What's so great about that?"
Now all the mountains had been conquered and astronauts had walked in space. There were no more islands on earth—no matter how small—left to be discovered. But there were still great adventures of the spirit, and one of them was being offered to me now.
It was a blessing. The padre didn't understand anything. These pains are not the kind that hurt.
Fortunate are those who take the first steps. Someday people will realize that men and women are capable of speaking the language of the angels—that all of us are possessed of the gifts of the Holy Spirit and that we can perform miracles, cure, prophesy, and understand.
We spent the afternoon walking along the canyon, reminiscing about our childhood. It was the first time he had done so; during our trip to Bilbao, he had seemed to have lost all interest in Soria.
Now, though, he asked me about each of our mutual friends, wanting to know whether they were happy and what they were doing with their lives.
Finally, we arrived at the largest waterfall of the Piedra, where a number of small, scattered streams come together and the water is thrown to the rocks below from a height of almost one hundred feet. We stood at the edge of the waterfall, listening to its deafening roar and gazing at the rainbow in its mist.
"The Horse's Tail," I said, surprised that I still remembered this name from so long ago.
"I remember…" he began.
"Yes! I know what you're going to say!"
Of course I knew! The waterfall concealed a gigantic grotto. When we were children, returning from our first visit to the monastery at Piedra, we had talked about that place for days.
"The cavern," he said. "Let's go there."
It was impossible to pass through the torrent of water. But ancient monks had constructed a tunnel that started at the highest point of the falls and descended through the earth to a place at the rear of the grotto.
It wasn't difficult to find the entrance. During the summer, there may even have been lights showing the way, but now the tunnel was completely dark.
"Is this the right way?" I asked.
"Yes. Trust me."
We began to descend through the hole at the side of the falls. Although we were in complete darkness, we knew where we were goingand he asked me again to trust him.
Thank you, Lord, I was thinking, as we went deeper and deeper into the earth, because I was a lost sheep, and you brought me back. Because my life was dead, and you revived it. Because lave wasn't alive in my heart, and you gave me back that gift.
I held on to his shoulder. My loved one guided my steps through the darkness, knowing that we would see the light again and that it would bring us joy. Perhaps in our future there would be moments when the situation was reversed—when I would guide him with the same love and certainty until we reached a safe place and could rest together.
We walked slowly, and it seemed as if we would never stop descending. Maybe this was another rite of passage, marking the end of an era in which there had been no light in my life. As I walked through the tunnel, I was remembering how much time I had wasted in one place, trying to put down roots in soil where nothing could grow any longer.
But God was good and had given me back my lost enthusiasm, directing me toward the adventures I had always dreamed about. And toward the man who—without my knowing it—had waited for me all my life. I felt no remorse over the fact that he was leaving the seminary—there were many ways to serve God, as the padre had said, and our love only multiplied the number of them. Starting now, I would also have the chance to serve and help—all because of him.
We would go out into the world, bringing comfort to others and to each other.
Thank you, Lord, for helping me to serve. Teach me to he worthy of that. Give me the strength to he a part of his mission, to walk with him on this earth, and to develop my spiritual life anew. May all our days he as these have been—going from place to place, curing the sick, comforting those in sorrow, speaking of the Great Mother's love for all of us.
Suddenly, the sound of water could be heard again and light flooded our path. The dark tunnel was transformed into one of the most beautiful spectacles on earth. We were in an immense cavern, the size of a cathedral. Three of its walls were of stone, and the fourth was the Horses Tail, with its water falling into the emerald-green lake at our feet.
The rays of the setting sun passed through the waterfall, and the moist walls glittered.
We leaned back against the stone wall, saying nothing.
When we were children, this place was a pirates' hide-out, where the treasures of our childhood imagination were kept. Now, it was the miracle of Mother Earth; I knew she was there and felt myself to be in her womb. She was protecting us with her walls of stone and washing away our sins with her purifying water.
"Thank you," I said in a loud voice.
"Whom are you thanking?"
"Her. And you, because you were an instrument in restoring my faith."
He walked to the edge of the water. Looking out, he smiled. "Come over here," he said.
I joined him.
"I want to tell you something you don't know about yet," he said.
His words worried me a little. But he looked calm and happy, and that reassured me.
"Every person on earth has a gift," he began. "In some, the gift manifests itself spontaneously; others have to work to discover what it is. I worked with my gift during the four years I was at the seminary."
Now I would have to "play a role," as he had taught me when the old man had barred us from the church. I would have to feign that I knew nothing. There's nothing wrong with doing this, I told myself. This is a not a script based on frustration but on happiness.
"What did you do at the seminary?" I asked, trying to stall for time in order to play my role better.
"That doesn't matter," he said. "The fact is that I developed a gift. I am able to cure, when God so wills it."
"That's wonderful," I answered, acting surprised. "We won't have to spend money on doctors!"
He didn't laugh. I felt like an idiot.
"I developed my gift through the Charismatic practices that you saw," he went on. "In the beginning, I was surprised. I would pray, asking that the Holy Spirit appear, and then, through the laying on of my hands, I would restore many of the sick to good health. My reputation began to spread, and every day people lined up at the gates of the seminary, seeking my help. In every infected, smelly laceration, I saw the wounds of Jesus."
"I'm so proud of you," I said.
"Many of the people at the monastery opposed me, but my superior gave me his complete support."
"We'll continue this work. We'll go out together into the world. I will clean and bathe the wounds, and you will bless them, and God will demonstrate His miracles."
He looked away from me, out at the lake. There seemed to be a presence in the cavern similar to the one I had sensed that night in Saint-Savin when we had gotten drunk at the well in the plaza.
"I've already told you this, but I'll say it again," he continued. "One night I awoke, and my room was completely bright. I saw the face of the Great Mother; I saw Her loving look. After that, She began to appear to me from time to time. I cannot make it happen, but every once in a while, She appears.
"By the time of my first vision, I was already aware of the work being done by the true revolutionaries of the church. I knew that my mission on earth, in addition to curing, was to smooth the way for this new acceptance as a woman. The feminine principle, the column of Misericordia, would be rebuilt—and the temple of wisdom would be reconstructed in the hearts of all people."
I was staring at him. His face, which had grown tense, now relaxed again.
"This carried a
price—which I was willing to pay."
He stopped, as if not knowing how to go on with his story.
"What do you mean when you say you were willing?" I asked.
"The path of the Goddess can only be opened through words and miracles. But that's not the way the world works. It's going to be very hard—tears, lack of understanding, suffering."
That padre, I thought to myself. He tried to put fear in bis heart. But I shall be bis comfort.
"The path isn't about pain; it's about the glory of serving," I answered.
"Most human beings still cannot trust love."
I felt that he was trying to tell me something but couldn't. I wanted to help him.
"I've been thinking about that," I broke in. "The first man who climbed the highest peak in the Pyrenees must have felt that a life without that kind of adventure would lack grace."
"What do you mean when you use the word grace?" he asked me, and I could see that he was feeling tense again. "One of the names of the Great Mother is Our Lady of the Graces. Her generous hands heap Her blessings on those who know how to receive them. We can never judge the lives of others, because each person knows only their own pain and renunciation. It's one thing to feel that you are on the right path, but it's another to think that yours is the only path.
"Jesus said, 'The house of my Father has many mansions.' A gift is a grace, or a mercy. But it is also a mercy to know how to live a life of dignity, love, and work. Mary had a husband on earth who tried to demonstrate the value of anonymous work. Although he was not heard from very much, he was the one who provided the roof over their heads and the food for their mouths, who allowed his wife and son to do all that they did. His work was as important as theirs, even though no one ever gave him much credit."
I didn't say anything, and he took my hand. "Forgive me for my intolerance."
I kissed his hand and put it to my cheek.
