The Pilgrimage

"Except for one, the last and most important," he said, continuing to look at me without expression. "And without that one, nothing you have learned has any significance."

"That is why I am walking the Road to Santiago."

"Which guarantees nothing. Come with me."

Petrus stayed in the garden, and I followed Father Jordi. We crossed the cloisters, passed the place where a king was buried--Sancho the Strong--and went to a small chapel set among the group of main buildings that made up the monastery of Roncesvalles.

There was almost nothing inside: only a table, a book, and a sword--a sword that wasn't mine.

Father Jordi sat at the table, leaving me standing. He took some herbs and lit them, filling the place with their perfume. More and more, the situation reminded me of my encounter with Mme Lourdes.

"First, I want to tell you something," said Father Jordi. "The Jacobean route is only one of four roads. It is the Road of the Spades, and it may give you power, but that is not enough."

"What are the other three?"

"You know at least two others: the Road to Jerusalem, which is the Road of the Hearts, or of the Grail, and which endows you with the ability to perform miracles; and the Road to Rome, which is the Road of the Clubs; it allows you to communicate with other worlds."

"So what's missing is the Road of the Diamonds to complete the four suits of the deck," I joked. And the father laughed.

"Exactly. That's the secret Road. If you take it someday, you won't be helped by anybody. For now, let us leave that one aside. Where are your scallop shells?"

I opened my knapsack and took out the shells on which stood the image of Our Lady of the Visitation. He put the figure on the table. He held his hands over it and began to concentrate. He told me to do the same. The perfume in the air was growing stronger. Both the monk and I had our eyes open, and suddenly I could sense that the same phenomenon was occurring as had taken place at Itatiaia: the shells glowed with a light that did not illuminate. The brightness grew and grew, and I heard a mysterious voice, emanating from Father Jordi's throat, saying, "Wherever your treasure is, there will be your heart."

It was a phrase from the Bible. But the voice continued, "And wherever your heart is, there will be the cradle of the Second Coming of Christ; like these shells, the pilgrim is only an outer layer. When that layer, which is a stratum of life, is broken, life appears, and that life is comprised of agape."

He drew back his hands, and the shells lost their glow. Then he wrote my name in the book that was on the table. Along the Road to Santiago, I saw only three books where my name was written: Mme Lourdes's, Father Jordi's, and the Book of Power, where later I was to write my own name.

"That's all," he said. "You can go with the blessing of the Virgin of Roncesvalles and of San Tiago of the Sword.

"The Jacobean route is marked with yellow pointers, painted all the way across Spain," said the monk, as we returned to the place where Petrus was waiting. "If you should lose your way at any time, look for the markers--on trees, on stones, and on traffic signs--and you will be able to find a safe place."

"I have a good guide."

"But try to depend mainly on yourself--so that you aren't coming and going for six days in the Pyrenees."

So the monk already knew the story.

We found Petrus and then said good-bye. As we left Roncesvalles that morning, the fog had disappeared completely. A straight, flat road extended in front of us, and I began to see the yellow markers Father Jordi had mentioned. The knapsack was a bit heavier, because I had bought a bottle of wine at the tavern, despite the fact that Petrus had told me that it was unnecessary. After Roncesvalles, hundreds of small villages dotted the route, and I was to sleep outdoors very seldom.

"Petrus, Father Jordi spoke about the Second Coming of Christ as if it were something that were happening now."

"It is always happening. That is the secret of your sword."

"And you told me that I was going to meet with a sorcerer, but I met with a monk. What does magic have to do with the Catholic Church?"

Petrus said just one word:

"Everything."

Cruelty

"RIGHT THERE. THAT'S THE EXACT SPOT WHERE LOVE WAS murdered," said the old man, pointing to a small church built into the rocks.

We had walked for five days in a row, stopping only to eat and sleep. Petrus continued to be guarded about his private life but asked many questions about Brazil and about my work. He said that he really liked my country, because the image he knew best was that of Christ the Redeemer on Corcovado, standing open armed rather than suffering on the cross. He wanted to know everything, and he especially wanted to know if the women were as pretty as the ones here in Spain. The heat of the day was almost unbearable, and in all of the bars and villages where we stopped, the people complained about the drought. Because of the heat, we adopted the Spanish custom of the siesta and rested between two and four in the afternoon when the sun was at its hottest.

That afternoon, as we sat in an olive grove, the old man had come up to us and offered us a taste of wine. In spite of the heat, the habit of drinking wine had been part of life in that region for centuries.

"What do you mean, love was murdered there?" I asked, since the old man seemed to want to strike up a conversation.