The Pilgrimage

  Petrus began to take off his sneakers. He was at least ten years older than I, and if he succeeded in the climb, I would have no further excuse. I studied the waterfall and felt my stomach seize up.

  But he didn't move. Even though he had taken off his sneakers, he remained seated in the same place. He looked at the sky and said, "A few kilometers from here, in 1502, the Virgin appeared to a shepherd. Today is the feast day commemorating that event--the Feast of the Virgin of the Road--and I am going to offer my victory to her. I would advise you to do the same thing. Offer a victory to her. Don't offer the pain in your feet or the cuts on your hands from the rocks. Everybody in the world offers only pain as penance. There is nothing wrong with that, but I think she would be happier if, rather than just pain, people would also offer her their joys."

  I was in no condition to speak. I still doubted whether Petrus could climb the wall. I thought the whole thing was a farce, that I was being drawn in by the way he spoke and that he would then convince me to do something I really did not want to do. In the face of these doubts, I closed my eyes for a moment and prayed to the Virgin of the Road. I promised that if Petrus and I were able to climb the wall, I would one day return to this place.

  "Everything you have learned up to now makes sense only if it is applied in real life. Don't forget that I described the Road to Santiago to you as the road of the common person; I have said that a thousand times. On the Road to Santiago and in life itself, wisdom has value only if it helps us to overcome some obstacle.

  "A hammer would make no sense in the world if there were not nails to be driven. And even given the existence of nails, the hammer would be useless if it only thought, 'I can drive those nails with two blows.' The hammer has to act. To put itself into the hands of the carpenter and to be used in its proper function."

  I remembered my Master's words at Itatiaia: "Whoever has the sword must constantly put it to the test, so it doesn't rust in its scabbard."

  "The waterfall is the place where you will put into practice everything you have learned so far," said my guide. "There is one thing working in your favor: you know the day on which you are going to die so that fear will not paralyze you when you have to decide quickly where to find a hold. But remember that you are going to have to work with the water and use it to provide what you need. Remember that you have to dig a nail into your thumb if a bad thought takes over. And most important, that you have to find support for yourself in the love that consumes during every minute of the climb, because it is that love which directs and justifies your every step."

  Petrus fell silent. He took off his shirt and his shorts and was completely naked. He went into the cold water of the lagoon, wet himself completely, and spread his arms to the sky. I could see that he was happy; he was enjoying the coldness of the water and the rainbows created by the mist that surrounded us.

  "One more thing," he said, before going in under the falls. "This waterfall will teach you how to be a Master. I am going to make the climb, but there will be a veil of water between you and me. I will climb without your being able to see where I place my hands and feet.

  "In the same way, a disciple such as you can never imitate his guide's steps. You have your own way of living your life, of dealing with problems, and of winning. Teaching is only demonstrating that it is possible. Learning is making it possible for yourself."

  He said nothing else as he disappeared through the veil of the cascade and began to climb. I could see only his outline, as if perceived through frosted glass. But I could see that he was climbing. Slowly and inexorably he moved toward the top. The closer he got to the crest, the more fearful I became, because my time was coming. Finally, the most terrible moment arrived: the moment when he had to come up through the falling water without holding onto the sides. The force of the water would surely plunge him back to the ground. But Petrus's head emerged there at the top, and the falling water became his silver mantle. I saw him for just an instant because, with a rapid motion, he threw his body upward and secured himself somehow on top of the plateau, still immersed in the stream of water. Then, I lost sight of him for some moments.

  Finally, Petrus appeared on the bank. He was bathed in moisture, brilliant in the sunlight, and laughing.

  "Let's go," he yelled, waving his hands. "It's your turn."

  It really was my turn. Either I did it, or I forever renounced my sword.

  I took all of my clothes off and prayed again to the Virgin of the Road. Then I dived into the lagoon. It was freezing, and my body went rigid with its impact; but I then felt a pleasant sensation, a sensation of being really alive. Without thinking about it, I went straight to the waterfall.

  The weight of the water on my head brought me back to a sense of reality, the sense that weakens us at the moment when we most need to have faith in our powers. I could see that the falls had much more force than I had thought and that if the water continued to fall directly onto the top of my head, it would defeat me, even if I kept both feet firmly planted on the bottom of the lagoon. I passed through the falls and stood between the water and the rock, in a space into which my body just fit, glued to the wall. From there, I could see that the task was easier than I had thought.

  The water did not beat down here, and what had appeared to me to be a wall with a polished surface was actually a wall with a great many cavities. I was dumbfounded to think that I might have renounced my sword out of fear of the smoothness of the wall when it turned out to be the kind of rock that I had climbed dozens of times. I seemed to hear Petrus's voice saying, "Didn't I tell you? Once a problem is solved, its simplicity is amazing."

  I began to climb, with my face against the humid rock. In ten minutes I was almost to the top. Only one hurdle remained: the final phase, the place where the water fell over the crest on its trajectory toward the lagoon. The victory I had won in making the climb would be worth nothing if I were not able to negotiate the last stretch that separated me from the open air. This was where the danger lay, and I had not been able to see how Petrus had succeeded. I prayed again to the Virgin of the Road, a Virgin I had never heard of but who was now the object of all my faith and all my hopes for success. I began tentatively to put first my hair and then my entire head up through the water that was rushing over and past me.

  The water covered me completely and blurred my vision. I began to feel its impact and held firmly to the rock. I bent my head to create an air pocket that would allow me to breathe. I trusted completely in my hands and feet. My hands had, after all, already held an ancient sword, and my feet had trod the Road to Santiago. They were my friends, and they were helping me. But the noise of the water was deafening, and I began to have trouble breathing. I was determined to put my head through the flow, and for several seconds everything went black. I fought with all my strength to keep my hands and feet anchored to their holds, but the noise of the water seemed to take me to another place. It was a mysterious and distant place where nothing that was happening at that moment was at all important, and it was a place that I could get to if I had the strength. In that place, there would no longer be any need for the superhuman effort it took to keep my hands and feet holding to the rock; there would be only rest and peace.

  But my hands and feet did not obey this impulse to surrender. They had resisted a mortal temptation. And my head began to emerge from the stream as gradually as it had entered it. I was overcome by a profound love for my body. It was there, helping me in this crazy adventure of climbing through a waterfall in search of a sword.

  When my head came completely through the surface, I saw the bright sun above me and took a deep breath. This renewed my strength, and as I looked about, I could see, just a few inches away, the plateau we had originally walked along--the end of the journey. I had an impulse to throw myself up and grab for something to hold, but I could see nothing to grab through the flowing water. The impulse was strong, but the moment of victory had not yet come, and I had to control myself. I was at the most diffi
cult point in the ascent, with the water beating on my chest, and the pressure was threatening to throw me back to the place below that I had dared to leave in pursuit of my dream.

  It was no time to be thinking about Masters or friends, and I could not look to the side to see if Petrus would be able to save me if I should slip. "He has probably made this climb a million times," I thought, "and he knows that here is where I most desperately need help." But he had abandoned me. Or maybe he hadn't abandoned me, but he was there somewhere behind me, and I couldn't turn to look for him without losing my balance. I had to do it all. I, alone, had to win my victory.

  I kept my feet and one hand holding to the rock, while the other hand let go and sought to become one with the water. I didn't want to exert any more effort, because I was already using all of my strength. My hand, knowing this, became a fish that gives itself up but knows where it wants to go. I remembered films from my childhood in which I had seen salmon jumping over waterfalls because they had a goal and they simply had to achieve it.

  The arm rose slowly, using the force of the water to its advantage. It finally burst free, and it took on the task of finding a hold and deciding the fate of the rest of my body. Like a salmon in the film, the hand dived into the water atop the crest, searching for a place, a point that would support me in the final leap.

  The rock had been polished by centuries of running water. But there must be a handhold: if Petrus had been able to find one, I could, too. I began to feel great pain, because now I knew that I was only one step from success; this is the moment when one's strength begins to flag, and one loses confidence in oneself. On a few occasions in my life I had lost at the last minute--swum across an ocean and drowned in the surf of regret. But I was on the Road to Santiago, and that old experience must not be allowed to repeat itself--I had to win.

  My free hand slid along the smooth stone, and the pressure was becoming stronger and stronger. I felt that my other limbs could not hold out and that I was going to begin to cramp. The water was beating on my genitals, too, and the pain was unbearable. Then my free hand suddenly found a hold in the rock. It wasn't a large one, and it was off to the side of where I wanted to rise, but it would serve as a support for my other hand when its turn came. I marked its location mentally, and my free hand returned to its search for my salvation. A few inches from the first hold, I found another.

  There it was! There was the place that for centuries had served as a hold for the pilgrims bound for Santiago. I could see this, and I held on with all my strength. The other hand came free, was thrown back by the force of the water, but, in an arc across the sky, reached and found the handhold. With a quick movement, my entire body followed the path opened by my arms, and I threw myself upward.

  The biggest and final step had been taken. My whole body came up through the water, and a moment later the savage waterfall had become just a trickle of water, hardly moving. I crawled to the bank and gave in to exhaustion. The sun fell on my body, warming me, and I told myself again that I had won, that I was alive as before when I had stood below in the lagoon. Over the sound of the water, I heard Petrus's approaching footsteps.

  I wanted to get up and show how happy I was, but my exhausted body refused.

  "Relax, rest a little," he said. "Try to breathe slowly."

  I did so and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep. When I awoke, the sun had moved across the sky, and Petrus, already fully dressed, handed me my clothes and said we had to move on.

  "I'm very tired," I answered.

  "Don't worry. I am going to show you how to draw energy from everything around you."

  And Petrus taught me the RAM Breathing Exercise.

  I did the exercise for five minutes and felt better. I arose, dressed, and grabbed my knapsack.

  "Come here," Petrus said. I went to the edge of the cliff. At my feet, the waterfall rushed by.

  "Looking at it from here, it looks a lot easier than it did from down there," I said.

  "Exactly. And if I had shown it to you from here before, you would have been misled. You would have made a poor analysis of your chances."

  I still felt weak, and I repeated the exercise. Shortly, the entire universe about me fell into harmony with me and came into my heart. I asked Petrus why he had not taught me RAM breathing before, since many times I had felt lazy and tired on the Road to Santiago.

  "Because you never looked like you felt that way," he said, laughing. Then he asked me if I still had any of the delicious butter cookies I had bought in Astorga.

  The Ram Breathing Exercise

  Expel all of the air from your lungs, emptying them as much as you can. Then, inhale slowly as you raise your arms as high as possible. As you inhale, concentrate on allowing love, peace, and harmony with the universe to enter into your body.

  Hold the air you have taken in and keep your arms raised for as long as you can, enjoying the harmony between your inner sensations and the outer world. When you reach your limit, exhale all of the air rapidly, as you say the word, "RAM."

  Repeat this process for five minutes each time you do the exercise.

  Madness

  For three days we had been making a kind of forced march. Petrus would wake me before daybreak, and we would not end our day's hike before nine in the evening. The only rest stops granted were for quick meals, since my guide had abolished our siesta. He gave the impression that he was keeping to some mysterious schedule that he hadn't shared with me.

  What's more, his behavior had changed completely. At first, I thought it had something to do with my hesitation at the waterfall, but later I could see that it was not that. He was irritable with everyone, and he looked at his watch frequently during the day. I reminded him that it was he who had told me that we ourselves create the pace of time.

  "You are becoming wiser every day," he answered. "Let's see if you can put all of this wisdom into play when it is needed."

  On one afternoon, I was so tired from the pace of our hiking that I simply could not get up. Petrus told me to take my shirt off and settle my spine along the trunk of a nearby tree. I held that position for several minutes and felt much better. He began to explain to me that vegetation, and especially mature trees, are able to transmit harmony when one rests one's nerve centers against a tree trunk. For hours he discoursed on the physical, energetic, and spiritual properties of plants.

  Since I had already read all of this somewhere, I didn't worry about taking notes. But Petrus's discourse helped to diminish my feeling that he was irritated with me. Afterward, I treated his silence with greater respect, and he, perhaps guessing correctly at my apprehension, tried to be friendlier whenever his constant bad mood allowed him to do so.

  We arrived one morning at an immense bridge, totally out of proportion to the modest stream that coursed below it. It was early on a Sunday morning, and, since the bars and taverns nearby were all closed, we sat down there to eat our breakfast.

  "People and nature are equally capricious," I said, trying to start a conversation. "We build beautiful bridges, and then Mother Nature changes the course of the rivers they cross."

  "It's the drought," he said. "Finish your sandwich, because we have to move along."

  I decided to ask him why we were in such a hurry.

  "We have been on the Road to Santiago for a long time. I have already told you that I left a lot of things unattended in Italy, and I have got to get back."

  I wasn't convinced. What he was saying might well be true, but it wasn't the only issue. When I started to question what he had said, he changed the subject.

  "What do you know about this bridge?"

  "Nothing," I answered. "But even with the drought, it's too big. I think the river must have changed its course."

  "As far as that goes, I have no idea," he said. "But it is known along the Road to Santiago as the 'honorable passage.' These fields around us were the site of some bloody battles between the Suevians and the Visigoths, and later between Alphonse III's soldiers
and the Moors. Maybe the bridge is oversize to allow all that blood to run past without flooding the city."

  He was making an attempt at macabre humor. I didn't laugh, and he was put off for a moment, but then he continued, "However, it wasn't the Visigoth hordes or the triumphant cries of Alphonse III that gave this bridge its name. It was another story of love and death.

  "During the first centuries of the Road to Santiago, pilgrims, priests, nobles, and even kings came from all over Europe to pay homage to the saint. Because of this, there was also an influx of assailants and robbers. History has recorded innumerable cases of robbery of entire caravans of pilgrims and of horrible crimes committed against lone travelers."

  Just like today, I thought.

  "Because of the crimes, some of the nobility decided to provide protection for the pilgrims, and each of the nobles involved took responsibility for protecting one segment of the Road. But just as rivers change their course, people's ideals are subject to alteration. In addition to frightening the malefactors, the knights began to compete with each other to determine who was the strongest and most courageous on the Road. It wasn't long before they began to do battle with each other, and the bandits returned to the Road with impunity.

  "This developed over a long period of time until, in 1434, a noble from the city of Leon fell in love with a woman. The man was Don Suero de Quinones; he was powerful and rich, and he did everything in his power to win his lady's hand in marriage. But this woman--history has forgotten her name--did not even want to know about his grand passion and rejected his request."

  I was dying of curiosity to know what an unrequited love had to do with battles among the knights. Petrus saw that I was interested and said that he would relate the rest of the story only if I finished my sandwich and we began to move along.

  "You are just like my mother when I was a child," I said. But I gulped down the last morsel of bread, picked up my knapsack, and we began to make our way through the sleepy city.