The Pilgrimage (5 page)

You, too, have to learn how to fight the good fight. You have already learned to accept
the adventures and challenges that life provides, but you still want to deny anything that
is extraordinary.

Petrus took a small object from his knapsack and handed it to me. It was a golden pin.

This was a present from my grandmother. In the Order of the RAM, all of the ancients have
an object such as this. Its called the Point of Cruelty. When you saw the angel appear on
the church tower, you wanted to deny it, because it wasnt something that you are used to.
In your view of the world, churches are churches, and visions occur only during the
ecstasy cre- ated by the rituals of the Tradition.

I said that my vision must have been caused by the pressure he was applying to my neck.

Thats right, but that doesnt change anything. The fact is that you rejected the vision.
Felicia of Aquitaine must have seen something similar, and she bet her entire life on what
she saw. And the result of her having done that transformed her work into a work of love.
The same thing probably happened to her brother. And the same thing happens to everyone
every day: we always know which is the best road to follow, but we follow only the road
that we have become accustomed to.

Petrus began to walk again, and I followed along. The rays of the sun made the pin in my
hand glisten.

The only way we can rescue our dreams is by being generous with ourselves. Any attempt to
inflict self- punishment no matter how subtle it may be should be dealt with rigorously.
In order to know when we are being cruel to ourselves, we have to transform any attempt at
causing spiritual pain such as guilt, remorse, indecision, and cowardice into physical
pain.

By transforming a spiritual pain into a physical one, we can learn what harm it can cause
us.

And then Petrus taught me the Cruelty Exercise.

In ancient times, they used a golden pin for this, he said. Nowadays, things have changed,
just as the sights along the Road to Santiago change.

Petrus was right. Seen from down at this level, the plain appeared to be a series of
mountains in front of me. Think of something cruel that you did to yourself

today, and perform the exercise. I couldnt think of anything. Thats the way it always is.
We are only able to be

kind to ourselves at the few times when we need severity. Suddenly I remembered that I had
called myself an idiot for having laboriously climbed the Peak of Forgiveness while the
tourists had driven up in their cars. I knew that this was unfair and that I had been
cruel to myself; the tourists, after all, were only looking for a place to sunbathe, while
I was looking for my sword. I wasnt an idiot, even if I had felt like one. I dug the nail
of my index finger forcefully into the cuticle of my thumb. I felt intense pain, and as I
concentrated on

it, the feeling of having been an idiot dissipated. I described this to Petrus, and he
laughed without

saying anything. That night, we stayed in a comfortable hotel in the

village where the church I had focused on was located. After dinner, we decided to take a
walk through the streets, as an aid to digestion.

Every time a thought comes to mind that makes you feel bad about yourself jealousy, self
pity, envy, hatred, and so on do the following:

Dig the nail of your index finger into the cuticle of the thumb of the same hand until it
becomes quite painful. Concentrate on the pain: it is a physical reflection of the
suffering you are going through spiritually. Ease the pressure only when the cruel thought
has gone.

Repeat this as many times as necessary until the thought has left you, even if this means
digging your fingernail into your thumb over and over. Each time, it will take longer for
the cruel thought to return, and eventually it will disappear altogether, so long as you
do not fail to perform the exercise every time it comes to mind.

Of all the ways we have found to hurt ourselves, the worst has been through love. We are
always suffering because of someone who doesnt love us, or someone who has left us, or
someone who wont leave us. If we are alone, it is because no one wants us; if we are mar-
ried, we transform the marriage to slavery. What a terri- ble thing! he said angrily.

We came to a square, and there was the church I had seen. It was small and lacked any
architectural distinc- tion. Its bell tower reached up toward the sky. I tried to see the
angel again, but couldnt.

When the Son of God descended to earth, he brought love to us. But since people identified
love only with suffering and sacrifice, they felt they had to crucify Jesus. Had they not
done so, no one would have believed in the love that Jesus brought, since people were so
used to suffering every day with their own prob- lems.

We sat on the curb and stared at the church. Once again, it was Petrus who broke the
silence.

Do you know what Barrabas means, Paulo? Bar means son, and abba means father.

He gazed at the cross on the bell tower. His eyes shone, and I sensed that he was moved by
something perhaps by the love he had spoken so much about, but I couldnt be certain.

The intentions of the divine glory were so wise! he said, his voice echoing in the empty
square. When Pontius Pilate made the people choose, he actually gave

them no choice at all. He presented them with one man who had been whipped and was falling
apart, and he presented them with another man who held his head high Barrabas, the
revolutionary. God knew that the people would put the weaker one to death so that he could
prove his love.

He concluded, And regardless of which choice they made, it was the Son of God who was
going to be cruci- fied.

And here all Roads to Santiago become one. It was early in the morning when we reached
Puente de la Reina, where the name of the village was etched into the base of a statue of
a pilgrim in medieval garb: three-cornered hat, cape, scallop shells, and in his hand a
shepherds crook. With a gourd a memorial to the epic journey, now almost forgotten, that
Petrus and I

were reliving. We had spent the previous night at one of the many

monasteries along the Road. The brother of the gate who had greeted us had warned us that
we were not to speak a word within the walls of the abbey. A young monk had led each of us
to an alcove, furnished only with the bare necessities: a hard bed, old but clean sheets,
a pitcher of water and a basin for personal hygiene. There was no plumbing or hot water,
and the schedule for meals was posted behind the door.

At the time indicated, we had come down to the dining hall. Because of the vow of silence,
the monks communicated only with their glances, and I had the impression that their eyes
gleamed with more intensity than those of other people. The supper was served early

at narrow tables where we sat with the monks in their brown habits. From his seat, Petrus
had given me a signal, and I had understood perfectly what he meant: he was dying to light
a cigarette, but it looked like he was going to have to go through the entire night with-
out one. The same was true for me, and I dug a nail into the cuticle of my thumb, which
was already like raw meat. The moment was too beautiful for me to commit any kind of
cruelty toward myself.

The meal was served; vegetable soup, bread, fish, and wine. Everyone prayed, and we
recited the invoca- tion with them. Afterward, as we ate, a monk read from an Epistle of
Saint Paul.

But God hath chosen the foolish things of the world to put to shame the wise, and God hath
chosen the weak things of the world to put to shame the things which are mighty, read the
monk in a thin, tuneless voice. We are fools for Christs sake. We are made as filth of the
world and are the offscouring of all things unto this day. But the kingdom of God is not
in word but in power.

The admonitions of Paul of the Corinthians echoed off the bare walls of the dining hall
throughout the meal. As we entered Puente de la Reina we had been talk-

ing about the monks of the previous night. I confessed to Petrus that I had smoked in my
room, in mortal fear that someone would smell my cigarette burning. He laughed, and I
could tell that he had probably been doing the same thing.

Saint John the Baptist went into the desert, but Jesus went among the sinners, and he
traveled endlessly, Petrus said, Thats my preference, too.

In fact, aside from the time he had spent in the desert, Jesus had spent all of his life
among people.

Actually, his first miracle was not the saving of someones soul nor the curing of a
disease, and it wasnt an expulsion of the devil; it was the transforma- tion of water into
an excellent wine at a wedding because the wine supply of the owner of the house had run
out.

After Petrus said this, he suddenly stopped walking. It was so abrupt that I became
alarmed and stopped, too. We were at the bridge that gave its name to the vil- lage.
Petrus, though, wasnt looking at the road in front of us. His eyes were fastened on two
boys who were playing with a rubber ball at the edge of the river. They were eight or ten
years old and seemed not to have noticed us. Instead of crossing the bridge, Petrus scram-
bled down the bank and approached the two boys. As always, I followed him without question.

The boys continued to ignore us. Petrus sat down to watch them at play, until the ball
fell close to where he was seated. With quick movement, he grabbed the ball and threw it
to me.

I caught the ball in the air and waited to see what would happen.

One of the boys the elder of the two approached me. My first impulse was to throw him
the ball, but

Petruss behavior had been so unusual that I decided that I would try to understand what
was happening.

Give me the ball, Mister, said the boy.

I looked at the small figure two meters away from me. I sensed that there was something
familiar about him. It was the same feeling I had about the gypsy.

The lad asked for the ball several times, and when he got no response from me, he bent
down and picked up a stone.

Give me the ball, or Ill throw a stone at you, he said.

Petrus and the other boy were watching me silently. The boys aggressiveness irritated me.

Throw the stone, I answered. If it hits me, Ill come over there and whack you one.

I sensed that Petrus gave a sigh of relief. Something in the back of my mind told me that
I had already lived through this scene.

The boy was frightened by what I said. He let the stone fall and tried a different
approach.

Theres a relic here in Puente de la Reina. It used to belong to a rich pilgrim. I see by
your shell and your knapsack that you are pilgrims. If you give me my ball, Ill give you
the relic. Its hidden in the sand here along the river.

I want to keep the ball, I answered, without much conviction. Actually, I wanted the
relic. The boy seemed to be telling the truth. But maybe Petrus needed the ball for some
reason, and I didnt want to disappoint him. He was my guide.

Look, Mister, you dont need the ball, the boy said, now with tears in his eyes. Youre
strong, and youve been around, and you know the world. All I know is the edge of this
river, and that ball is my only toy. Please give it back.

The boys words got to me. But the strangely familiar surroundings and my feeling that I
had already read about or lived through the situation made me refuse again.

No, I need the ball. Ill give you enough money to buy another one, even better than this
one, but this one is mine.

When I said that, time seemed to stop. The sur- roundings began to change, even without
Petruss finger at my neck; for a fraction of a second, it seemed that we had been
transported to a broad, terrifying, ashen desert. Neither Petrus nor the other boy was
there, just myself and the boy in front of me. He was old, and his features were kinder
and friendlier. But there was a light in his eyes that frightened me.

The vision didnt last more than a second. Then I was back at Puente de la Reina, where the
many Roads to Santiago, coming from all over Europe, became one. There in front of me, a
boy was asking for his ball, with a sweet, sad look in his eye.

Petrus approached me, took the ball from my hand, and gave it to the boy.

Where is the relic hidden? he asked the boy.

What relic? he said, as he grabbed his friends hand, jumped away, and threw himself into
the water.

We climbed the bank and crossed the bridge. I began to ask questions about what had
happened, and I described my vision of the desert, but Petrus changed the subject and said
that we should talk about it when we had traveled further from that spot.

Half an hour later, we came to a stretch of the Road that still showed vestiges of Roman
paving. Here was another bridge, this one in ruins, and we sat down to have the breakfast
that had been given to us by the monks: rye bread, yogurt, and goats cheese.

Why did you want the kids ball? Petrus asked me.

I told him that I hadnt wanted the ball that I had acted that way because Petrus himself
had behaved so strangely, as if the ball were very important to him.

In fact, it was. It allowed you to win out over your personal devil.

My personal devil? This was the most ridiculous thing I had heard during the entire trip.
I had spent six days coming and going in the Pyrenees, I had met a sorcerer priest who had
performed no sorcery, and my finger was raw meat because every time I had a cruel thought
about myself from hypochondria, to feelings of guilt, to an inferiority complex I had to
dig my fingernail into my wounded thumb. But about one thing Petrus was right: my negative
thinking had diminished considerably. Still, this story about having a personal devil was
something I had never heard and I wasnt going to swallow it easily.

Today, before crossing the bridge, I had a strong feeling of the presence of someone,
someone who was

trying to give us a warning. But the warning was more for you than for me. A battle is
coming on very soon, and you will have to fight the good fight.

When you do not know your personal devil, he usu- ally manifests himself in the nearest
person. I looked around, and I saw those boys playing and I figured that it was there
that he would probably give his warn- ing. But I was only following a hunch. I became sure
that it was your personal devil when you refused to give the ball back.

I repeated that I had done so because I thought it was what Petrus wanted.

Why me? I never said a word.

I began to feel a little dizzy. Maybe it was the food, which I was devouring voraciously
after almost an hour of walking and feeling hungry. Still, I could not escape the feeling
that the boy had seemed familiar.

Your personal devil tried three classical approaches: a threat, a promise, and an attack
on your weak side. Congratulations: you resisted bravely.

Now I remembered that Petrus had asked the boy about the relic. At that time, I had
thought that the boys response showed that he had tried to fool me. But he must really
have a relic hidden there a devil never makes false promises.

When the boy could not remember about the relic, your personal devil had gone away.

Then he added without blinking, It is time to call him back. You are going to need him.

We were sitting on the ruins of the old bridge. Petrus carefully gathered the remains of
the meal and put them into the paper bag that the monks had given us. In the fields in
front of us, the workers began to arrive for the days plowing, but they were so far away
that I couldnt hear what they were saying. It was rolling land, and the cultivated patches
created unusual designs across the landscape. Under our feet, the water course, almost
nonexistent due to the drought, made very little noise.

Before he went out into the world, Christ went into the desert to talk with his personal
devil, Petrus began. He learned that he needed to know about people, but he did not let
the devil dictate the rules of the game; that is how he won.

Once, a poet said that no man is an island. In order to fight the good fight, we need
help. We need friends, and when the friends arent nearby, we have to turn soli- tude into
our main weapon. We need the help of every- thing around us in order to take the necessary
steps toward our goal. Everything has to be a personal mani- festation of our will to win
the good fight. If we dont understand that, then we dont recognize that we need everything
and everybody, and we become arrogant war- riors. And our arrogance will defeat us in the
end, because we will be so sure of ourselves that we wont see the pitfalls there on the
field of battle.

His comments about warriors and battles reminded me again of Carlos Castanedas Don Juan. I
asked

myself whether the old medicine man would have given lessons early in the morning, before
his disciple had even been able to digest his breakfast. But Petrus contin- ued:

Over and above the physical forces that surround us and help us, there are basically two
spiritual forces on our side: an angel and a devil. The angel always protects us and is a
divine gift you do not have to invoke him. Your angels face is always visible when you
look at the world with eyes that are receptive. He is this river, the workers in the
field, and that blue sky. This old bridge that helps us to cross the stream was built here
by the hands of anonymous Roman Legionnaires, and the bridge, too, is the face of your
angel. Our grandparents called him the guardian angel.

The devil is an angel, too, but he is a free, rebellious force. I prefer to call him the
messenger, since he is the main link between you and the world. In antiquity, he was
represented by Mercury and by Hermes Trismegistus, the messenger of the gods. His arena is
only on the material plane. He is present in the gold of the Church, because the gold from
the earth, and the earth is your devil. He is present in our work and in our ways of
dealing with money. When we let him loose, his tendency is to disperse himself. When we
exorcise him, we lose all of the good things that he has to teach us; he knows a great
deal about the world and about human beings. When we become fascinated by his power, he
owns us and keeps us from fighting the good fight.

So the only way to deal with our messenger is to accept him as a friend by listening to
his advice and asking for his help when necessary, but never allowing him to dictate the
rules of the game. Like you did with the boy. To keep the messenger from dictating the
rules of the game, it is necessary first that you know what you want and then that you
know his face and his name.

How can I know them? I asked. And then Petrus taught me the Messenger Ritual. Wait until
night to perform it, when it is easier,

Petrus said. Today, at your first meeting, he will tell you his name. This name is secret
and should never be told to anyone, not even me. Whoever knows the name of your messenger
can destroy you.

Petrus got up, and we began to walk. Shortly, we reached the field where the farmers were
working. We said Buenos d’as to them and went on down the road.

If I had to use a metaphor, I would say that your angel is your armor, and your messenger
is your sword. Armor protects you under any set or circumstances, but a sword can fall to
the ground in the midst of a battle, or it can kill a friend, or be turned against its
owner. A sword can be used for almost anything ... except as something to sit on, he said,
laughing.

We stopped in a town for lunch, and the young waiter who served us was clearly in a bad
mood. He didnt answer any of our questions, he served the meal sloppily, and he even
succeeded in spilling coffee on Petruss shorts. I watched my guide go through a
transformation: