by Paulo Coelho
“No, no. I’m not talking about those obvious rituals,” he went on impatiently. He wanted to sleep, but she pretended not to have sensed his irritation. “I’m saying that everything is a ritual. Just as a mass is a great ritual, composed of various parts, the everyday experience of any person is, also.
“A carefully elaborate ritual that the person tries to perform precisely, because he or she is afraid that—if any part is left out—everything will go wrong. The name of that ritual is Routine.”
He decided to sit up. He was groggy because of the beers he had drunk, and if he continued to lie down, he would be unable to complete his explanation.
“When we are young, we don’t take anything too seriously. But slowly, this set of daily rituals becomes solidified, and takes us over. Once things have begun to go along pretty much as we imagined they would, we don’t dare risk altering the ritual. We like to complain, but we are reassured by the fact that each day is more or less like every other. At least there is no unexpected danger.
“That way, we are able to avoid any inner or outer growth, except for the kinds that are provided for within the ritual: so many children, such and such a kind of promotion, this and that kind of financial success. When the ritual becomes consolidated, the person becomes a slave.”
“Does that happen sometimes with those on the path?”
“Of course. They use the ritual to make contact with the invisible world, to destroy the second mind, and to enter into the Extraordinary. But, for us too, the terrain we conquer becomes familiar. And we feel the need to seek out new territories. But any magus is fearful of changing the ritual. It’s a fear of the unknown, or a fear that other rituals won’t function as well—but it is an irrational fear, a strong one, that never disappears without some help.”
“And what is the Ritual That Demolishes Rituals?”
“Since a magus is unable to change their rituals, the Tradition decides to change the magus. It’s a kind of Sacred Theater in which the magus has to play a different character.”
He lay down again, turned on his side, and pretended to sleep. Chris might ask for further explanations. She might want to know why Valhalla had mentioned hatred.
Negative emotions were never invoked in the sacred theater. On the contrary, people who participated in that kind of theater tried to work with the good, and to assume characters that were strong, enlightened. That way, they were able to convince themselves that they were better people than they had thought, and—when they believed that—their lives changed.
To work with negative emotions would mean the same thing. He would wind up convincing himself that he was worse than he had imagined.
THEY SPENT THE AFTERNOON OF THE FOLLOWING DAY exploring Golden Canyon, a series of ravines with tortuous curves and walls about twenty feet high. At the moment that the sun set, while they were doing their channeling exercise, they saw how the place had acquired its name: The brilliant minerals embedded in the rock reflected the rays of the sun, causing the walls to appear to be carved out of gold.
“Tonight there will be a full moon,” Paulo said.
They had already seen the full desert moon, and it was an extraordinary spectacle.
“I awoke today thinking about a passage in the Bible,” he continued. “It’s from Solomon: ‘It is good that you retain this, and that you not take away your hand from it; for whoever fears the Lord will emerge from everything unscathed.’”
“A strange message,” Chris said.
“Very strange.”
“My angel is speaking to me more and more,” she told him. “I’m beginning to understand the words. I understand perfectly well what you were talking about in the mine, because I never believed that this communication with my angel could happen.”
That made Paulo feel pleased. And together they contemplated afternoon’s end. This time, Valhalla had not appeared for their walk in the desert.
The glistening stones they had seen that afternoon were no longer apparent. The moon cast a strange, phantasmagorical light into the ravine. They could hear their own footsteps in the sand, as they walked along in silence, alert to any sound they might hear. They didn’t know where the Valkyries were meeting.
They came almost to the end point, where the fissure widened to form a small clearing. No sign of them.
Chris broke the silence. “Maybe they decided against it.”
She knew that Valhalla was going to prolong the game as long as possible. But Chris wanted it to be over.
“The animals are on the prowl. I’m afraid of the snakes,” she said. “Let’s go back.”
But Paulo was looking upward.
“Look,” he said. “They haven’t decided against it.”
Chris followed his gaze. At the top of the rocks that formed the right wall of the ravine, the figure of a woman was looking down at them.
She felt a shiver.
The figure of another woman appeared. And another. Chris went to the middle of the clearing; she could see three more women on the other side.
Two were missing.
“WELCOME TO THE THEATER!” VALHALLA’S VOICE ECHOED from the stone walls. “The audience is already here, and they await the spectacle!”
That was how Valhalla had always begun her plays in the city parks.
But I’m not part of the spectacle, Chris thought. Maybe I should climb up there with them.
“Here, the price of admission is paid upon leaving,” the voice continued, repeating what was always said in the city squares. “It may be a high price, or we might return what is paid. Do you want to take the risk?”
“Yes, I do,” Paulo answered.
“What is all this?” Chris suddenly shouted. “Why such dramatics, why so much ritual, why all of this just to see an angel? Isn’t it enough to speak with the angel? Why don’t you do as everyone else does: simplify the way we make contact with God and with what is sacred in this world?”
There was no response. Paulo felt that Chris was ruining everything.
“The Ritual That Demolishes Rituals,” said one of the Valkyries from high in the rocks.
“Silence!” Valhalla shouted. “The audience gets to speak only when this is over! Applaud or boo—but pay the admission!”
Valhalla finally appeared. She wore her kerchief knotted around her forehead, Indian-style. She usually wore it that way when she was saying her prayers at day’s end. It was her crown.
She brought with her a barefoot girl, wearing Bermudas and blouse. When they had come closer, and the moonlight illuminated their faces, Chris saw that it was one of the Valkyries—the youngest of the group. Without her leather outfit and her aggressive air, she seemed only a child.
Valhalla placed her in front of Paulo, and traced a large square around them. At each of its corners, she stopped and spoke a few words. Paulo and Rotha repeated the words in Latin—the young woman made several errors, and had to begin again.
She doesn’t even know what she’s saying, Chris thought. Neither the square nor the words were a part of what usually happened at the performances in the city.
When Valhalla had completed the inscription of the square, she asked that the two approach her. They remained within the square, while she stood outside.
Valhalla turned to Paulo, looked deep into his eyes, and handed him the long leather belt she usually wore around her waist.
“Warrior, you are imprisoned within your destiny by the power of these lines and of these sacred names. Warrior, victorious in battle, you are now in your castle, and you will receive your reward.”
In his mind, Paulo created the walls of the castle. From that moment on, the ravine, the Valkyries, Chris, Valhalla, and everything else ceased to be of importance.
He was an actor in the sacred theater. The Ritual That Demolishes Rituals.
“Prisoner,” Valhalla said to the girl, “your defeat has been humiliating. You were unable to defend your army with honor. The Valkyries will come down from heaven to recover you
r body when you are dead. But until then, you will receive the punishment that the loser deserves.”
With an abrupt gesture, she tore open the girl’s blouse.
“Let the spectacle begin! This, oh warrior, is your trophy!”
He seized the girl violently. She fell awkwardly, cutting her chin, and it bled.
Paulo knelt at her side. In his hand, he clutched Valhalla’s belt, and it seemed to have an energy of its own. It frightened him, and for a few moments he left the imaginary walls of the castle and returned to the ravine.
“She’s really hurt,” Paulo said. “She needs some help.”
“Warrior, that is your trophy!” Valhalla repeated, stepping away. “The woman who knows the secret you are after. Extract that secret from her, or give it up forever.”
“Not for ourselves, Lord, not for ourselves, but for the glory of your name,” he said in a low voice, repeating the motto of the Templars. He had to make a quick decision. He recalled the time when he believed in nothing, thinking all of this was simply dramatics—but even then, things were transformed, and the truth emerged.
He was faced with the Ritual That Demolishes Rituals. A sacred moment in the life of a magus.
“Sed nomini Tuo de Gloriam,” he said again. And in the moment that followed, he dressed himself in the role suggested by Valhalla. The Ritual That Demolishes Rituals began to unfold. Nothing else was important—only that unknown path, that frightened woman at his feet, and a secret that had to be won from her. He strode around his victim, and thought of those times when morality was different—when taking possession of a woman was a rule of combat. Men had risked their lives in war for gold and women.
“I won!” he screamed at the girl. “And you lost!”
He knelt and seized her by the hair. Her eyes stared into his.
“It is we who will win,” the girl said.
He threw her violently to the ground again.
“The rule of victory is to win.”
“All of you think you won,” the prisoner continued. “You won only a battle. It is we who will win the war.”
Who was this woman who dared to speak to him this way? She had a lovely body—but that could wait. He had to learn the secret he had sought for so long.
“Teach me how to see my angel,” he said, trying to keep his voice calm. “Then you will be set free.”
“I am free.”
“No. You don’t know the rules of victory,” he said. “That’s why we defeated all of you.”
The woman seemed to become confused. “Tell me about those rules,” she said. “And I will tell you the secret about your angel.”
The prisoner was making a trade. He could torture her, destroy her. There she was, fallen at his feet—yet she was proposing a trade. Perhaps she wouldn’t confess under torture. Better to make the trade. He would tell her about the five rules of victory, since she was never going to leave there alive.
“The morality rule: You have to fight on the side that is in the right, and that’s why we won. The weather rule: A war in the rain is different from a war in the sun; a battle in the winter is different from a battle in the summer.”
He could fool her now. But he wasn’t able to invent false rules on the spot. The woman would notice his hesitancy.
“The space rule,” he continued. “A war in a ravine is different from a war in the field. The choice rule: The warrior knows how to choose who should give advice, and who will remain at his side in combat. A chieftain cannot be surrounded by cowards or traitors.”
He thought for a moment about whether he should continue. But he had already told her four of the rules.
“The strategy rule,” he said finally. “The way in which the battle is planned.”
That was all of it. The girl’s eyes gleamed.
“Now tell me about the angels.”
She looked at him, saying nothing. She had learned the formula, even though it was too late. Those valiant warriors never lost a battle—and legend had it that they used five rules of victory. Now she knew what they were.
She knew it would do her no good, but at least she could die in peace. She deserved the punishment she was to receive.
“Tell me about the angels,” the warrior said again.
“No! I won’t tell you about the angels.”
The warrior’s eyes changed, and she was delighted. He would show no mercy. The only thing that frightened her was that the warrior might be governed by the rule of morality, and spare her life. She wasn’t deserving of that. She was guilty—dozens, hundreds of sins accumulated during her short life. She had disappointed her parents, disappointed men who had grown close to her. Deceived the warriors who had fought at her side. She had allowed herself to be taken prisoner—she was weak. She deserved to be punished.
“Hatred!” they heard a distant woman’s voice say. “The secret of the ritual is hatred!”
“We made a trade,” the warrior repeated, and now his voice was as cold as steel. “I lived up to my side.”
“You are not going to let me leave alive,” she said. “But at least I got what I wanted. Even though it’s of no use to me.”
“Hatred!” The voice of the woman was beginning to have an effect on him. He was allowing his worst feelings to surface. Hatred was permeating the warrior’s heart.
“You are going to suffer.” he said. “The worst tortures anyone has ever experienced.”
“I will suffer.”
“I deserve this,” she thought. She deserved the pain and the punishment. She deserved death. Ever since she was a child, she had refused to fight—she didn’t believe that she was capable of it. She accepted everything from others, suffered in silence the injustices to which she fell victim. She wanted everyone to see that she was a good girl. That she was sensitive in her heart, and able to help everyone. She wanted to be liked at any cost. God had given her a good life, and she had not been able to make use of it. Instead, she begged that others love her, lived her life as others wanted her to, all in order to show that she was kindhearted and able to please everyone.
She had been unfair to God, had thrown her life away. Now she needed an executioner who would dispatch her quickly to hell.
The warrior felt the belt becoming alive in his hand. For a moment, his eyes met those of his prisoner.
He was waiting for her to change her mind, beg his forgiveness. Instead, the prisoner winced as she awaited the blow.
Suddenly, everything disappeared except his rage at having been tricked by his prisoner. The hatred came in waves, and he was beginning to see how capable he was of cruelty. He had always been wrong, he had always allowed his heart to give in at the very moment when he should have meted out justice. He had always forgiven—not because he was a good person, but because he was a coward. He was afraid that he couldn’t see such things through to the end.
Valhalla looked at Chris, and Chris returned her stare. The moonlight prevented each from seeing clearly into the eyes of the other. And that was a good thing, because each was afraid to reveal what she was feeling.
“For God’s sake!” the prisoner screamed again, before the blow was delivered.
The warrior halted his stroke in midair.
But the enemy had arrived.
“Enough,” said Valhalla. “That’s enough.”
Paulo’s eyes were glazed. He grabbed Valhalla by the shoulders.
“I feel this hatred!” he shouted. “I’m not making it up! I’ve let some demons loose that I wasn’t even aware of!”
Valhalla took the belt from his hand, and went to see whether Rotha was injured.
She was crying, her head between her knees.
“It was all true,” she said, embracing Valhalla. “I provoked him, and I used him as my instrument of punishment. I wanted him to destroy me, to put me to death. My parents blamed me, my brothers and sisters blamed me. All I’ve ever done in life was wrong.”
“Go and put on another blouse,” said Valhalla.
Rotha stood up, trying to arrange her torn clothing.
“I want to stay this way,” she said.
Valhalla hesitated for a moment, but said nothing. She walked to the wall of the canyon and began to climb. At the top, she was surrounded by three Valkyries, and she gave a signal that the others climb up, as well.
Chris, Rotha, and Paulo climbed the wall in silence. The moonlight showed them the way; with the many handholds in the rocks, it was not a difficult ascent. At the top, they could look out at a vast plain riven by arroyos.
Valhalla told Paulo and the girl to come together again, face to face, embracing.
“Did I hurt you?” Paulo asked. He was horrified with himself.
Rotha shook her head. She was ashamed—she would never succeed at becoming a woman like those who surrounded her. She was too weak.
Valhalla knotted together the kerchiefs of two of the Valkyries. She slipped them through the belt loops of the man and woman, binding them to each other. From where she stood, Chris could see that the moon formed a halo around the couple. It would have been a beautiful scene—if it were not for all that had happened. If that man and woman were not so distant from each other—or so close.
“I am unworthy of seeing my angel,” Rotha said to Valhalla. “I am weak, and my heart is filled with shame.”
“I am unworthy of seeing my angel,” Paulo said, so that all could hear. “I have hatred in my heart.”
“I have loved many,” Rotha said. “But spurned true love.”
“I have nourished hatred for years, and avenged myself over things that were unimportant,” Paulo continued. “I was always forgiven by my friends, but never learned how to forgive them in return.”
Valhalla turned to face the moon.
“We are here, archangel. The Lord’s will be done. Our inheritance is hatred and fear, humiliation and shame. The Lord’s will be done.
“Why was it not enough simply to close the gates to Paradise? Did you also have to cause us to carry hell in our hearts? But, if that is the will of the Lord, you must know that all of humanity has been doing his will for generations and generations.”