by Paulo Coelho
“No, it’s not about that.”
She hesitated. Paulo was her husband. He knew her better than anyone did. She was fearful of his response, because what he said carried more weight than what others said. But she resolved that she would ask the question anyway; she couldn’t stand keeping it inside.
Do you think I chose wrong?” she asked. “That I’ve wasted my life sowing seeds, content to watch the crops flourish around me instead of experiencing the strong emotions of the hunt?”
He walked along, looking up at the sky. He was still thinking about his bet, and about the planes.
“Often I look at people like J.,” he said. “People like J., who are at peace, and through that peace, find communion with God. I look at you, able to talk with your angel before I was—even though it was I who came here to do that. I watch you sleeping so soundly, while I’m standing at the window, and I ask myself why the miracle I’m waiting so desperately for doesn’t happen. And I ask myself: Did I choose the wrong path?”
He turned to her. “What do you think? Did I choose the wrong path?”
Chris took his hand in hers. “No. You would be very unhappy.”
“And so would you if you had chosen mine.”
“That’s a good thing to remember.”
BEFORE THE ALARM WENT OFF, HE SAT UP IN BED WITHOUT making a sound.
He looked outside, and it was still dark.
Chris was asleep. For a moment, he thought of waking her, and telling her where he was going. That she should say a prayer for him. But he decided against it. He could tell her everything when he returned. It wasn’t as if he were heading for any place dangerous.
He switched on the light in the bathroom, and filled his canteen from the faucet. Then he drank as much water as he could swallow—he had no idea how long he would be out there.
He dressed, grabbed the map, and memorized his route. Then, he got ready to leave.
But he couldn’t locate the key to the car. He looked in his pockets, in his knapsack, on the bedside table. He considered lighting the lamp—but no, it might awaken her, and the light from the bathroom was enough. He couldn’t spend any more time looking—every minute spent here was a minute less that he could devote to waiting for his angel. Within four hours, the heat of the desert would be unbearable.
Chris hid the key, he thought. She was a different woman now—she was speaking to her angel, and her intuition had increased considerably. Perhaps she had guessed at what his plans were and was frightened.
Why would she be frightened? That night when he had seen her at the precipice with Valhalla, he and Chris had made a sacred agreement; they had promised that never again would they risk their lives in the desert. Several times, the angel of Death had passed close to them, and it wouldn’t be smart to keep testing the patience of their guardian angel. Chris knew him well enough to know that he would never fail to keep a promise. That’s why he was stealing away before the first rays of the sun were to be seen—to avoid the dangers of the night, and the dangers of the day.
Nevertheless, she was concerned, and had hidden the key.
He went to the bed, having decided to awaken her. And he stopped.
Yes, there was a reason. She wasn’t worried about his safety, or about the risks he might take. She was fearful, but it was a different kind of fear—that her husband might be defeated. She knew that Paulo would try something. Only two days remained before they left the desert.
It was a good idea to do what you did, Chris, he thought, laughing to himself. A defeat such as this would take two years to overcome, and for the whole time you would have to put up with me, spend sleepless nights with me, bear with my bad moods, suffer my frustration along with me. It would be much worse than these days I lived through, before I learned how to make my bet.
He looked through her things; the key was in the security belt where she kept her passport and her money. Then he remembered his promise about safety—all this may have been a reminder. He had learned that you never go out into the desert without leaving at least some indication of your destination. Even though he knew that he would be back soon, and even knowing that his destination, after all, was not that far away—and that if anything were to happen, he could even return on foot—he decided not to run the risk. After all, he had promised.
He placed the map on the bathroom sink. And he used the can of pressurized shaving foam to make a circle around a location: Glorieta Canyon.
Using the same means, he sprayed a message on the mirror:
I WON’T MAKE ANY MISTAKES.
Then he put on his sneakers, and left.
When he was about to put the key into the ignition, he found he had left his own key there.
She must have had a copy made, he thought. What did she think was going to happen? That I was going to abandon her in the middle of the desert?
Then he recalled Gene’s strange behavior when he had forgotten the flashlight in the car. Thanks to the matter of the key, Paulo had marked the place where he was heading. His angel was seeing to it that he took all the necessary precautions.
The streets of Borrego Springs were deserted. Just like in the daytime, he thought to himself. He remembered their first night there, when they had stretched out on the floor of the desert, trying to imagine what their angels would be like. Back then, all he wanted to do was talk to his.
He turned to the left, out of the city, and headed for Glorieta Canyon. The mountains were to his right—the mountains they had descended by car back when they had first arrived. Back then, he thought, and realized it hadn’t been all that long ago. Only thirty-eight days.
But, as with Chris, his soul had died many times out there in the desert. He was pursuing a secret that he already knew, and had seen the sun turn into the eyes of death. He had met up with women who appeared to be angels and devils at the same time. He had reentered a darkness he thought he had forgotten. And he had discovered that, although he had spoken so often of Jesus, he had never completely accepted the Savior’s forgiveness.
He had reencountered his wife—at the very moment when he believed he had lost her forever. Because (and Chris could never know it) he had fallen in love with Valhalla.
That was when he had learned the difference between infatuation and love. Like conversing with the angels, it was really very simple.
Valhalla was a fantasy. The warrior woman, the huntress. The woman who conversed with angels, and was ready to run any risk in order to surpass her limits. For her, Paulo was the man who wore the ring of the Tradition of the Moon, the magus who knew about the occult mysteries. The adventurer, capable of leaving everything behind to go out in search of angels. Each would always be fascinated by the other—so long as each remained exactly what the other imagined.
That’s what infatuation is: the creation of an image of someone, without advising that someone as to what the image is.
But some day, when familiarity revealed the true identity of both, they would discover that behind the Magus and the Valkyrie there was a man and a woman. Each possessing powers, perhaps, each with some precious knowledge, maybe, but—they couldn’t ignore the fact—each basically a man and a woman. Each with the agony and the ecstasy, the strength and the weakness of every other human being.
And when either of them demonstrated how they really were, the other would want to flee—because it would mean the end of the world they had created.
He found love on a cliff where two women had tried to stare each other down, with the full moon as a backdrop. And love meant dividing the world with someone. He knew one of the women well, and had shared his universe with her. They had seen the same mountains, and the same trees, although each had seen them differently. She knew his weaknesses, his moments of hatred, of despair. Yet she was there at his side.
They shared the same universe. And although often he had had the feeling that their universe contained no more secrets, he had discovered—that night in Death Valley—that the feeling was wrong.<
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He stopped the car. Ahead, a ravine pierced the mountain. He had chosen the place based on its name—actually, angels are present at all times and in all places. He got out, drank some more of the water that now he always carried in bottles in the trunk of the car, and fixed the canteen to his belt.
He was still thinking about Chris and Valhalla as he made his way to the ravine. I think I’ll probably be infatuated many more times, he said to himself. He felt no guilt about it. Infatuation was a good thing. It gave spice to life, and added to its enjoyment.
But it was different from love. Love was worth everything, and couldn’t be exchanged for anything.
He stopped at the mouth of the ravine and looked out over the valley. The horizon was shading to crimson. It was the first time he had seen the dawn out in the desert; even when they had slept out in the open, the sun was always up when he awoke.
What a beautiful sight I’ve been missing, he thought. The peaks of the mountains in the distance were gleaming, and pink streaks were creeping into the valley, coloring the stones and the plants that survived there virtually without water. He gazed at the scene for some time.
He was thinking of a book he had written, in which—at a certain point—the shepherd, Santiago, climbs to the top of a mountain to look out over the desert. Except for the fact that Paulo was not atop a mountain, he was surprised at the similarity to what he had written about eight months earlier. He had also just realized the significance of the name of the city where he had disembarked in the United States.
Los Angeles. In Spanish: The Angels.
But this wasn’t the time to be thinking of the signs he had seen along the way.
“This is your face, my guardian angel,” he said aloud. “I see you. You have always been there before me, and never have I recognized you. I hear your voice. Every day I hear it more clearly. I know you exist, because they speak of you in all corners of the earth.
“Perhaps one man, or even an entire society, can be wrong. But all societies and all civilizations, everywhere on the planet, have always spoken of angels. Nowadays, children and the elderly and the prophets are listening. They will continue to speak of angels down through the centuries, because prophets, children, and old people will always exist.”
A blue butterfly fluttered about him. It was his angel, responding.
“I broke a pact. I accepted forgiveness.”
The butterfly drifted from one side to the other. He had seen numbers of white butterflies in the desert—but this one was blue. His angel was content.
“And I made a bet. That night, up on the mountain, I bet all of my faith in God, in life, in my work, in J. I bet everything I had. I bet that, when I opened my eyes, you would show yourself to me. I placed my entire life on one tray of the scales. I asked that you place your countenance on the other.
“And, when I opened my eyes, the desert was before me. For a few moments, I thought I had lost. But then—ah, how lovely the memory is—then, you spoke.”
A streak of light appeared on the horizon. The sun was coming alive.
“Do you remember what you said? You said: ‘Look around, this is my face. I am the place where you are. My mantle will cover you with the rays of the sun in daytime, and with the glow of the stars at night.’ I heard your voice clearly!
“And then you said: ‘Always need me.’”
His heart was content. He would wait for the sun to rise, and look for a long time at the face of his angel. Later, he would tell Chris of his bet. And tell her that seeing one’s angel was even easier than speaking with him! One had only to believe that angels exist, only to need the angels. And they would show themselves, as brilliant as the rays of morning. And they would help, performing their task of protection and guidance, so that each generation would speak to the next of their presence—so that they would never be forgotten.
Write something, he heard a voice within him say.
Strange. He wasn’t even trying to do his channeling. All he wanted to do was see his angel.
But some being within him was demanding that he write something. He tried to concentrate on the horizon and the desert, but that’s all he could manage.
He went to the car and picked up a pen and some paper. He had had some experience with automatic writing, but had never gone deeply into it—J. had said that it wasn’t for him. That he should seek out his true gift.
He sat down on the floor of the desert, pen in hand, and tried to relax. Before long, the pen would begin to move itself, would produce some strokes, and then words would follow. In order for this to happen, he had to lose a bit of his awareness, and allow something—a spirit or an angel—to take him over.
He surrendered completely, and accepted his role as instrument. But nothing happened. Write something, he heard the voice within him say again.
He was fearful. He wasn’t going to be incorporated by some spirit. He was channeling, without meaning to—as if his angel were there, speaking to him. It wasn’t automatic writing.
He took a different grip on the pen—now with firmness. The words began to emerge. And he wrote them down, without time even to think of what he was writing:
For Zion’s sake, I will not hold my peace.
And for Jerusalem’s sake, I will not rest,
Until her righteousness goes forth as brightness,
And her salvation, as a lamp that burns.
This had never happened before. He was hearing a voice within him, dictating the words:
You shall be called by a new name,
Which the mouth of the Lord will name.
You shall also be a crown of glory in the hand of the Lord,
And a royal diadem in the hand of your God.
You shall no longer be termed Forsaken,
Nor your land anymore be termed Desolate;
But you shall be called Hephzibah,
For the Lord delights in you, and your land shall be married.
He tried to converse with the voice. He asked to whom he should say this.
It has already been said, the voice answered. It is simply being remembered.
Paulo felt a lump in his throat. It was a miracle, and he gave thanks to God.
The golden globe of the sun was rising above the horizon.
He put down the pad and pen, stood up, and held out his hands in the direction of the light. He asked that all of that energy of hope—hope that a new day brings to millions of people on the face of the earth—would enter through his fingers and repose in his heart. He asked that he might always believe in the new world, in the angels, and in the open gates to paradise. He asked for protection by his angel and the Virgin Mary—for him, for all whom he loved, and for his work.
The butterfly came to him and, responding to a secret sign from his angel, landed on his left hand. He kept absolutely still, because he was in the presence of another miracle: His angel had responded.
He felt the universe stop at that moment: the sun, the butterfly, and the desert there before him.
And in the next moment, the air around him trembled. It wasn’t the wind. It was a shock of air—the same as one feels when a car is passed by a bus at high speed.
A shiver of absolute terror ran up his spine.
SOMEONE WAS THERE.
“Do not turn around,” he heard the voice say.
His heart was pounding, and he was beginning to feel dizzy. He knew it was fear. A terrible fear. He remained motionless, his arms extended before him, the butterfly poised on his hand.
I’m going to pass out, he thought.
“Do not pass out,” the voice said.
He was trying to maintain control of himself, but his hands were cold, and he began to tremble. The butterfly flew away, and he lowered his arms.
“Kneel down,” the voice said.
He knelt. He couldn’t think. There was nowhere to go.
“Clear the ground,”
He did as the voice ordered. With his hands, he brushed a small area in the san
d directly in front of him so that it was smooth. His heart continued to beat rapidly, and he was feeling more and more dizzy. He thought he might even have a heart attack.
“Look at the ground.”
An intense light, almost as strong as the morning sun, shone on his left side. He didn’t want to look directly at it, and wished only that everything would end quickly. For a moment, he recalled his childhood, when appearances of Our Lady had been described to children. He had passed many sleepless nights as a child, asking God never to order the Virgin to appear to him—because the prospect was so frightening. Scary.
The same fright that he was experiencing now.
“Look at the ground,” the voice insisted.
He looked down at the area he had just swept clear. And that was when the golden arm, as brilliant as the sun, appeared, and began to write in the sand.
“This is my name,” the voice said.
The fearful dizziness continued. His heart was beating even faster.
“Believe,” he heard the voice say. “The gates are open for a while.”
He gathered every bit of strength he had remaining.
“I want to say something,” he said aloud. The heat of the sun seemed to be restoring his strength.
He heard nothing. No answer.
An hour later, when Chris arrived—she had awakened the hotel owner, and demanded that he drive her there—he was still looking at the name in the sand.
THE TWO OTHERS WATCHED AS PAULO PREPARED THE cement.
“What a waste of water, out in the middle of the desert,” Gene joked.
Chris asked him not to kid around, since her husband was still feeling the impact of his vision.
“I found where the passage came from,” Gene said. “It’s from Isaiah.”
“Why that passage?” Chris asked.
“I have no idea. But I’m going to remember it.”
“It speaks about a new world,” she continued.
“Maybe that’s why,” Gene answered. “Maybe that’s why.” Paulo called to them.
The three said a Hail Mary. Then Paulo climbed to the top of a boulder, spread the cement, and placed within it the image of Our Lady that he always carried with him.