The Valkyries

by Paulo Coelho

  “We learned how to fight, and we were strengthened by the battle. People are once again speaking of the spiritual world that only a few years ago was seen as something that only ignorant, complacent people believed in. There is an invisible thread that unites all those on the side of the light—like those joined kerchiefs of the Valkyries. And this thread is becoming a strong, shining rope, anchored by the angels. A handrail that is perceived by those who are most sensitive, and that will support us. Because we are many, and we are spread all over the earth. All of us moved by the same faith.”

  She said, “It’s a world that has so many names, isn’t it? New Age, Sixth Golden Age, Seventh Beam, and so on.”

  “But it’s all the same world. I’ll guarantee you.”

  Chris looked at Valhalla, there in the plaza, speaking of angels.

  “Well, why is she trying to convince others?”

  “No, no, she’s not trying to convince them of anything. We all came from Paradise, we have spread throughout the world, and now we’re returning there. Valhalla is asking these people to pay the price of that return.”

  Chris remembered the afternoon in the mine. “Sometimes it’s a very high price.”

  “It may be. But there are people who are willing to pay it. They know that what Valhalla is saying is true, because it brings back something they had forgotten. All of them still carry in their soul memories and visions of Paradise. Years may go by without their remembering—until something happens: the birth of a child, a serious loss, a feeling of imminent danger, a sunset, a book, a song…or a group of women dressed in leather, speaking of God. Anything. Suddenly, these people remember.

  “That’s what Valhalla is doing. Reminding them that a place exists. Some of them are listening, others aren’t—those who aren’t will pass by the gates without seeing that they’re open.”

  “But she’s talking about this new world.”

  “Those are just the words she uses. Actually, they have retrieved their harps from the willows, and are playing them again—and millions of people all over the world are singing of the joys of the Promised Land. No one is alone anymore.”

  They heard the sound of motorcycles. The play was over. Paulo began to walk toward the car.

  “Why didn’t you ever tell me about all this?” she asked.

  “Because you already knew.”

  Yes, she had known. But only now did she remember.

  The Valkyries rode from city to city on their motorcycles, with their trappings, their kerchiefs, and their strange outfits. And they spoke of God.

  Paulo and Chris went with them. When they made camp on the outskirts of a city, the couple stayed in hotels. When they stopped in the middle of the desert, they slept in the car. They made a campfire, and the dangers of the desert receded—the animals did not approach. As they dropped off to sleep, they could look up at the stars and hear the howls of the coyotes in the distance.

  Ever since the afternoon at the mine, Paulo had been practicing the channeling process. He was afraid that Chris might think that he hadn’t really known what he had tried to teach her.

  “I know J.,” she said, when the subject came up. “You don’t have to prove your knowledge to me.”

  “My girlfriend back in those days also knew the person who was teaching me,” he answered.

  They sat down together every afternoon, working at the destruction of their second minds; they prayed for their angels, and tried to invoke their presence.

  “I believe in this new world,” he said to Chris, when they had completed yet another exercise in channeling.

  “I know you believe in it. Or you wouldn’t have done the things you’ve done during your lifetime.”

  “But, even so, I don’t know whether the things I do are really correct.”

  “Give yourself some credit,” she answered. “You’re doing the best you can—very few people would travel so far to find their angel. And don’t forget, you broke the pact.”

  The pact he had broken in the mine: J. was going to be happy about that! Although Paulo was almost certain that he already knew everything, J. hadn’t tried to argue Paulo out of this trip to the desert.

  When the two had completed their channeling exercises, they talked for hours about angels. But only between themselves—Valhalla never again spoke of the matter.

  ONE AFTERNOON, AFTER THEIR CONVERSATION, HE WENT TO talk with Valhalla.

  “You know the Tradition,” he said. “You cannot interrupt a process once you have begun it.”

  “I’m not interrupting anything,” she answered.

  “But soon I’ll have to go back to Brazil. And I haven’t yet accepted forgiveness, nor made a bet.”

  “I’m not interrupting the process,” she said again.

  She suggested that they take a walk out in the desert. When they reached a certain point, they sat down together and watched the sunset, and talked about rituals and ceremonies. Valhalla asked about J.’s teaching methods, and Paulo wanted to know what the results were of her preaching in the desert.

  “I’m preparing the path,” she said casually. “I am doing my part, and I expect to do it right through to the end. Then, I’ll know what the next step is.”

  “How are you going to know when the time comes to stop?”

  Valhalla pointed to the horizon. “We have to make eleven trips through the desert, pass through the same places eleven times and repeat the same things eleven times. That’s all I was told to do.”

  “Your master said that?”

  “No, the archangel Michael.”

  “And what trip is this?”

  “This is the tenth.”

  The Valkyrie put her head on Paulo’s shoulder, and they sat in silence for a long time. He had a desire to caress her, put her head in his lap, as she had done for him at the abandoned mine. She was a warrior, but she, too, needed to rest.

  He thought about it for some time, but decided against it. And the two returned to the camp.

  AS THE DAYS PASSED, PAULO BEGAN TO SUSPECT THAT Valhalla was teaching him everything he needed to know—but that, as Gene had done, she was doing it without directly showing him the path. He began to observe closely what the Valkyries did; he thought he might perceive some clue, some teaching, a new practice. And, when Valhalla called him to go with her at day’s end—something she did every day now—he decided that he would discuss things with her.

  “There’s nothing that prevents you from teaching me directly,” he said. “You are not a master. It’s not like it is with Gene, or J., or even with me—people who know two Traditions.”

  “Yes, I am a master. I learned through revelation. You’re right that I don’t pronounce curses, and I don’t participate in covens, nor am I a member of any secret societies. But I know many things that you don’t know, because the archangel Michael taught them to me.”

  “Well, that’s why I’m here. To learn.”

  The two were seated in the sand, leaning against some rocks.

  “I need affection,” she said. “I really need affection.”

  Paulo shifted his position, and Valhalla laid her head in his lap. They sat there for some time, looking out at the horizon.

  It was Paulo who spoke first. He didn’t want to raise the subject, but felt he had to.

  “I’m going away soon, you know.”

  He awaited her reaction. She said nothing.

  “I have to learn how to see my angel. I feel as if you have been trying to teach me, but that I’m not seeing it.”

  “No. My teachings are as clear as the desert sun.”

  Paulo caressed the hair that covered his lap.

  “You have a beautiful wife,” Valhalla said.

  Paulo understood the comment, and took his hands away.

  When he had rejoined Chris that night, he told her what Valhalla had said about her. Chris smiled, but said nothing.

  THEY CONTINUED TO TRAVEL WITH THE VALKYRIES. Even after Valhalla’s comment—about the clarity
of her teachings—Paulo continued to pay close attention to everything the Valkyries did. But the routine varied little: travel along, speak in public places, perform the rituals he already knew, and move on.

  And make love. They made love to men they met along the way. Usually they were groups on motorcycles, bold enough to approach the Valkyries. When this happened, there was a tacit agreement that Valhalla would have the right to first choice. If she wasn’t interested, any of the others could approach the newcomer.

  The men never knew this. They were made to feel that they were with the woman they had chosen—but the choice had been made much earlier. By the women.

  The Valkyries drank beer and talked of God. They performed sacred rituals, and made love out among the rocks. In the larger cities, they went to some public place to perform their miracle play—getting those who were in the audience to participate.

  At the end, they asked for contributions. Valhalla never played a role, but she directed everything that was happening. Afterward, she would pass her kerchief around, and she always received money.

  Every afternoon, before Valhalla called Paulo to walk with her in the desert, he and Chris practiced their channeling and talked with their angels. Although the channel was not yet completely opened, they felt the presence of constant protection, of love and peace. They heard phrases that made little sense, they had some intuitions, and many times the only sensation was one of joy—nothing more. But they knew they were speaking to their angels, and that the angels were happy at this.

  Yes, the angels were happy, because they had been contacted again. Any person who resolved to speak with them would discover that it was not the first time. They had already conversed with them when they were children—the angels had appeared in the form of “secret friends,” and had been their companions in long conversations and in play, protecting them from evil and from danger.

  And every child had spoken with their guardian angel—until that day when their parents noticed that the child was talking to people who “didn’t exist.” Then they became intrigued, blamed it on excessive childish imagination, consulted with educators and psychologists, and came to the conclusion that the child should give up that sort of behavior.

  The parents always insisted on telling their children that their secret friends didn’t exist—perhaps because they had forgotten that they too had spoken to their angel at one time. Or, who knows, perhaps they thought they lived in a world where there was no longer any place for angels. Disenchanted, the angels had returned to God’s side, knowing that they could no longer impose their presence.

  But a new world was beginning. The angels knew where the gates to Paradise were, and they would conduct all who believed in them to those gates. Perhaps they needn’t even believe—it was enough that they needed angels, and the angels would return gladly.

  PAULO SPENT HIS NIGHTS TRYING TO UNDERSTAND WHY Valhalla was doing as she did—putting things off.

  Chris knew the answer. And the Valkyries knew the answer, as well—even though none of them said anything about it.

  Chris was waiting for the blow to fall. Sooner or later it was going to happen. That’s why Valhalla had not left them, had not taught them what else they needed to know about meeting with their angel.

  ONE AFTERNOON, IMMENSE MOUNTAIN FORMATIONS BEGAN to appear off to the right side of the road as they drove. Soon, to the left, mountains and canyons could be seen, and a gigantic salt flat, gleaming in the sun, extended from one side to the other.

  They had arrived at Death Valley.

  The Valkyries made camp close to Furnace Creek—the only place for miles around where there was water. Chris and Paulo decided to stay with the group, because the only hotel for miles was filled.

  That night, the entire group sat around the campfire, chatting about men and motorcycles, and—for the first time in many days—angels. As they always did before sleeping, the Valkyries knotted together their kerchiefs, held the long cord that was formed, and once again repeated the psalm that sang of the rivers of Babylon and of the harps hanging in the willow trees. They could never forget that they were warriors.

  When the ritual was over, silence fell over the encampment, and everyone made their sleeping arrangements. Except Valhalla.

  She walked some distance from the camp, and gazed for a long time at the moon. She asked the archangel Michael to continue to appear to her, to continue to provide her with valuable advice, and to help her to maintain a firm hand.

  “You won in your battles with the other angels,” she prayed. “Teach me to win. That I not disperse this flock of eight people, so that one day we might be thousands, millions. Forgive my errors, and fill my heart with enthusiasm. Grant me the strength to be both man and woman, both hard and soft.

  “May my word be your lance.

  “May my love be your scale.”

  She made the sign of the cross, and fell silent, listening to the howl of a coyote in the distance. She was wakeful, and began to think back on her life. She remembered when she had been just an employee at the Chase Manhattan Bank, and when her life amounted to nothing more than her husband and her two children.

  “Then I saw my angel,” she said to the silent desert. “The angel appeared to me, enveloped in light, and asked that I take on this mission. I was not forced, there were no threats, nor any promise of reward. My angel simply asked.”

  She had left the next day, and went straight to the Mojave Desert. She began preaching alone, speaking of the open gates to Paradise. Her husband divorced her and won custody of the children. She didn’t really understand clearly why she had accepted this mission, but every time she wept out of pain and solitude, her angel told her stories of other women who had accepted messages from God: the Virgin Mary, Saint Theresa, and Joan of Arc. The angel said that all the world needed was an example. People who were capable of following their dreams and of fighting for their ideas.

  She lived for almost a year outside Las Vegas. She exhausted the little money she had been able to pull together, went hungry, and slept outdoors. Until one day, a poem came into her hands.

  The poem told the story of a saint, Maria Egipciaca. She was traveling to Jerusalem, and had no money to pay for her passage across a river. The boatman, eyeing the attractive woman, suggested to her that, although she had no money, she did have her body. Maria Egipciaca surrendered herself to the boatman. When she arrived at Jerusalem, an angel appeared and blessed her for what she had done. And, although today almost no one remembers her, she was canonized by the church following her death.

  Valhalla interpreted the story as a sign. She preached in God’s name during the day, and twice a week went to the casinos, became the lover of wealthy men, and was able to put together some money. She never asked her angel whether she was doing the right thing—and her angel said nothing.

  Little by little, led by the invisible hands of other angels, her companions began to arrive.

  “One more trip,” she said again, aloud, to the silent desert. “Only one more trip to complete my mission, and then I can get back to the world. I have no idea what awaits me, but I want to get back. I need love, affection. I need someone who can protect me here on earth, just as my angel protects me in heaven. I have done my part; I have no regrets, even though it was awfully hard.”

  She made the sign of the cross again, and returned to the encampment.

  SHE SAW THAT THE BRAZILIAN COUPLE WAS STILL SEATED by the campfire, gazing at the flames.

  “How many days until your fortieth?” she asked Paulo.

  “Eleven.”

  “Well then, tomorrow night, at ten o’clock, in Golden Canyon, I will make you accept forgiveness. The Ritual That Demolishes Rituals.”

  Paulo was astonished. She was right! The answer had been under his nose the whole time!

  “Using what?” he asked.

  “Using hatred,” Valhalla answered.

  “That’s fine,” he said, trying to conceal his surprise. But Valhalla k
new that Paulo had never used hatred in the Ritual That Demolishes Rituals.

  She left the couple and went to where Rotha, the youngest of the Valkyries, was sleeping. She affectionately caressed the girl’s face to awaken her—Rotha might have been making contact with the angels that appear in one’s sleep, and Valhalla didn’t want to interrupt the conversation. Rotha finally opened her eyes.

  “Tomorrow night, you are going to learn how to accept forgiveness,” Valhalla said. “And then you will be able to see your angel.”

  “But I’m already a Valkyrie.”

  “Of course. And even if you are not able to see your angel, you will still be a Valkyrie.”

  Rotha smiled. She was twenty-three, and was proud to be roaming the desert with Valhalla.

  “Don’t wear your leather outfit tomorrow. Not from the moment the sun rises until the end of the Ritual That Demolishes Rituals.”

  She embraced her with great affection. “Go back to sleep,” she said.

  Paulo and Chris continued to sit by the fire for another half hour. Then they arranged some of their clothing as pillows, and prepared to sleep. They had thought about purchasing sleeping bags at every large city they had passed through, but they couldn’t bring themselves to shop around. More than anything, they always hoped to find a hotel somewhere. So, when it was necessary to camp out with the Valkyries, they either had to sleep in the car or near the fire. Their hair had already been scorched several times by blowing sparks—but nothing any more serious had happened until now.

  “What did she mean?” Chris asked as they lay there.

  “Nothing important.” He had had a couple of beers, and was sleepy.

  But Chris pressed the matter. She wanted an answer.

  “Everything in life is a ritual,” Paulo said. “For witches as much as for those who have never heard of witchcraft. Both are always trying to perform their rituals to perfection.”

  Chris knew that those on the magical path had their rituals. And she understood, as well, that there were rituals in everyday life—marriages, baptisms, graduations.