by Paulo Coelho
“We both love what we do, but whereas all I need is a laptop, my wife is a painter, and painters need vast studios in which to produce and store their paintings. I didn’t want her to give up her vocation for my sake, and so I suggested renting a studio. Meanwhile, though, she had looked around her at the mountains, valleys, rivers, lakes, and forests, and thought, Why don’t I store my paintings here? Why don’t I let nature work with me?”
Hilal’s eyes are fixed on the river.
“That was where she got the idea of ‘storing’ pictures in the open air. I would take my laptop and do my writing, while she knelt on the grass and painted. A year later, when we went back for the first canvases, the results were quite extraordinary and totally original. The first painting we ‘unearthed’ was the one of the rose. Nowadays, even though we have a house in the Pyrenees, she continues to inter and disinter her paintings wherever she happens to be. Something that was born out of necessity has become her main creative method. When I look at this river, I remember that rose and feel an almost palpable, physical love for her, as if she were here.”
The wind isn’t blowing quite as hard now, and the sun warms us a little. The light surrounding us could not be more perfect.
“I understand and respect what you’re saying,” she says. “But in the restaurant, when you were talking about the past, you said something about love being stronger than the individual.”
“Yes, but love is made up of choices.”
“In Novosibirsk, you made me forgive you, and I did. Now I’m asking you for a favor: tell me that you love me.”
I take her hand. We are both gazing at the river.
“Silence is also an answer,” she says.
I put my arms around her, so that her head is resting on my shoulder.
“I love you,” I tell her. “I love you because all the loves in the world are like different rivers flowing into the same lake, where they meet and are transformed into a single love that becomes rain and blesses the earth.
“I love you like a river that creates the right conditions for trees and bushes and flowers to flourish along its banks. I love you like a river that gives water to the thirsty and takes people where they want to go.
“I love you like a river that understands that it must learn to flow differently over waterfalls and to rest in the shallows. I love you because we are all born in the same place, at the same source, which keeps us provided with a constant supply of water. And so, when we feel weak, all we have to do is wait a little. The spring returns, and the winter snows melt and fill us with new energy.
“I love you like a river that begins as a solitary trickle in the mountains and gradually grows and joins other rivers until, after a certain point, it can flow around any obstacle in order to get where it wants.
“I receive your love, and I give you mine. Not the love of a man for a woman, not the love of a father for a child, not the love of God for his creatures, but a love with no name and no explanation, like a river that cannot explain why it follows a particular course but simply flows onward. A love that asks for nothing and gives nothing in return; it is simply there. I will never be yours, and you will never be mine; nevertheless, I can honestly say: I love you, I love you, I love you.”
Maybe it’s the afternoon, maybe it’s the light, but at that moment, the Universe seems finally to be in perfect harmony. We stay where we are, feeling not the slightest desire to go back to the hotel, where Yao will doubtless be waiting for me.
The Eagle of Baikal
ANY MOMENT NOW, it will be dark. There are six of us standing near a small boat moored at the lakeshore: Hilal, Yao, the shaman, I, and two older women. They are all speaking in Russian. The shaman is shaking his head. Yao appears to be arguing with him, but the shaman turns away and walks over to the boat.
Now Yao and Hilal are arguing. He seems concerned, but I think he’s rather enjoying the situation. We have been practicing the Path of Peace together, and I can interpret his body language now. He is pretending an irritation that he doesn’t actually feel.
“What are you talking about?” I ask.
“Apparently, I can’t go with you,” Hilal says. “I have to stay with these two women whom I’ve never seen in my life and spend the whole night here in the cold, because there’s no one to take me back to the hotel.”
“You will experience with them whatever we experience on the island,” Yao explains. “But we cannot break with tradition. I warned you before, but he insisted on bringing you. We have to leave now, because we cannot miss the moment, or what you call the Aleph, what I call qi, and for which the shamans doubtless have their own word. It won’t take long. We’ll be back in a couple of hours.”
“Come on,” I say, taking Yao by the arm but first turning to Hilal with a smile.
“You wouldn’t have wanted to stay at the hotel, knowing that you might miss out on some new experience. I don’t know whether it will be good or bad, but it’s better than having supper alone.”
“And you, I suppose, think that fine words of love are enough to feed a heart? I know you love your wife, and I understand that, but couldn’t you at least give me some reward for all the Universes I’m placing at your door?”
I turn away. Another idiotic conversation.
THE SHAMAN STARTS THE ENGINE and takes the rudder. We are heading for what looks like a rock about two hundred meters from the shore. I reckon it will take us only a few minutes to get there.
“Now that there’s no turning back, why were you so insistent that I should meet this shaman? It’s the only favor you’ve asked of me on the entire trip, even though you’ve given me so much. I don’t just mean the aikido practice. You’ve helped keep harmony on the train, you’ve translated my words as if they were yours, and yesterday you demonstrated the importance of going into battle simply out of respect for your opponent.”
Yao shakes his head and looks rather uncomfortable, as if he is entirely responsible for the safety of the little boat.
“I just thought, given your interests, that you’d like to meet him.”
This is not a good reply. If I had wanted to meet the shaman, I would have asked. Finally, he looks at me and nods.
“I asked you because I made a promise to come back on my next trip here. I could have come on my own, but I signed a contract with your publishers guaranteeing that I would always be by your side. They wouldn’t like it if I left you alone.”
“I don’t always need people around me, and my publishers wouldn’t have been bothered if you had left me in Irkutsk.”
Night is falling faster than I’d expected. Yao changes the subject.
“The man steering the boat has the ability to speak to my wife. I know he’s not lying, because there are certain things no one else could possibly know. More than that, he saved my daughter. He did what no doctor in the finest hospitals of Moscow, Beijing, Shanghai, or London could do. And he asked for nothing in return, only that I come to see him again. It’s just that this time I’m with you. Maybe I’ll finally learn to understand the things that my brain refuses to accept.”
We are getting closer to the rock now. We should be there in less than a minute.
“That is a good answer. Thank you for trusting me. I am in one of the most beautiful places in the world on an exquisite evening, listening to the waves lapping against the boat. Going to meet this man is just one of the many blessings I have received on this trip.”
Except for the day when he spoke to me of his grief at losing his wife, Yao has never shown any emotion. Now he takes my hand and presses it to his chest. The boat runs ashore on a narrow strip of pebbles, which serves as an anchor.
“Thank you. Thank you very much.”
WE CLIMB UP TO THE TOP of the rock in time to catch a last glimpse of red sky on the horizon. There is nothing but scrub around us, and to the east stand three or four bare trees that have not yet put out their leaves. On one of them are the remains of offerings and the carcass of an animal
hanging from a branch. I feel great respect for the old shaman’s wisdom, but he won’t show me anything new, because I have already walked many paths and know that they all lead to the same place. Nevertheless, I can see that he is serious in his intentions, and while he prepares the ritual, I try to remember all I have learned about the role of the shaman in the history of civilization.
IN ANCIENT TIMES, there were always two dominant figures in a tribe. The first was the leader. He would be the bravest member of the tribe, strong enough to defeat any challengers and intelligent enough to foil any conspiracies—power struggles are nothing new; they have been with us since the dawn of time. Once he was established in his position, he became responsible for the protection and well-being of his people in the physical world. With time, what had been a matter of natural selection became subject to corruption, and leadership began to be passed down from father to son, giving way to the principle of perpetuation of power from which emperors, kings, and dictators spring.
More important than the leader, however, was the shaman. Even at the very dawn of humanity, men were already aware of some greater power capable of both giving life and taking it away, although where exactly that power came from they didn’t know. Along with the birth of love came a need to find an answer to the mystery of existence. The first shamans were women, the source of life. Since they did not have to go hunting or fishing, they could devote themselves to contemplation and immerse themselves in the sacred mysteries. The Tradition was always passed on to those who were most able, who lived alone in isolation, and who were usually virgins. They worked on a different plane, balancing the forces of the spiritual world with those of the physical world.
The process was nearly always the same: the shaman used music (usually percussion) to go into a trance, and then would drink and administer potions made from natural substances. Her soul would leave her body and enter the parallel universe. There it would meet with the spirits of plants, animals, the dead, and the living, all existing in a single time that Yao calls qi and I call the Aleph. There, too, she would encounter her guides and be able to balance energies, cure illnesses, bring rain, restore peace, decipher the symbols and signs sent by nature, and punish any individual who was getting in the way of the tribe’s contact with the All. At that time, when tribes had to keep traveling in their constant search for food, it was impossible to build temples or altars. There was only the All, in whose womb the tribe journeyed ever onward.
Like the role of leader, that of shaman also became corrupted. Since the health and protection of the group depended on being in harmony with the forest, the countryside, and nature, the women responsible for that spiritual contact—the soul of the tribe—were invested with great authority, often more even than the leader. At some undefined moment in history (probably after the discovery of agriculture, which brought an end to nomadism), the female gift was usurped by men. Force won out over harmony. The natural qualities of those women were ignored; what mattered was their power.
The next step was to organize shamanism—now entirely male—into a social structure. The first religions came into being. Society had changed and was no longer nomadic, but respect for and fear of the leader and the shaman were rooted in the human soul and would remain so forever. Aware of this, the priests joined ranks with the tribal leaders in order to keep the people in submission. Anyone who defied the governors would be threatened with punishment by the gods. Then came a time when women started demanding the return of their role as shamans, because without them the world was heading for conflict. Whenever they put themselves forward, however, they were treated as heretics and prostitutes. If the system felt threatened by them, it did not hesitate to punish them with burnings, stonings, and, in milder instances, exile. Female religions were erased from the history of civilization; we know only that the most ancient magical objects so far uncovered by archaeologists are images of goddesses. They, however, were lost in the sands of time, just as magical powers, when used only for earthly ends, became diluted and lost their potency. All that remained was the fear of divine punishment.
BEFORE ME NOW STANDS A MAN, not a woman, although the women who stayed behind on the lakeshore with Hilal doubtless have the same powers. I don’t question his presence here, for both sexes possess the gift that will allow them to enter into contact with the unknown, as long as they are open to their “feminine side.” What lies behind my lack of enthusiasm for this meeting is knowing just how far humanity has drifted from its origins and contact with the Dream of God.
The shaman is lighting a fire in a hollow he dug to protect the flames from the wind that continues to blow. He places a kind of drum next to the fire and opens a bottle containing some unfamiliar liquid. The shaman in Siberia—where the term originated—is following the same rituals as pajé in the Amazonian jungle, as hechiceros in Mexico, as Candomblé priests from Africa, spiritualists in France, curanderos in indigenous American tribes, aborigines in Australia, charismatics in the Catholic Church, Mormons in Utah, et cetera.
That is what is so surprising about these traditions, which seem to live in eternal conflict with one another. They meet on the same spiritual plane and are to be found all over the world, even though they have nothing to do with one another on the physical plane. That is the Great Mother saying, “Sometimes my children have eyes but cannot see, ears but cannot hear. I will therefore demand that some should not be deaf and blind to me. They may have to pay a high price, but they will be responsible for keeping the Tradition alive, and one day my blessings will return to the Earth.”
The shaman begins to beat on the drum, gradually getting faster and faster. He says something to Yao, who immediately translates: “He didn’t use the word ‘qi,’ but he says the qi will come on the wind.”
The wind is getting stronger. Even though I am well wrapped up—special anorak, thick woolen gloves, and a scarf up to my eyes—it’s not enough. My nose appears to have lost all feeling; small ice crystals gather on my eyebrows and beard. Yao is kneeling, his legs folded neatly beneath him. I try to do the same but have to keep changing position because I’m wearing ordinary trousers and the chill wind penetrates them, numbing my muscles and causing painful cramps.
The flames dance wildly about but do not go out. The drumming grows more furious. The shaman is trying to make his heart keep time with the beating of his hand on the leather skin, the bottom part of the drum being left open to let in the spirits. In the Afro-Brazilian tradition, this is the moment when the medium or priest lets his soul leave his body, allowing another, more experienced being to occupy it. The only difference is that in my country there is no precise moment for what Yao calls qi to manifest itself.
I cease being a mere observer and decide to join in the trance. I try to make my heart keep time with the beats. I close my eyes and empty my mind, but the cold and the wind won’t allow me to go further than that. I need to change position again; I open my eyes and notice that the shaman is holding a few feathers in one hand—possibly from some rare local bird. According to traditions throughout the world, birds are the messengers of the gods. They help the shaman rise up and speak with the spirits.
Yao has his eyes open, too; only the shaman will enter that ecstatic state. The wind increases in intensity. I am feeling colder and colder, but the shaman appears to be utterly impervious. The ritual continues. He opens the bottle containing the greenish liquid, takes a drink, and hands the bottle to Yao, who also drinks before handing it to me. Out of respect, I follow suit and take a mouthful of the sugary, slightly alcoholic mixture, then return the bottle to the shaman.
The drumming continues, interrupted only when the shaman pauses to trace a shape on the ground, symbols I have never seen before and which resemble some long-since-vanished form of writing. Strange noises emerge from his throat, like the greatly amplified cries of birds. The drumming is getting louder and faster all the time; the cold doesn’t seem to bother me much now, and suddenly, the wind stops.
I n
eed no explanations. What Yao calls qi is here. The three of us look at one another, and a kind of calm descends. The person before me is not the same man who steered the boat or who asked Hilal to stay behind on the shore; his features have changed, and he looks younger, more feminine.
He and Yao talk in Russian for a while—how long, I can’t say. The horizon brightens. The moon is rising. I accompany it on its new journey across the sky, its silvery rays reflected in the waters of the lake, which, from one moment to the next, have grown utterly still. To my left, the lights of the village come on. I feel completely serene, trying to take in as much of this moment as I can, because I had not expected this; it was simply lying in my path, along with many other moments. If only the unexpected always wore this pretty, peaceful face.
Finally, through Yao, the shaman asks me why I am here.
“To be with my friend, who had made a promise to return here. To honor your art. And to share with you in the contemplation of the mystery.”
“The man beside you does not believe in anything,” says the shaman through Yao. “He has come here several times in order to speak to his wife, and yet he still does not believe. Poor woman! Instead of walking with God while she awaits her time to return to Earth, she has to keep coming back to console this poor unfortunate. She leaves the warmth of the divine Sun for this wretched Siberian cold because love will not let her go!”
The shaman laughs.
“Why don’t you tell him?” I ask.
“I have, but he, like most people I know, won’t accept what he considers to be a loss.”
“Pure selfishness.”
“Yes, pure selfishness. People like him would like time to stop or go backward, and by doing so, they prevent the souls of their loved ones from moving on.”
