by Paulo Coelho
During her sermon, Athena spoke as if possessed by someone else.
“We all have a duty to love and to allow love to manifest itself in the way it thinks best. We cannot and must not be frightened when the powers of darkness want to make themselves heard, those same powers that introduced the word sin merely to control our hearts and minds. Jesus Christ, whom we all know, turned to the woman taken in adultery and said: ‘Has no man condemned thee? Neither do I condemn thee.’ He healed people on the Sabbath, he allowed a prostitute to wash his feet, he promised a thief that he would enjoy the delights of Paradise, he ate forbidden foods, and he said that we should concern ourselves only with today, because the lilies in the field toil not, neither do they spin, but are arrayed in glory.
“What is sin? It is a sin to prevent Love from showing itself. And the Mother is Love. We are entering a new world in which we can choose to follow our own steps, not those that society forces us to take. If necessary, we will confront the forces of darkness again, as we did last week. But no one will silence our voice or our heart.”
I was witnessing the transformation of a woman into an icon. She spoke with great conviction, with dignity and with faith in what she was saying. I hoped that things really were like that, that we truly were entering a new world, and that I would live to see it.
She left the warehouse to as much acclaim as she had entered it, and when she saw me in the crowd, she called me over and said that she’d missed me. She was happy and confident, sure that she was doing the right thing.
This was the positive side of the newspaper article, and things might have ended there. I wanted my analysis of events to be wrong, but three days later, my prediction was confirmed. The negative side emerged in full force.
Employing the services of one of the most highly regarded and conservative law practices in Britain, whose senior partners—unlike Athena—really did have contacts in all spheres of the government, and basing his case on published statements made by Athena, the Reverend Buck called a news conference to say that he was suing for defamation, calumny, and moral damages.
The deputy editor called me in. He knew I was friendly with the central figure in that scandal and suggested that we publish an exclusive interview. My first reaction was of disgust: How could I use my friendship to sell newspapers?
However, after we had talked further, I started to think that it might be a good idea. She would have the chance to present her side of the story; indeed, she could use the interview to promote all the things for which she was now openly fighting. I left the deputy editor’s office with the plan we had drawn up together: a series of articles on new trends in society and on radical changes that were taking place in the search for religious belief. In one of those articles, I would publish Athena’s point of view.
That same afternoon, I went to her house, taking advantage of the fact that the invitation had come from her when we met outside the warehouse. The neighbors told me that, the day before, court officials had attempted to serve a summons on her but failed.
I phoned later on, without success. I tried again as night was falling, but no one answered. From then on, I phoned every half an hour, growing more anxious with each call. Ever since Hagia Sofia had cured my insomnia, tiredness drove me to bed at eleven o’clock, but this time anxiety kept me awake.
I found her mother’s number in the phone book, but it was late, and if Athena wasn’t there, then I would only cause the whole family to worry. What to do? I turned on the TV to see if anything had happened—nothing special, London continued as before, with its marvels and its perils.
I decided to try one last time. The phone rang three times, and someone answered. I recognized Andrea’s voice at once.
“What do you want?” she asked.
“Athena asked me to get in touch. Is everything all right?”
“Everything’s all right and not all right, depending on your way of looking at things. But I think you might be able to help.”
“Where is she?”
She hung up without saying any more.
DEIDRE O’NEILL, KNOWN AS EDDA
Athena stayed in a hotel near my house. News from London regarding local events, especially minor conflicts in the suburbs, never reaches Scotland. We’re not much interested in how the English sort out their little problems. We have our own flag, our own football team, and soon we will have our own parliament.
I let Athena rest for a whole day. The following morning, instead of going into the little temple and performing the rituals I know, I decided to take her and her son to a wood near Edinburgh. There, while the boy played and ran about among the trees, she told me in detail what was going on.
When she’d finished, I said, “It’s daylight, the sky is cloudy, and human beings believe that beyond the clouds lives an all-powerful God, guiding the fate of men. Meanwhile, look at your son, look at your feet, listen to the sounds around you: down here is the Mother, so much closer, bringing joy to children and energy to those who walk over her body. Why do people prefer to believe in something far away and forget what is there before their eyes, a true manifestation of the miracle?”
“I know the answer. Because up there someone is guiding us and giving his orders, hidden behind the clouds, unquestionable in his wisdom. Down here we have physical contact with a magical reality, and the freedom to choose where our steps will go.”
“Exactly. But do you think that is what people want? Do they want the freedom to choose their own steps?”
“Yes, I think they do. The earth I’m standing on now has laid out many strange paths for me, from a village in Transylvania to a city in the Middle East, from there to another city on an island, and then to the desert and back to Transylvania. From a suburban bank to a real estate company in the Persian Gulf. From a dance group to a bedouin. And whenever my feet drove me onward, I said yes instead of saying no.”
“What did you gain from all that?”
“Today I can see people’s auras. I can awaken the Mother in my soul. My life now has meaning, and I know what I’m fighting for. But why do you ask? You too gained the most important power of all—the gift of healing. Andrea can now prophesy and converse with spirits. I’ve followed her spiritual development every step of the way.”
“What else have you gained?”
“The joy of being alive. I know that I’m here, and that everything is a miracle, a revelation.”
The little boy fell over and grazed his knee. Instinctively, Athena ran to him, wiped the wound clean, told him not to worry, and the boy continued running about in the forest. I used that as a signal.
“What just happened to your little boy, happened to me. And it’s happening to you too, isn’t it?”
“Yes, but I don’t think I stumbled and fell. I think I’m being tested again, and that my next step will be revealed to me.”
At such moments, a teacher must say nothing, only bless the disciple. Because however much the teacher may want to save her disciple from suffering, the paths are mapped out and the disciple’s feet are eager to follow them. I suggested we go back to the wood that night, just the two of us. She asked where she could leave her son, and I said that I would take care of that. I had a neighbor who owed me a favor and who would be delighted to look after Viorel.
As evening fell, we returned to that same place, and on the way, we spoke of things that had nothing to do with the ritual we were about to perform. Athena had seen me using a new kind of depilatory wax and was intrigued to know what advantages it had over the old methods. We talked animatedly about vanity, fashion, the cheapest places to buy clothes, female behavior, feminism, hairstyles. At one point she said something along the lines of: “But if the soul is ageless, I don’t know why we should be so worried about all this,” then realized that it was all right just to relax and talk about superficial subjects. More than that, such conversations were really fun, and how we look is something that’s still very important in women’s lives (it is in men’s lives
too, but in a different way, and they’re not as open about it as we are).
As we approached the place I’d chosen—or, rather, which the wood was choosing for me—I started to feel the presence of the Mother. In my case, this presence manifests itself in a certain, mysterious inner joy that always touches me and almost moves me to tears. It was the moment to stop and change the subject.
“Collect some wood for kindling,” I said.
“But it’s dark.”
“There’s enough light from the full moon even if it’s obscured by clouds. Train your eyes: they were made to see more than you think.”
She began doing as I asked, occasionally cursing because she’d scratched herself on a thorn. Almost half an hour passed, and during that time, we didn’t talk. I felt the excitement of knowing that the Mother was close by, the euphoria of being there with that woman who still seemed little more than a child and who trusted me and was keeping me company in the search that sometimes seemed too mad for the human mind.
Athena was still at the stage of answering questions, just as she’d responded to mine that afternoon. I had been like that once, until I allowed myself to be transported completely into the kingdom of mystery, where it was simply a matter of contemplating, celebrating, worshiping, praising, and allowing the gift to manifest itself.
I was watching Athena collecting firewood and I saw the girl I once was, in search of veiled secrets and secret powers. Life had taught me something completely different: the powers were not secret and the secrets had been revealed a long time ago. When I saw that she had gathered enough firewood, I indicated that she should stop.
I myself looked for some larger branches and put them on top of the kindling. So it was in life. In order for the more substantial pieces of wood to catch fire, the kindling must burn first. In order for us to liberate the energy of our strength, our weakness must first have a chance to reveal itself.
In order for us to understand the powers we carry within us and the secrets that have already been revealed, it was first necessary to allow the surface—expectations, fears, appearances—to be burned away. We were entering the peace now settling upon the forest, with the gentle wind, the moonlight behind the clouds, the noises of the animals that sally forth at night to hunt, thus fulfilling the cycle of birth and death of the Mother, and without ever being criticized for following their instincts and their nature.
I lit the fire.
Neither of us felt like saying anything. For what seemed like an eternity, we merely contemplated the dance of the fire, knowing that hundreds of thousands of people, all over the world, would also be sitting by their fireside, regardless of whether they had modern heating systems in their house or not; they did this because they were sitting before a symbol.
It took a great effort to emerge from that trance, which, although it meant nothing specific to me, and did not make me see gods, auras, or ghosts, nonetheless left me in the state of grace I needed to be in. I focused once more on the present, on the young woman by my side, on the ritual I needed to perform.
“How is your student?” I asked.
“Difficult, but if she wasn’t, I might not learn what I need to learn.”
“And what powers is she developing?”
“She speaks with beings in the parallel world.”
“As you converse with Hagia Sofia?”
“No, as you well know, Hagia Sofia is the Mother manifesting herself in me. She speaks with invisible beings.”
I knew this, but I wanted to be sure. Athena was more silent than usual. I don’t know if she had discussed the events in London with Andrea, but that didn’t matter. I got up, opened the bag I had with me, took out a handful of specially chosen herbs, and threw them into the flames.
“The wood has started to speak,” said Athena, as if this were something perfectly normal, and that was good, it meant that miracles were now becoming part of her life.
“What is it saying?”
“Nothing at the moment, only noises.”
Minutes later, she heard a song coming from the fire.
“Oh, it’s wonderful!”
There spoke the little girl, not the wife or mother.
“Stay just as you are. Don’t try to concentrate or follow my steps or understand what I’m saying. Relax and feel good. That is sometimes all we can hope for from life.”
I knelt down, picked up a red-hot piece of wood, and drew a circle around her, leaving a small opening through which I could enter. I could hear the same music as Athena, and I danced around her, invoking the union of the male fire with the earth, which received it now with arms and legs spread wide, the fire that purified everything, transforming into energy the strength contained in the firewood, in those branches, in those beings, both human and invisible. I danced for as long as the melody from the fire lasted, and I made protective gestures to the child who was sitting, smiling, inside the circle.
When the flames had burned down, I took a little ash and sprinkled it on Athena’s head. Then with my feet I erased the circle I’d drawn around her.
“Thank you,” she said. “I felt very loved, wanted, protected.”
“In difficult moments, remember that feeling.”
“Now that I’ve found my path, there will be no more difficult moments. After all, I have a mission to fulfill, don’t I?”
“Yes, we all have a mission to fulfill.”
She started to feel uncertain.
“And what about the difficult moments?” she asked.
“That isn’t an intelligent thing to ask. Remember what you said just now: you are loved, wanted, protected.”
“I’ll do my best.”
Her eyes filled with tears. Athena had understood my answer.
SAMIRA R. KHALIL, HOUSEWIFE
My own grandson! What has my grandson got to do with all this? What kind of world are we living in? Are we still in the Middle Ages, engaging in witch hunts?
I ran to him. He had a bloody nose, but he didn’t seem to care about my distress and pushed me away.
“I know how to defend myself, and I did.”
I may never have produced a child in my own womb, but I know the hearts of children. I was far more worried about Athena than I was about Viorel. This was just one of many fights he would have to face in his life, and there was a flicker of pride in his swollen eyes.
“Some children at school said that Mum was a devil worshiper!”
Sherine arrived shortly afterward, soon enough to see the boy’s bloodied face and to kick up a fuss. She wanted to go straight to the school and talk to the head teacher, but first I put my arms around her. I let her cry out all her tears and all her frustrations, and the best thing I could do then was to keep silent and try to convey my love for her through that silence.
When she had calmed down a little, I explained carefully that she could come back home and live with us, that we would take care of everything. When her father read about the case being brought against her, he had immediately spoken to some lawyers. We would do everything we could to get her out of this situation regardless of comments from the neighbors, ironic looks from acquaintances, and the false solidarity of friends.
Nothing in the world was more important than my daughter’s happiness, even though I’d never understood why she always had to choose the most difficult and painful of paths. But a mother doesn’t have to understand anything, she simply has to love and protect. And feel proud. Knowing that we could give her almost everything, she nevertheless set off early in search of her independence. She’d had her stumbles and her failures, but she insisted on facing any storms alone. She went looking for her mother, aware of the risks she was running, and in the end, that encounter brought her closer to us. I knew she had never once heeded my advice—get a degree, get married, put up with the problems of living with someone without complaint, don’t try to go beyond the limits set by society. And what had been the result?
By following my daughter’s story, I became a
better person. Obviously I didn’t understand about the Mother Goddess or Athena’s need always to surround herself with strangers, or her inability to be content with all that she’d achieved after so much work. But deep down, even though it may be rather late in the day for such ideas, I wish I could have been like her.
I was about to get up and prepare something to eat, but she stopped me.
“I want to stay here for a while with your arms around me. That’s all I need. Viorel, go and watch TV. I want to talk to your grandmother.”
The boy obeyed.
“I must have caused you a lot of suffering.”
“Not at all. On the contrary, you and your son are the source of all our joy and our reason for living.”
“But I haven’t exactly—”
“I’m glad it’s been the way it has. I can say it now: there were moments when I hated you, when I bitterly regretted not having followed the advice of that nurse and adopted another baby. Then I’d ask myself: How can a mother hate her own daughter? I took tranquillizers, played bridge with my friends, went on shopping sprees, and all to make up for the love I’d given you and which I felt I wasn’t getting back.
“A few months ago, when you decided to give up yet another job that was bringing you both money and prestige, I was in despair. I went to the local church. I wanted to make a promise to the Virgin and beg her to bring you back to reality, to force you to change your life and make the most of the chances you were throwing away. I was ready to do anything in exchange for that.
“I stood looking at the Virgin and Child. And I said: ‘You’re a mother and you know what’s happening. Ask anything of me, but save my child, because I think she’s bent on self-destruction.’”
