The Pilgrimage (9 page)

When he said that he was going to participate with me in the exercise, I suddenly felt
unworthy of his praise. I knew my faults, and many times I had doubted whether he could
succeed in guiding me along the Road. I wanted to say all this to him, but he interrupted
me before I could begin.

Dont be cruel with yourself, or you will not have learned the lesson I taught you before.
Be kind. Accept the praise that you deserve.

Tears came to my eyes. Petrus led me outside. The night was darker than usual. I sat down
next to him, and we began to sing. The melody came from within me, and he accompanied me
with no effort. I began to clap my hands softly, as I rocked forward and back. My clapping
increased in its intensity, and the music flowed from me, a psalm of praise to the
darkness of the sky, the deserted plateau, and the lifeless stones around us. I began to
see the saints that I had believed in as a child, and I could sense that life had gotten
away from me because of my having killed a great deal of my agape. But now the love that
consumes returned, and the saints smiled from the heavens with the same look and inten-
sity that I had seen in them when I was small.

I spread my arms so that agape could flow, and a mysterious current of bright blue light
began to wash through me, cleansing my soul and pardoning my sins. The light spread first
to our surroundings and then enveloped the world, and I started to weep. I wept because I
was re-experiencing the enthusiasm of my

Seat yourself comfortably, and relax. Try not to think about anything.

1. Feel how good it is to be alive. Let your heart feel free and affectionate; let it rise
above and beyond the details of the problems that may be bothering you. Begin to sing
softly a song from your childhood. Imagine that your heart is growing, filling the room
and later your home with an intense, shining blue light.

2. When you reach this point, begin to sense the presence of the saints (or other beings)
in which you placed your faith when you were a child. Notice that they are present,
arriving from everywhere, smiling and giving you faith and confidence.

3. Picture the saints approaching you, placing their hands on your head and wishing you
love, peace, and communion with the world the communion of the saints.

4. When this sensation becomes strong, feel that the blue light is a current that enters
you and leaves you like a shining, flowing river. This blue light begins to spread through
your house, then through your neighborhood, your city, and your country; it eventually
envelops the world in an immense blue sphere. This is the manifestation of the great love
that goes beyond the day-to- day struggle; it reinforces and invigorates, as it provides
energy and peace.

5. Keep the light spread around the world for as long as possible. Your heart is open,
spreading love. This phase of the exercise should last for a minimum of five minutes.

6. Come out of your trance, bit by bit, and return to reality. The saints will remain
near. The blue light will continue to spread around the world.

This ritual can and should be done with more than one person. When this is the case, the
participants should hold hands while they do the exercise.

childhood; I was once again a child, and nothing in the world could cause me harm. I felt
a presence draw near and sit down to my right. I imagined that it was my messenger and
that he was the only one who could per- ceive the strong blue light that was entering me
and leaving me, spreading throughout the world.

The light was increasing in its intensity, and I felt that as it enclosed the world, it
penetrated into every door and every back alley, touching every person alive for at least
a fraction of a second.

I felt my hands being held open and extended to the heavens. At that moment, the flow of
the blue light increased and became so strong that I thought I was going to pass out. But
I was able to keep the light alive for a few moments more, until I reached the end of the
song I was singing.

I was exhausted but relaxed; I felt free and content with life and with what I had just
done. The hands that held mine released me. I saw that one of them was Petruss, and I knew
in my heart who it was that held the other.

I opened my eyes, and there at my side was the monk, Alfonso. He smiled and said, Buenas
noches. I smiled, too, and I seized his hand and held it tightly to my breast. He allowed
me to do this for a moment and then gently removed his hand.

None of us spoke. Some time later, Alfonso arose and continued his trek along the rocky
plateau. I watched him until he was completely hidden by the darkness.

Petrus broke the silence then, but he made no men- tion of Alfonso.

Do this exercise whenever you can, and soon agape will live once again within you. Repeat
it before you embark on any project, during the first days of any trip, or when you have
been greatly affected by something. If possible, do it with someone you like. It is an
exercise that should be shared.

So there was the old Petrus: coach, instructor, and guide, the man about whom I knew so
little. The emo- tion that he had shown in the hermitage had already passed away. But when
he had touched my hand during the exercise, I had felt the greatness of his soul.

We returned to the hermitage where we had left our things.

The occupant wont be back today, so I think we can sleep here, said Petrus, lying down. I
unrolled my sleep- ing bag, took a swallow of wine, and lay down. I was exhausted by the
love that consumes. But it was a tired- ness that was free of tension, and before I closed
my eyes, I thought of the thin, bearded monk who had sat beside me and wished me good
night. Somewhere out there he was being consumed by the divine flame. Maybe that was why
the night was so unusually dark he had taken all the light of the world into himself.

Are you pilgrims? asked the old woman who served us our breakfast. We were in Azofra, a
village of small houses, each with a medieval shield embossed on its facade. We had filled
our canteens at the village foun- tain a few moments earlier.

I said that we were, and the womans eyes glowed with respect and pride.

When I was a girl, at least one pilgrim passed through here every day, bound for
Compostela. After the war and after Franco, I dont know what happened, but the pilgrimages
stopped. Someone must have built a highway. Nowadays, people only want to travel by car.

Petrus said nothing. He had awakened in a bad mood. I nodded in agreement with the old
woman and pictured a new, paved expressway, climbing the mountains and running across the
valleys, automo- biles with scallop shells painted on their hoods, and souvenir shops at
the gates of the monasteries. I fin- ished my coffee and bread dipped in olive oil.
Looking at Aymeric Picauds guide, I estimated that we should arrive that afternoon in
Santo Domingo de

la Calzada, and I was planning to sleep at the Parador Nacional.*

I was spending much less money than I had planned, even eating three meals a day. It was
time for an extravagance, time to give my body the same treat- ment I had been giving my
stomach.

I had awakened with a strange feeling of being in a hurry and of wanting to be in Santo
Domingo already. I had experienced the same feeling two days earlier, when we had walked
to the hermitage. Petrus was more melancholy and quiet than usual; was this the result of
our meeting with Alfonso two days ago? I felt a strong need to invoke Astrain so that we
could discuss the matter. But I had never summoned him in the morning, and I was not sure
that I could. I decided against it.

We finished our coffee and began to walk. We passed a medieval house with its coat of
arms, the ruins of an ancient hostel for pilgrims, and a park on the out- skirts of the
village. As I once again readied myself to move out across the countryside, I felt a
strong presence to my left side. I walked on, but Petrus stopped me.

There is no use running away, he said. Stop and deal with it.

I wanted to get away from Petrus and keep going. I had a disagreeable feeling, a kind of
colic near my

* The Paradores Nacionales are ancient castles and historic monu- ments that have been
turned into first-class hotels by the Spanish government.

stomach. For a few moments, I tried to believe that it was caused by the bread with olive
oil, but I knew that I had felt it earlier in the day and I could not fool myself. It was
tension tension and fear.

Look behind you. Petruss voice had an urgency to it. Look before its too late!

I spun around quickly. To my left was an abandoned house, its vegetation burned by the
sun. An olive tree raised its twisted branches to the sky. And between the tree and the
house, looking fixedly at me, was a dog.

A black dog, the same dog that I had banished from the womans house a few days earlier.

I forgot all about Petrus and looked squarely into the dogs eyes. Something inside me
perhaps it was the voice of Astrain or of my guardian angel told me that if I averted my
eyes, the dog would attack me. We remained that way, staring at each other, for some time.
Here I was, I thought, after having experienced the wonder of the love that consumes, once
again about to be confronted by the daily and constant threats to my existence that the
world would always present. I won- dered why the animal had followed me for such a great
distance and what it was that he wanted; after all, I was just a pilgrim in quest of my
sword, and I had neither the desire nor the patience for problems with people or animals.
I tried to say this to him with my eyes remembering the monks at the convent who communi-
cated through their eyes but the dog did not move. He continued to stare at me, without
emotion, but he

appeared ready to attack should I become distracted or show fear.

Fear! I could sense that my fear had vanished. I thought the situation too stupid for
fear. My stomach was knotted up, and I felt like vomiting, but I wasnt frightened. If I
had been, something told me that my eyes would have given me away, and the animal would
try to overcome me, as he had before. I did not want to avert my eyes, even when I sensed
that a figure was approaching along a narrow road to my right.

The figure stopped for an instant and then came directly toward us. It crossed my line of
sight as I stared at the dog, and this person said something I could not understand in a
feminine voice. Its presence was good friendly and positive.

In the fraction of a second during which the image had crossed my line of sight, my
stomach relaxed. I felt that I had a powerful friend who was there to help me through this
absurd, unnecessary conflict. When the figure had passed by, the dog lowered his eyes.
Then he jumped, ran behind the abandoned house, and disap- peared from view.

It was only then that my heart began to react. The tachycardia was so strong that I felt
dizzy and faint. As the scene around me spun, I looked along the road that Petrus and I
had walked only a few minutes earlier, seeking the figure that had given me the strength
to defeat the dog. It was a nun. Her back was to me, and she was walking toward Azofra. I
could not see her face,

but I remembered her voice, and I guessed that she was in her early twenties. I looked in
the direction from which she had come: she had appeared from a narrow path that seemed to
lead nowhere.

It was she ... it was she who helped me, I mur- mured, as my dizziness grew worse.

Dont start creating fantasies in a world that is already extraordinary, said Petrus,
supporting me by the arm. She comes from a convent in Ca–as, three or four miles from
here. You cant see it from here.

My heart was still pounding, and I was sure I was going to be sick. I was too upset to
speak or ask for an explanation. I sat down on the ground, and Petrus threw some water on
my forehead and on the nape of my neck. I remembered that he had done the same thing after
we had left the womans house but that day I had cried for joy. Now the sensation was just
the oppo- site.

Petrus let me rest a bit. The water brought me around, and the nausea began to subside.
Things slowly returned to normal. When I felt restored, Petrus said we should walk a
little, and I obeyed. We walked for about fifteen minutes, but the exhaustion returned. We
sat down at the foot of a rollo, a medieval column support- ing a cross. Such columns
marked a number of stretches along the Jacobean route.

Your fear has hurt you much more than the dog did, said Petrus, as I rested.

I wanted to understand that absurd encounter.

In the life on the Road to Santiago, certain things happen that are beyond our control.
When we first met, I told you that I had read in the gypsys eyes the name of the demon you
would have to confront. I was surprised to learn that the demon was a dog, but I did not
say any- thing to you about it at the time. Only after we arrived at that womans house
when for the first time, you showed the love that consumes did I see your enemy.

When you chased away that womans dog, you did not place him anywhere. You didnt hurl the
spirits into a drove of pigs that was thrown over a precipice, as Jesus did. You simply
chased the dog away. Now his force wanders along behind you, without a destination. Before
finding your sword, you are going to have to decide whether you want to be enslaved by
that force or whether you will dominate it.

My fatigue began to pass. I took a deep breath and felt the cold stone of the rollo
against my back. Petrus gave me some more water and went on:

Cases of obsession occur when people lose their mastery over the forces of the earth. The
gypsys curse had frightened that woman, and her fear had opened a breach that the
messenger of death was then able to penetrate. This doesnt always happen, but neither is
it rare. Your confidence and your sense of mastery depend a great deal on how you react to
threats made by others.

This time it was I who remembered a passage from the Bible. A verse in the Book of Job
says, For the thing that I greatly feared is come upon me.

A threat leads to nothing if it is not accepted. In fighting the good fight, you should
never forget that. Just as you should never forget that both attacking and fleeing are
part of the fight. What isnt a part of the fight is becoming paralyzed by fear.

I had not felt fear when the dog was there. This had surprised me, and I told Petrus about
it.

I could see that you felt no fear. If you had, the dog would have attacked you. And
without a doubt, he would have won the fight. Because the dog was not afraid either. The
strangest thing, though, was the arrival of that nun. When you sensed the presence of
some- thing positive, your imagination concluded that some- one had arrived to help you.
And this, your faith, saved you. Even though it was based on an assumption that was
absolutely false.

Petrus was right. He laughed at me, and I laughed, too. We got up to resume our walking. I
was already feeling better.

There is one thing you have to know, though, said Petrus as we moved on. The duel with the
dog will end only with a victory for you or for him. He will be back, and the next time
you must try to take the fight through to the end. If you dont, his presence will worry
you for the rest of your life.

In the encounter with the gypsy, Petrus had told me, he had learned the name of the demon.
I asked him what it was.

Legion, he answered. Because he is many.

We passed through fields that the farmers were preparing for sowing. Here and there, some
peasants operated crude water pumps in the centuries-old fight against the arid soil.
Along the edge of the Road to Santiago, stones had been piled into endless walls, criss-
crossing the fields. I thought about how, in spite of all the centuries during which that
soil had been worked, stones still surfaced stones that could break the blade of a plow,
render a horse lame, and leave calluses on the peasants hands. It was a battle every year,
a battle that would never end.

Petrus was quieter than usual, and I realized that he had said almost nothing since
morning. After our con- versation at the medieval rollo, he had been mute, not answering
any of the questions I had asked. I wanted to know more about the many demons, because he
had already explained to me that each person has only one messenger. But Petrus was not
interested in talking about it, and I decided to wait for a better time.

We climbed a small rise, and from the top we could see the main tower of the church at
Santo Domingo de la Calzada. I was glad to see it; I began to think about the magical
comfort of the Parador Nacional. From what I had read about it, the building had been con-
structed by Santo Domingo himself as a shelter for pil- grims. Saint Francis of Assisi had
stayed there on his way to Compostela. Everything about it excited me.

At about seven oclock that evening, Petrus said we should stop. I was reminded of
Roncesvalles and of the

slow pace we had taken when I had needed some wine to warm me, and I was afraid that he
was preparing something like that.

A messenger would never help you to defeat some- one else. Messengers are neither good nor
bad, as I have already told you, but they have a sense of loyalty among themselves. Dont
rely on your messenger to help you defeat the dog.

Now it was my turn not to want to talk about mes- sengers. I wanted to get to Santo
Domingo.

The messengers of people who have died can occupy the body of someone who is dominated by
fear. That is why, in the case of the dog, he is many. Messengers were invited in by the
womans fear not just the murdered gypsys messenger but all of the many messengers who
wander in space, seeking a way to establish contact with the forces of the earth.

He was finally answering my question, but there was something in the way he spoke that
seemed artificial, as if this were not what he really wanted to say. My instincts told me
to be wary.

What do you want, Petrus? I asked him, a bit irri- tated.

My guide did not answer. He walked into the field toward an ancient, almost leafless tree
that stood about thirty yards from us. It was the only tree visible on the entire horizon.
Since he had not given me the signal to follow, I stood where I was. And I saw a strange
thing happen: Petrus walked around the tree several times

and said something out loud, while he looked at the ground. When he had finished, he
gestured for me to come over.

Sit here, he said. There was a different tone to his voice, and I couldnt tell whether it
was friendliness or irritation. Stay here. I will see you tomorrow in Santo Domingo de la
Calzada.

Before I could say a word, Petrus continued, One of these days and I guarantee you that
it will not be today you are going to have to confront the most important enemy you will
meet on the Road to Santiago: the dog. When that day comes, you can be sure that I will be
close at hand and will give you the strength you need to fight him. But today you are
going to confront a different type of enemy, an unreal enemy that may destroy you or may
turn out to be your best friend: death.

Human beings are the only ones in nature who are aware that they will die. For that reason
and only for that reason, I have a profound respect for the human race, and I believe that
its future is going to be much better than its present. Even knowing that their days are
numbered and that everything will end when they least expect it, people make of their
lives a battle that is worthy of a being with eternal life. What people regard as vanity
leaving great works, having children, acting in such a way as to prevent ones name from
being for- gotten I regard as the highest expression of human dignity.