The Devil and Miss Prym

by Paulo Coelho

  “I don’t need to tell you that Viscos risks disappearing off the map, taking with it you, your lands and your flocks. Nor did I come here to talk about the Church, but there is one thing I must say: only by sacrifice and penitence can we find salvation. And before I’m interrupted again, I mean the sacrifice of one person, the penitence of all and the salvation of this village.”

  “It might all be a lie,” another voice cried out.

  “The stranger is going to show us the gold tomorrow,” the mayor said, pleased to be able to give a piece of information of which even the priest was unaware. “Miss Prym does not wish to bear the responsibility alone, so the hotel landlady persuaded the stranger to bring the gold bars here. We will act only after receiving that guarantee.”

  The mayor took over and began telling them about the improvements that would be made to life in the village: the rebuilding work, the children’s playground, the reduced taxes and the planned redistribution of their newly acquired wealth.

  “In equal shares,” someone shouted.

  It was time for the mayor to take on a commitment he hated to make; as if suddenly awoken from their somnolent state, all eyes were turned in his direction.

  “In equal shares,” the priest said, before the mayor could respond. There was no other choice: everyone had to take part and bear the same responsibility and receive the same reward, otherwise it would not be long before someone denounced the crime—out of either jealousy or vengeance. The priest was all too familiar with both those words.

  “Who is going to die?”

  The mayor explained the fair process by which Berta had been chosen: she suffered greatly from the loss of her husband, she was old, had no friends, and seemed slightly mad, sitting outside her house from dawn to dusk, making absolutely no contribution to the growth of the village. Instead of her money being invested in lands or sheep, it was earning interest in some far-off bank; the only ones who benefited from it were the traders who, like the baker, came every week to sell their produce in the village.

  Not a single voice in the crowd was raised against the choice. The mayor was glad because they had accepted his authority; but the priest knew that this could be a good or a bad sign, because silence does not always mean consent—usually all it meant was that people were incapable of coming up with an immediate response. If someone did not agree, they would later torture themselves with the idea that they had accepted without really wanting to, and the consequences of that could be grave.

  “I need everyone here to agree,” the priest said. “I need everyone to say out loud whether they agree or disagree, so that God can hear you and know that He has valiant men in His army. If you don’t believe in God, I ask you all the same to say out loud whether you agree or disagree, so that we will all know exactly what everyone here thinks.”

  The mayor did not like the way the priest had used the verb “need”: “I need” he had said, when it would have been more appropriate to say: “we need,” or “the mayor needs.” When this business was over, he would have to reimpose his authority in whatever way was necessary. Now, like a good politician, he would let the priest take the lead and expose himself to risk.

  “I want you all to say that you agree.”

  The first “yes” came from the blacksmith. Then the mayor, to show his courage, also said “yes” in a loud voice. One by one, every man present declared out loud that they agreed with the choice—until they had all committed themselves. Some of them did so because they wanted to get the meeting over and done with so that they could go home; some were thinking about the gold and about the quickest way they could leave the village with their newly acquired wealth; others were planning to send money to their children so that they would no longer have to feel ashamed in front of their friends in the big city. Almost no one in the crowd believed that Viscos would regain its former glory; all they wanted was the riches they had always deserved, but had never had.

  But no one said “no.”

  “One hundred eight women and 173 men live in this village,” the priest went on. “Since it is the tradition here for everyone to learn how to hunt, each inhabitant owns at least one shotgun. Well, tomorrow morning, I want you each to leave a shotgun in the sacristy, with a single cartridge in it. I’m asking the mayor, who has more than one gun, to bring one for me as well.”

  “We never leave our weapons with strangers,” a hunting guide shouted. “Guns are sacred, temperamental, personal. They should never be fired by other people.”

  “Let me finish. I’m going to explain how a firing squad works. Seven soldiers are chosen to shoot the condemned man. Seven rifles are handed out to the squad, but only six of them are loaded with real bullets, the seventh contains a blank. The gunpowder explodes in exactly the same way, the noise is identical, but there’s no lead to be fired into the victim’s body.

  “None of the soldiers knows which rifle contains the blank. In that way, each of them thinks that his gun contained the blank and that his friends were responsible for the death of the man or woman none of them knew, but whom they were forced to shoot in the line of duty.”

  “So all of them believe they are innocent,” the landowner chimed in, speaking for the first time.

  “Exactly. Tomorrow I will do the same: I’ll take the lead out of eighty-seven of the cartridges and leave the other shotguns with live ammunition in them. All the weapons will go off at the same time, but no one will know which of them has pellets inside; in that way, all of you can consider yourselves innocent.”

  Tired though the men were, they greeted the priest’s idea with a huge sigh of relief. A different kind of energy spread through the crowd as if, from one hour to the next, the entire situation had lost its tragic air and had been transformed into a simple treasure hunt. Every man was convinced that his gun would carry the blank ammunition, and that he would not therefore be guilty; he was simply showing solidarity with his fellows, who wanted to change their lives and where they lived. Everyone was excited now; at last, Viscos had become a place where different, important things happened.

  “The only weapon you can be sure will be loaded is mine, because I can’t choose for myself. Nor will I keep my share of the gold. I’m doing this for other reasons.”

  Again, the mayor did not like the way the priest spoke. He was trying to impress on the people of Viscos what a courageous man he was, a generous leader capable of any sacrifice. If the mayor’s wife had been there, she would doubtless have said that the priest was preparing to launch himself as a candidate for the next elections.

  “Wait until Monday,” he told himself. He would publish a decree announcing such a steep increase in tax on the church that it would be impossible for the priest to stay on in the village. After all, he was the only one who claimed he didn’t want to be rich.

  “What about the victim?” the blacksmith asked.

  “She’ll be there,” the priest said. “I’ll take care of that. But I need three men to come with me.”

  When no one volunteered, the priest chose three strong men. One of them tried to say “no,” but his friends stared him down, and he quickly changed his mind.

  “Where will the sacrifice take place?” the landowner asked, addressing the priest. The mayor again sensed authority slipping away from him; he needed to regain it at once.

  “I’m the one who decides that,” he said, shooting a furious look at the landowner. “I don’t want the earth of Viscos to be stained with blood. We’ll do it at this same time tomorrow night up by the Celtic monolith. Bring your lanterns, lamps and torches, so that everyone can see clearly where they are pointing their shotgun, and nobody misses.”

  The priest got down from his chair—the meeting was over. The women of Viscos once again heard footsteps in the street, the men returning to their houses, having a drink, staring out of the window, or simply collapsing into bed, exhausted. The mayor returned to his wife, who told him what had happened in Berta’s house, and how frightened she had been.
But after they—together with the hotel landlady—had analyzed every single word that had been said, the two women concluded that the old woman knew nothing; it was merely their sense of guilt making them think like that.

  “Make-believe ghosts, like the rogue wolf,” the mayor said.

  The priest went back to the church and spent the whole night in prayer.

  Chantal breakfasted on the bread she had bought the day before, since the baker’s van didn’t come on Sundays. She looked out of her window and saw the men of Viscos leaving their houses, each carrying a weapon. She prepared herself to die, as there was still a possibility that she would be the chosen victim; but no one knocked on her door—instead, they carried on down the street, went into the sacristy, and emerged again, empty-handed.

  She left her house and went down to the hotel, where the hotel landlady told her about everything that had happened the previous night: the choice of victim, what the priest had proposed and the preparations for the sacrifice. Her hostile tone had vanished, and things seemed to be changing in Chantal’s favor.

  “There’s something I want to tell you; one day, Viscos will realize all that you did for its people.”

  “But the stranger still has to show us the gold,” Chantal insisted.

  “Of course. He just went out carrying an empty rucksack.”

  Chantal decided not to go to the forest, because that would mean passing by Berta’s house, and she was too ashamed to look at her. She went back to her room and remembered her dream of the previous night.

  For she had had a strange dream in which an angel handed her the eleven gold bars and asked her to keep them.

  Chantal told the angel that, for this to happen, someone had to be killed. But the angel said that this wasn’t the case: on the contrary, the bars were proof that the gold did not exist.

  That was why she had insisted to the hotel landlady that the stranger should show everyone the gold; she had a plan. However, since she had always lost every other battle in her life, she had her doubts as to whether she would be able to win this one.

  Berta was watching the sun setting behind the mountains when she saw the priest and three other men coming towards her. She felt sad for three reasons: she knew her time had come; her husband had not appeared to console her (perhaps because he was afraid of what he would hear, or ashamed of his own inability to save her); and she realized that the money she had saved would end up in the hands of the shareholders of the bank where she had deposited it, since she had not had time to withdraw it and burn it.

  She felt happy for two reasons: she was finally going to be reunited with her husband, who was doubtless, at that moment, out and about with Miss Prym’s grandmother; and although the last day of her life had been cold, it had been filled with sunlight—not everyone had the good fortune to leave the world with such a beautiful memory of it.

  The priest signaled to the other men to stay back, and he went forward on his own to greet her.

  “Good evening,” she said. “See how great God is to have made the world so beautiful.”

  “They’re going to take me away,” she told herself, “but I will leave them with all the world’s guilt to carry on their shoulders.”

  “Think, then, how beautiful paradise must be,” the priest said, but Berta could see her arrow had struck home, and that now he was struggling to remain calm.

  “I’m not sure about that, I’m not even sure it exists. Have you been there yourself, Father?”

  “Not yet. But I’ve been in hell and I know how terrible that is, however attractive it might appear from the outside.”

  Berta understood him to mean Viscos.

  “You’re mistaken, Father. You were in paradise, but you didn’t recognize it. It’s the same with most people in this world; they seek suffering in the most joyous of places because they think they are unworthy of happiness.”

  “It appears that all your years spent sitting out here have brought you some wisdom.”

  “It’s been a long time since anyone bothered to come and chat with me, and now, oddly enough, everyone has discovered that I still exist. Just imagine, Father, last night, the hotel landlady and the mayor’s wife honored me with a visit; and now here’s the parish priest doing the same—have I suddenly become such an important person?”

  “Very much so,” the priest replied. “The most important person in the village.”

  “Have I come into money or something?”

  “Ten gold bars. Future generations of men, women and children will give thanks to you. It’s even possible they’ll put up a statue in your honor.”

  “I’d prefer a fountain, because as well as being decorative, it quenches people’s thirst and soothes those who are worried.”

  “A fountain it will be then. You have my word on it.”

  Berta thought it was time to put an end to this farce and come straight to the point.

  “I know everything, Father. You are condemning an innocent woman who cannot fight for her life. Damn you, sir, and damn this village and all who live in it.”

  “Damned indeed,” the priest said. “For more than twenty years, I’ve tried to bless this village, but no one heard my calls. For the same twenty years, I’ve tried to inculcate Good into men’s hearts, until I finally realized that God had chosen me to be his left arm, and to show the evil of which men are capable. Perhaps in this way they will become afraid and accept the faith.”

  Berta felt like crying, but controlled the impulse.

  “Fine words, Father, but empty. They’re just an excuse for cruelty and injustice.”

  “Unlike all the others, I’m not doing this for the money. I know that the gold is cursed, like this whole place, and that it won’t bring happiness to anyone. I am simply doing as God has asked me. Or rather, as he commanded me, in answer to my prayers.”

  “There’s no point arguing further,” Berta thought, as the priest put his hand in his pocket and brought out some pills.

  “You won’t feel a thing,” he said. “Let’s go inside.”

  “Neither you nor anyone else in this village will set foot in my house while I’m still alive. Perhaps later tonight the door will stand wide open, but not now.”

  The priest gestured to one of the men, who approached carrying a plastic bottle.

  “Take these pills. You’ll soon fall asleep, and when you wake up, you’ll be in heaven, with your husband.”

  “I’ve always been with my husband, and despite suffering from insomnia, I never take pills to get to sleep.”

  “So much the better; they’ll take effect at once.”

  The sun had disappeared, and darkness was beginning to fall on the valley, the church, and on the entire village.

  “And what if I don’t want to take them?”

  “You’ll take them just the same.”

  Berta looked at the three men and saw that the priest was right. She took the pills from him, placed them in her mouth and drank the entire bottle of water. Water: it has no taste, no smell, no color, and yet it is the most important thing in the world. Just like her at that moment.

  She looked once more at the mountains, now covered in darkness. She saw the first star come out and thought that she had had a good life; she had been born and would die in a place she loved, even though it seemed that her love was unrequited, but what did that matter? Anyone who loves in the expectation of being loved in return is wasting their time.

  She had been blessed. She had never been to another country, but she knew that here in Viscos the same things happened as everywhere else. She had lost the husband she loved, but God had granted her the joy of continuing at his side, even after his death. She had seen the village at its height, had witnessed the beginning of its decline, and was leaving before it was completely destroyed. She had known mankind with all its faults and virtues, and she believed that, despite all that was happening to her now, despite the struggles her husband swore were going on in the invisible world, human goodness would tr
iumph in the end.

  She felt sorry for the priest, for the mayor, for Miss Prym, for the stranger, for every one of the inhabitants of Viscos: Evil would never bring Good, however much they wanted to believe that it would. By the time they discovered the truth, it would be too late.

  She had only one regret: never having seen the sea. She knew it existed, that it was vast and simultaneously wild and calm, but she had never been to see it or tasted the salt water on her tongue or felt the sand beneath her bare feet or dived into the cold water like someone returning to the womb of the Great Mother (she remembered that this was an expression favored by the Celts).

  Apart from that, she did not have much to complain about. She was sad, very sad, to have to leave like this, but she did not want to feel she was a victim: doubtless God had chosen this role for her, and it was far better than the one He had chosen for the priest.

  “I want to talk to you about Good and Evil,” she heard him say, just as she began to feel a kind of numbness in her hands and feet.

  “There’s no need. You don’t know what goodness is. You were poisoned by the evil done to you, and now you’re spreading that plague throughout our land. You’re no different from the stranger who came to visit us and destroy us.”

  Her last words were barely audible. She looked up at the one star, then closed her eyes.

  The stranger went into the bathroom in his hotel room, carefully washed each of the gold bars and replaced them in his shabby, old rucksack. Two days ago he had left the stage, and now he was returning for the final act—he had to make a last appearance.

  Everything had been carefully planned: from the choice of a small, remote village with few inhabitants down to the fact of having an accomplice, so that if things did not work out, no one could ever accuse him of inciting people to murder. The tape recorder, the reward, the careful steps he had taken, first making friends with the people in the village and then spreading terror and confusion. Just as God had done to him, so he would do unto others. Just as God had given him all that was good only to cast him into the abyss, so he would do the same.