by Paulo Coelho
“Let’s get down to practicalities,” said the mayor’s wife, rising to her feet. “Who should be sacrificed? And who should carry it out?”
“The person who brought the Devil here was a young woman whom we have all always helped and supported,” commented the landowner, who in the not-too-distant past had himself slept with the girl he was referring to and had ever since been tormented by the idea that she might tell his wife about it. “Evil must fight Evil, and she deserves to be punished.”
Two of the others agreed, arguing that, in addition, Miss Prym was the one person in the village who could not be trusted because she thought she was different from everyone else and was always saying that one day she would leave.
“Her mother’s dead. Her grandmother’s dead. Nobody would miss her,” the mayor agreed, thus becoming the third to approve the suggestion.
His wife, however, opposed it.
“What if she knows where the treasure is hidden? After all, she was the only one who saw it. Moreover, we can trust her precisely because of what has just been said—she was the one who brought Evil here and led a whole community into considering committing a murder. She can say what she likes, but if the rest of the village says nothing, it will be the word of one neurotic young woman against us, people who have all achieved something in life.”
The mayor was undecided, as always when his wife had expressed her opinion:
“Why do you want to save her, if you don’t even like her?”
“I understand,” the priest responded. “That way the guilt falls on the head of the one who precipitated the tragedy. She will bear that burden for the rest of her days and nights. She might even end up like Judas, who betrayed Jesus and then committed suicide, in a gesture of despair and futility, because she created all the necessary preconditions for the crime.”
The mayor’s wife was surprised by the priest’s reasoning—it was exactly what she had been thinking. The young woman was beautiful, she led men into temptation, and she refused to be contented with the typical life of an inhabitant of Viscos. She was forever bemoaning the fact that she had to stay in the village, which, for all its faults, was nevertheless made up of honest, hardworking people, a place where many people would love to spend their days (strangers, naturally, who would leave after discovering how boring it is to live constantly at peace).
“I can’t think of anyone else,” the hotel landlady said, aware of how difficult it would be to find someone else to work in the bar, but realizing that, with the gold she would receive, she could close the hotel and move far away. “The peasants and shepherds form a closed group, some are married, many have children a long way from here, who might become suspicious should anything happen to their parents. Miss Prym is the only one who could disappear without trace.”
For religious reasons—after all, Jesus cursed those who condemned an innocent person—the priest had no wish to nominate anyone. But he knew who the victim should be; he just had to ensure that the others came to the same conclusion.
“The people of Viscos work from dawn to dusk, come rain or shine. Each one has a task to fulfill, even that poor wretch of a girl whom the Devil decided to use for his own evil ends. There are only a few of us left, and we can’t afford the luxury of losing another pair of hands.”
“So, Father, we have no victim. All we can hope is that another stranger turns up tonight, yet even that would prove risky, because he would inevitably have a family who would seek him out to the ends of the earth. In Viscos everyone works hard to earn the bread brought to us by the baker’s van.”
“You’re right,” said the priest. “Perhaps everything we have been through since last night has been mere illusion. Everyone in this village has someone who would miss them, and none of us would want anything to happen to one of our own loved ones. Only three people in this village sleep alone: myself, Berta and Miss Prym.”
“Are you offering yourself up for sacrifice, Father?”
“If it’s for the good of the community.”
The other five felt greatly relieved, suddenly aware that it was a sunny Saturday, that there would be no murder, only a martyrdom. The tension in the sacristy evaporated as if by magic, and the hotel landlady felt so moved she could have kissed the feet of that saintly man.
“There’s only one thing,” the priest went on. “You would need to convince everyone that it is not a mortal sin to kill a minister of God.”
“You can explain it to Viscos yourself!” exclaimed the mayor enthusiastically, already planning the various reforms he could put in place once he had the money, the advertisements he could take out in the regional newspapers, attracting fresh investment because of the tax cuts he could make, drawing in tourists with the changes to the hotel he intended to fund, and having a new telephone line installed that would prove less problematic than the current one.
“I can’t do that,” said the priest. “Martyrs offer themselves up when the people want to kill them. They never incite their own death, for the Church has always said that life is a gift from God. You’ll have to do the explaining.”
“Nobody will believe us. They’ll consider us to be the very worst kind of murderer if we kill a holy man for money, just as Judas did to Christ.”
The priest shrugged. It felt as if the sun had once again gone in, and tension returned to the sacristy.
“Well, that only leaves Berta,” the landowner concluded.
After a lengthy pause, it was the priest’s turn to speak.
“That woman must suffer greatly with her husband gone. She’s done nothing but sit outside her house all these years, alone with the elements and her own boredom. All she does is long for the past. And I’m afraid the poor woman may slowly be going mad: I’ve often passed by that way and seen her talking to herself.”
Again a gust of wind blew through the sacristy, startling the people inside because all the windows were closed.
“She’s certainly had a very sad life,” the hotel landlady went on. “I think she would give anything to join her beloved. They were married for forty years, you know.”
They all knew that, but it was hardly relevant now.
“She’s an old woman, near the end of her life,” added the landowner. “She’s the only person in the village who does nothing of note. I once asked her why she always sat outside her house, even in winter, and do you know what she told me? She said she was watching over our village, so that she could see when Evil arrived.”
“Well, she hasn’t done very well on that score.”
“On the contrary,” said the priest, “from what I understand of your conversation, the person who let Evil enter in should also be the one who should drive it out.”
Another silence, and everyone knew that a victim had been chosen.
“There’s just one thing,” the mayor’s wife commented. “We know when the sacrifice will be offered up in the interests of the well-being of the village. We know who it will be. Thanks to this sacrifice, a good soul will go to heaven and find eternal joy, rather than remain suffering here on earth. All we need to know now is how.”
“Try to speak to all the men in the village,” the priest said to the mayor, “and call a meeting in the square for nine o’clock tonight. I think I know how. Drop by here shortly before nine, and the two of us can talk it over.”
Before they left, he asked that, while the meeting that night was in progress, the two women should go to Berta’s house and keep her talking. Although she never went out at night, it would be best not to take any risks.
Chantal arrived at the bar in time for work. No one was there.
“There’s a meeting in the square tonight at nine,” the hotel landlady said. “Just for the men.”
She didn’t need to say anything more. Chantal knew what was going on.
“Did you actually see the gold?”
“Yes, I did, but you should ask the stranger to bring it here. You never know, once he’s got what he wants, he might simply de
cide to disappear.”
“He’s not mad.”
“He is.”
The hotel landlady thought that this might indeed be a good idea. She went up to the stranger’s room and came down a few minutes later.
“He’s agreed. He says it’s hidden in the forest and that he’ll bring it here tomorrow.”
“I guess I don’t need to work today, then.”
“You certainly do. It’s in your contract.”
She didn’t know how to broach the subject she and the others had spent the afternoon discussing, but it was important to gauge the girl’s reaction.
“I’m really shocked by all this,” she said. “At the same time, I realize that people need to think twice or even ten times before they decide what they should do.”
“They could think it over twenty or two hundred times and they still wouldn’t have the courage to do anything.”
“You may be right,” the hotel landlady agreed, “but if they do decide to make a move, what would you do?”
The woman needed to know what Chantal’s reaction would be, and Chantal realized that the stranger was far closer to the truth than she was, despite her having lived in Viscos all those years. A meeting in the square! What a pity the gallows had been dismantled.
“So what would you do?” the landlady insisted.
“I won’t answer that question,” she said, even though she knew exactly what she would do. “I’ll only say that Evil never brings Good. I discovered that for myself this afternoon.”
The hotel landlady didn’t like having her authority flouted, but thought it prudent not to argue with the young woman and risk an enmity that could bring problems in the future. On the pretext that she needed to bring the accounts up to date (an absurd excuse, she thought later, since there was only one guest in the hotel), she left Miss Prym alone in the bar. She felt reassured; Miss Prym showed no signs of rebellion, even after she had mentioned the meeting in the square, which showed that something unusual was happening in Viscos. Besides, Miss Prym also had a great need for money, she had her whole life ahead of her, and would almost certainly like to follow in the footsteps of her childhood friends who had already left the village. And, even if she wasn’t willing to cooperate, at least she didn’t seem to want to interfere.
The priest dined frugally then sat down alone on one of the church pews. The mayor would be there in a few minutes.
He contemplated the whitewashed walls, the altar unadorned by any important work of art, decorated instead with cheap reproductions of paintings of the saints who—in the dim and distant past—had lived in the region. The people of Viscos had never been very religious, despite the important role St. Savin had played in resurrecting the fortunes of the place. But the people forgot this and preferred to concentrate on Ahab, on the Celts, on the peasants’ centuries-old superstitions, failing to understand that it took only a gesture, a simple gesture, to achieve redemption: that of accepting Jesus as the sole Saviour of humanity.
Only hours earlier, he had offered himself up for martyrdom. It had been a risky move, but he had been prepared to see it through and deliver himself over for sacrifice, had the others not been so frivolous and so easily manipulated.
“No, that’s not true. They may be frivolous, but they’re not that easily manipulated.” Indeed, through silence or clever words, they had made him say what they wanted to hear: the sacrifice that redeems, the victim who saves, decay transformed anew into glory. He had pretended to let himself be used by the others, but had only said what he himself believed.
He had been prepared for the priesthood from an early age, and that was his true vocation. By the time he was twenty-one, he had already been ordained a priest, and had impressed everyone with his gifts as a preacher and his skill as a parish administrator. He said prayers every evening, visited the sick and those in prison, gave food to the hungry—just as the holy scriptures commanded. His fame soon spread throughout the region and reached the ears of the bishop, a man known for his wisdom and fairness.
The bishop invited him, together with other young priests, for an evening meal. They ate and talked about various matters until, at the end, the bishop, who was getting old and had difficulties walking, got up and offered each of them some water. The priest had been the only one not to refuse, asking for his glass to be filled to the brim.
One of the other priests whispered, loud enough for the bishop to hear: “We all refused the water because we know we are not worthy to drink from the hands of this saintly man. Only one among us cannot see the sacrifice our superior is making in carrying that heavy bottle.”
When the bishop returned to his seat, he said:
“You, who think you are holy men, were not humble enough to receive and so denied me the pleasure of giving. Only this man allowed Good to be made manifest.”
He immediately appointed him to a more important parish.
The two men became friends and continued to see each other often. Whenever he had any doubts, the priest would turn to the person he called “my spiritual father,” and he usually left satisfied with the answers he got. One evening, for example, he was troubled because he could no longer tell whether or not his actions were pleasing to God. He went to see the bishop and asked what he should do.
“Abraham took in strangers, and God was happy,” came the reply. “Elijah disliked strangers, and God was happy. David was proud of what he was doing, and God was happy. The publican before the altar was ashamed of what he did, and God was happy. John the Baptist went out into the desert, and God was happy. Paul went to the great cities of the Roman Empire, and God was happy. How can one know what will please the Almighty? Do what your heart commands, and God will be happy.”
The day after this conversation, the bishop, his great spiritual mentor, died from a massive heart attack. The priest saw the bishop’s death as a sign, and began to do exactly what he had recommended; he followed the commands of his heart. Sometimes he gave alms, sometimes he told the person to go and find work. Sometimes he gave a very serious sermon, at others he sang along with his congregation. His behavior reached the ears of the new bishop, and he was summoned to see him.
He was astonished to find that the new bishop was the same person who, a few years earlier, had made the comment about the water served by his predecessor.
“I know that today you’re in charge of an important parish,” the new bishop said, an ironic look in his eye, “and that over the years you became a great friend of my predecessor, perhaps even aspiring to this position yourself.”
“No,” the priest replied, “aspiring only to wisdom.”
“Well, you must be a very wise man by now, but I’ve heard strange stories about you, that sometimes you give alms and that sometimes you refuse the aid that our Church says we should offer.”
“I have two pockets, each contains a piece of paper with writing on it, but I only put money in my left pocket,” he said in reply.
The new bishop was intrigued by the story: what did the two pieces of paper say?
“On the piece of paper in my right pocket, I wrote: I am nothing but dust and ashes. The piece of paper in my left pocket, where I keep my money, says: I am the manifestation of God on Earth. Whenever I see misery and injustice, I put my hand in my left pocket and try to help. Whenever I come up against laziness and indolence, I put my hand in my right pocket and find I have nothing to give. In this way, I manage to balance the material and the spiritual worlds.”
The new bishop thanked him for this fine image of charity and said he could return to his parish, but warned him that he was in the process of restructuring the whole region. Shortly afterwards, the priest received news that he was being transferred to Viscos.
He understood the message at once: envy. But he had made a vow to serve God wherever it might be, and so he set off for Viscos full of humility and fervor: it was a new challenge for him to meet.
A year went by. And another. By the end of five years, despite all hi
s efforts, he had not succeeded in bringing any new believers into the church; the village was haunted by a ghost from the past called Ahab, and nothing the priest said could be more important than the legends that still circulated about him.
Ten years passed. At the end of the tenth year, the priest realized his mistake: his search for wisdom had become pride. He was so convinced of divine justice that he had failed to balance it with the art of diplomacy. He thought he was living in a world where God was everywhere, only to find himself amongst people who often would not even let God enter their lives.
After fifteen years, he knew that he would never leave Viscos: by then, the former bishop was an important cardinal working in the Vatican and quite likely to be named Pope—and he could never allow an obscure country priest to spread the story that he had been exiled out of envy and greed.
By then, the priest had allowed himself to be infected by the lack of stimulus—no one could withstand all those years of indifference. He thought that had he left the priesthood at the right moment, he could have served God better; but he had kept putting off the decision, always thinking that the situation would change, and by then it was too late, he had lost all contact with the world.
After twenty years, he woke up one night in despair: his life had been completely useless. He knew how much he was capable of and how little he had achieved. He remembered the two pieces of paper he used to keep in his pockets, and realized that now he always reached into his right-hand pocket. He had wanted to be wise, but had been lacking in political skills. He had wanted to be just, but had lacked wisdom. He had wanted to be a politician, but had lacked courage.
