The Pilgrimage

by Paulo Coelho

  The lamb began to walk away, and I followed him. I already knew where he would lead me; in spite of the clouds, everything had become clear to me. Even if I could not see the Milky Way in the sky, I was certain that it was there, pointing the way along the Road to Santiago. I followed the lamb as he walked in the direction of the hamlet--which was called El Cebrero, like the mountain.

  There, at one time, a miracle had happened. It was the miracle of transforming what you do into what you believe in, just like the secret of my sword and of the Strange Road to Santiago. As we descended the mountain, I remembered the story. A farmer from a nearby village had climbed the mountain to attend mass at El Cebrero on a stormy day. The mass was being celebrated by a monk who was almost completely lacking in faith and who ridiculed the farmer for having made such an effort to get there. But at the moment of consecration, the host had actually been transformed into the body of Christ and the wine into his blood. The relics are still there, guarded in that small chapel, a treasure greater than all the riches of the Vatican.

  The lamb stopped at the edge of the hamlet, where there was only one street leading to the church. At that moment, I was seized by a terrible fear, and I began to repeat over and over, "Lord, I am not worthy to enter thy house." But the lamb looked at me and spoke to me through his eyes. He said that I should forget forever my unworthiness because the power had been reborn in me, in the same way that it could be reborn in all people who devoted their lives to the good fight. A day would come--said the lamb's eyes--when people would once again take pride in themselves, and then all of nature would praise the awakening of the God that had been sleeping within them.

  As the lamb looked at me, I could read all of this in his eyes; now he had become my guide along the Road to Santiago. For a moment everything went dark, and I began to see scenes that were reminiscent of those I had read about in the Apocalypse: the Great Lamb on his throne and people washing his vestments, cleansing them with his blood. This was the moment when the God was awakened in each of them. I also saw the wars and hard times and catastrophes that were going to shake the earth over the next few years. But everything ended with the victory of the Lamb and with everything ended with the victory of the Lamb and with every human being on earth awakening the sleeping God and all of God's power.

  I followed the lamb to the small chapel built by the farmer and by the monk who had come to believe in what he did. Nobody knows who they were. Two nameless tombstones in the cemetery by the chapel mark the place where they were buried. But it is impossible to tell which is the grave of the monk and which of the farmer. The miracle had occurred because both had fought the good fight.

  The chapel was completely lit when I came to its door. Yes, I was worthy of entering, because I had a sword and I knew what to do with it. These were not the Gates of Forgiveness, because I had already been forgiven and had washed my clothing in the blood of the Lamb. Now I wanted only to hold my sword and go out to fight the good fight.

  In the small church there was no cross. There on the altar were the relics of the miracle: the chalice and the paten that I had seen during the dance, and a silver reliquary containing the body and blood of Jesus. I once again believed in miracles and in the impossible things that human beings can accomplish in their daily lives. The mountain peaks seemed to say to me that they were there only as a challenge to humans--and that humans exist only to accept the honor of that challenge.

  The lamb slipped into one of the pews, and I looked to the front of the chapel. Standing before the altar, smiling--and perhaps a bit relieved--was my Master: with my sword in his hand.

  I stopped, and he came toward me, passing me by and going outside. I followed him. In front of the chapel, looking up at the dark sky, he unsheathed my sword and told me to grasp its hilt with him. He pointed the blade upward and said the sacred Psalm of those who travel far to achieve victory:

  A thousand fall at your side, and ten thousand to your right,

  but you will not be touched.

  No evil will befall you, no curse will fall upon your tent;

  your angels will be given orders regarding you,

  to protect you along your every way.

  I knelt, and as he touched the blade to my shoulders, he said:

  Trample the lion and the serpent,

  The lion cub and the dragon will make shoes for your feet.

  As he finished saying this, it began to rain. The rain fertilized the earth, and its water would return to the sky after having given birth to a seed, grown a tree, brought a flower into blossom. The storm intensified, and I raised my head, feeling the rain for the first time in my entire journey along the Road to Santiago. I remembered the dry fields, and I was joyful that they were being showered upon that night. I remembered the rocks in Leon, the wheat fields of Navarra, the dryness of Castile, and the vineyards of Rioja that today were drinking the rain that fell in torrents, with all of the force in the skies. I remembered having raised a cross, and I thought that the storm would once again cause it to fall to earth so that another pilgrim could learn about command and obedience. I thought of the waterfall, which now must be even stronger because of the rainfall, and of Foncebadon, where I had left such power to fertilize the soil again. I thought about all of the water I had drunk from so many fountains that were now being replenished. I was worthy of my sword because I knew what to do with it.

  The Master held out the sword to me, and I grasped it. I looked about for the lamb, but he had disappeared. But that did not matter: the Water of Life fell from the sky and caused the blade of my sword to glisten.

  Epilogue

  SANTIAGO DE COMPOSTELA

  From the window of my hotel I can see the Cathedral of Santiago and the tourists at its main gate. Students in black medieval clothing mingle with the townspeople, and the souvenir vendors are setting up their stalls. It is early in the morning, and except for my notes, these are the first lines I have written about the Road to Santiago.

  I reached the city yesterday, after having caught the bus that runs from Pedrafita, near El Cebrero, to Compostela. In four hours we covered the 150 kilometers that separate the two cities, and this reminded me of the journey with Petrus. At times, it took us two weeks to cover that distance. In a short while, I am going to the tomb of San Tiago to leave there the image of Our Lady of the Visitation, mounted on the scallop shells. Then, as soon as possible, I am going to catch a plane for Brazil, because I have a lot to do. I remember that Petrus told me once that he had condensed all of his experience into one picture, and the thought occurs to me that I might write a book about everything that has happened to me. But this is still a remote idea; I have so much to do now that I have recovered my sword.

  The secret of my sword is mine, and I will never reveal it to anyone. I wrote it down and left it under a stone, but with the rain, the paper has probably been destroyed. It's better that way. Petrus didn't need to know.

  I asked my Master whether he had known what day I was going to arrive or whether he had been waiting there for some time. He laughed and said that he had arrived there the morning before and was going to leave the next day, whether I appeared or not.

  I asked how that was possible, and he did not answer me. But when we were saying good-bye and he was getting into the rental car that would take him back to Madrid, he gave me a small medal of the Order of San Tiago of the Sword. And he told me that I had already had a great revelation when I had looked into the eyes of the lamb.

  And when I think about it, I guess it is true that people always arrive at the right moment at the place where someone awaits them.

  About the Author

  PAULO COELHO is an international bestselling author whose books--The Alchemist, The Pilgrimage, The Valkyries, By the River Piedra I Sat Down and Wept, and The Fifth Mountain--have sold more than 25 million copies in 117 countries and have been translated into 43 languages. He lives in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil.

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  Praise

  International Acclaim for Paulo Coelho's The Pilgrimage

  "Among Latin American writers only Colombia's Gabriel Garcia M rquez is more widely read than Brazil's Paulo Coelho."

  --The Economist

  "[Coelho] has attained the technical levels of a Saint-Exupery."

  Folha de Sao Paolo, Brazil "Coelho exhibits an amazing virtue of transparency that makes his writing like a path of energy that inadvertently leads readers to themselves, toward their mysterious and faraway souls."

  --Figaro Litteraire, France "A well-researched, perfectly designed work."

  --Correio de Manha, Portugal "Paulo Coelho represents the legend of the wise storyteller."

  --Corriere della Sera, Italy "A gem of Brazilian literature."

  --Cinco Dias, Spain

  "Coelho reveals, through his powerful poetry, a unique and incomparable message of life as well as developing a path to reach the Eternity."

  --Excelsior, Mexico

  "Coelho is a pilgrim of a literature that soothes the soul, and of a philosophy that rediscovers the spirituality in people, our personal quest and reunion with the forgotten, everyday beauty of the world in which we live and the paths we weave. His books are a mirror: Refreshing, intense, messengers of love and of man's most essential path. His magic irradiates when, after reading his books, one feels happy."

  --El Espectador, Colombia "[Coelho's] magic lies in the straightforward stance of being and living, and in those wholesome and positive concepts he feels able to convey."

  --Minas Gerais Daily

  ALSO BY PAULO COELHO

  The Alchemist: A Fable About Following Your Dream

  The Valkyries: An Encounter with Angels

  By the River Piedra I Sat Down and Wept

  The Fifth Mountain

  Credits

  Cover design by Doreen Louie

  Cover photograph (c) 2000 by M. Friend/Hutchinson Library

  Copyright

  This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author's imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  THE PILGRIMAGE. Copyright (c) 2006 by Paulo Coelho. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

  EPub Edition (c) JUNE 2006 ISBN: 9780061841927

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  1The Road to Santiago, on the French side, was comprised of several routes that joined at a Spanish city called Puente de la Reina. The city of Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port is located on one of those three routes; it is neither the only one nor the most important.

  1The Road to Santiago has made only one mark on French culture, and that has been on that country's national pride, gastronomy, through the name "Coquilles Saint-Jacques."

  2Actually, Petrus told me his real name. I have changed it in order to protect his privacy, but this is one of the few times that names have been changed in this book.

  1It has been said that there is no such thing as coincidence in this world, and the following story confirms the truth of this assertion once again. One afternoon, I was leafing through some magazines in the lobby of the hotel where I was staying in Madrid, when I noticed a piece about the Prince of Asturias Prize; a Brazilian journalist, Roberto Marinho, had been one of the prize winners. A closer study of the photograph of those at the awards dinner startled me, though. At one of the tables, elegantly dressed in his tuxedo, was Petrus, described in the caption as "one of the most famous European designers of the moment."

  2There is a red fruit whose name I do not know, but just the sight of it today makes me nauseated from having eaten so much of it while walking through the Pyrenees.

  3Trials are ritual tests in which importance is given not only to the disciple's dedication but also to the auguries that emerge during their execution. This usage of the term originated during the Inquisition.

  1This is not the real name.

  2This description of my first experience with the Messenger Ritual is incomplete. Actually, Petrus explained the meaning of the visions, of the memories, and of the bag that Astrain showed me. But since each meeting with the messenger is different for every person, I do not want to insist on my own personal experience as it might influence the experience of others.

  1In the game between Spain and Brazil at that World Cup in Mexico, a Spanish goal was nullified because the referee had not seen the ball hit behind the goal line before ricocheting out. Brazil wound up winning that game I-0.

  1I found out later that the term had actually been created by Saint Paul.

  1The Paradores Nacionales are ancient castles and historic monuments that have been turned into first-class hotels by the Spanish government.

  1This is the name given, in the Tradition, to those Masters who have lost their magical contact with their disciples, as just described. This expression is also used to describe Masters who interrupted their learning process after having established dominion only over earthly forces.

  1Since this is an extrmely long ritual and can be understood only by those who know the road of the Tradition, I have opted to summarize the incantations used. But this does not chandge the narrative at all, since this ritual was performed only to establish a reunion with and respect for the ancients. The important element of this part of the Road to Santiago--the Dance Exercise --is described here in its entirety.