"There's another reason you're happy," I said, as we left the small village with the strange statue.
"What's that?"
"You know that I'm happy. You're responsible for my being here today, climbing the mountains of truth, far from my mountains of notebooks and texts. You're making me happy. And happiness is something that multiplies when it is divided."
"Did you do the exercise of the Other?"
"Yes. How did you know?"
"Because you've changed too. And because we always learn that exercise at the right time."
The Other pursued me all through the morning. Every minute, though, its voice grew fainter, and its image seemed to dissolve. It reminded me of those vampire films where the monster crumbles into dust.
We passed another column with an image of the Virgin on the cross.
"What are you thinking about?" he asked me.
"About vampires. Those creatures of the night, locked inside themselves, desperately seeking company. Incapable of loving."
"That's why legend has it that only a stake through the heart can kill them; when that happens, the heart bursts, freeing the energy of love and destroying the evil."
"I never thought of that before. But it makes sense."
I had succeeded in burying the stake. My heart, freed of all its curses, was aware of everything. The Other no longer had a place to call its own.
A thousand times I wanted to take his hand, and a thousand times I stopped myself. I was still confused--I wanted to
tell him I loved him, but I didn't know how to begin.
We talked about the mountains and the rivers. We were lost in a forest for almost an hour, but eventually we found the path again. We ate sandwiches and drank melted snow. When the sun began to set, we decided to return to Saint-Savin.
THE SOUND of our footsteps echoed from the stone walls. At the entrance to the church, I instinctively dipped my hand in the font of holy water and made the sign of the cross. I recalled that water was the symbol of the Goddess.
"Let's go in," he suggested.
We walked through the dark, empty building. Saint Savin, a hermit who had lived at the start of the first millennium, was buried below the main altar. The walls of the place were crumbling and had clearly been reconstructed several times.
Some places are like that: they can suffer through wars, persecutions, and indifference, but they still remain sacred. Finally someone comes along, senses that something is missing, and rebuilds them.
I noticed an image of the crucified Christ that gave me a funny feeling--I had the impression that his head was moving, following me.
"Let's stop here."
We were before an altar of Our Lady.
"Look at the image."
Mary, with her son in her lap. The infant Jesus pointing to the heavens.
"Look more carefully," he said.
I studied the details of the wooden carving: the gilt paint, the pedestal, the perfection with which the artist had traced the folds of the robe. But it was when I focused on the finger of the child Jesus that I understood what he meant.
Although Mary held him in her arms, it was Jesus who was supporting her. The child's arm, raised to the sky, appeared to be lifting the Virgin toward heaven, back to the place of Her Groom's abode.
"The artist who created this more than six hundred years ago knew what he wanted to convey," he commented.
Footsteps sounded on the wooden floor. A woman entered and lit a candle in front of the main altar.