by Paulo Coelho
"But then I was burned at the stake, too," she said to herself. She remembered the prayer Wicca had said on the day commemorating the martyrdom of the witches. And in that prayer, she had mentioned Jesus and the Virgin Mary. Love was above everything else, and there was no hatred in love, only the occasional mistake. At one point, men may have decided to make themselves God's representatives and subsequently made mistakes, but God had nothing to do with that.
When she did finally go in, there was no one else inside. A few lit candles showed that someone had taken the trouble that morning to renew their alliance with a force they could only sense, and in that way had crossed the bridge between the visible and the invisible. She regretted her thoughts before entering the church: nothing was explained here either, and people had to take a chance and plunge into the Dark Night of Faith. Before her, arms outspread, was that seemingly simple God.
He could not help her. She was alone with her decisions, and no one could help her. She needed to learn to take risks. She didn't have the same advantages as the crucified man before her, who had known what his mission was, because he was the son of God. He had never made a mistake. He had never known ordinary human love, only love for His Father. All He needed to do was to reveal His wisdom and teach humankind the true path to heaven.
But was that all? She remembered a Sunday catechism class, when the priest had been more inspired than usual. They'd been studying the episode when Jesus, sweating blood, was praying to God and asking Him to remove the cup from which he was being forced to drink.
"But why, if he already knew he was the son of God?" asked the priest. "Because he only knew it with his heart. If he was absolutely sure, his mission would be meaningless, because he would not be entirely human. Being human means having doubts and yet still continuing on your path."
She looked again at the image, and for the first time in her entire life, felt closer to it. There perhaps was a man, frightened and alone, facing death and asking: "Father, Father, why hast thou forsaken me?" If he said that, it was because even He wasn't sure where He was going. He had taken a chance and plunged, as all men do, into the Dark Night, knowing that He would only find the answer at the end of his journey. He, too, had to go through the anxiety of making decisions, of leaving His father and mother and His little village to go in search of the secrets of men and the mysteries of the Law.
If He had been through all that, then He must have known love, even though the Gospels never mention this--love between people is much more difficult to understand than love for a Supreme Being. But now she remembered that, when He had risen again, the first person to whom He appeared was a woman, who had accompanied Him to the last.
The silent image appeared to agree with her. He had known people, wine, bread, parties, and all the beauties of the world. It was impossible that He had not also known the love of a woman, which is why He had sweated blood on the Mount of Olives, because, having known the love of one person, it was very hard to leave the Earth and to sacrifice Himself for the love of all men.
He had experienced everything the world could offer and yet He continued on his journey, knowing that the Dark Night could end on the cross or on the pyre.
"Lord, we're all in the world to run the risks of that Dark Night. I'm afraid of death, but even more afraid of wasting my life. I'm afraid of love, because it involves things that are beyond our understanding; it sheds such a brilliant light, but the shadow it casts frightens me."
She suddenly realized that she was praying. That silent, simple God was looking at her, apparently understanding her words and taking them seriously.
For a while, she sat waiting for a response from Him but heard not a sound and saw not a sign. The answer was there before her, in that man nailed to the cross. He had played His part, and shown to the world that, if everyone played their part, no one else would have to suffer, because He had suffered for all those who'd had the courage to fight for their dreams.
Brida found herself quietly weeping, although she didn't quite know why.
The day was overcast, but it wasn't going to rain. Lorens had lived in that city for many years and knew its clouds. He got up and went into the kitchen to make some coffee. Brida joined him just as the water was boiling.
"You came to bed very late last night," he said.
She didn't answer.
"Today's the day," he went on, "and I know how important it is to you. I would love to be there with you."
"It's a party," said Brida.
"What does that mean?"
"It's a party, and for as long as we've known each other, we've always gone to parties together. You're invited, too."
The Magus went out to see if the previous day's rain had damaged the bromeliads in his garden. They were fine, and he smiled to himself; it seemed that the forces of nature did sometimes collaborate.
He thought about Wicca. She wouldn't be able to see the points of light, because they were visible only to the respective Soul Mates, but she was sure to notice the energy from the rays of light moving between him and her student. Witches were, above all else, women.
The Tradition of the Moon described this as the "Vision of Love," and although it was something that could happen between people who were not each other's Soul Mate, but merely in love, he imagined that it would, nevertheless, fill her with anger, female anger, the kind felt by Snow White's stepmother, who could not allow another woman to be more beautiful than she.
Wicca, however, was a Teacher and would immediately realize how absurd such feelings of anger were, but, by then, her aura would already have changed color.
He would go over to her then, kiss her on the cheek, and say that he could see she was jealous. She would deny this, and he would ask why she was angry.
She would say that she was a woman and didn't need to explain her feelings. He would give her another kiss on the cheek, because what she said was true. And he would tell her how much he'd missed her during the time they'd been apart, and that he still admired her more than any other woman in the world, with the exception of Brida, because Brida was his Soul Mate.
Wicca, being a wise woman, would feel happy then.
"I must be getting old," he thought. "I'm starting to imagine conversations." Then it occurred to him that it wasn't just a matter of age; that was how men in love had always behaved.
Wicca was pleased because the rain had stopped and the clouds would clear before nightfall. Nature needed to be in accord with the works of human beings.
She had taken all the necessary steps; everyone had played their part; everything was in place.
She went over to the altar and invoked her Teacher. She asked him to be present that night. Three new witches were to be initiated into the Great Mysteries, and she had sole responsibility for their initiation.
Then she went into the kitchen to make some coffee. She squeezed some orange juice and ate some toast and a few crisp-breads. She still took care of her appearance, because she knew how pretty she was. She didn't need to neglect her beauty in order to prove that she was also intelligent and capable.
While she distractedly stirred her coffee, she remembered a day just like this many years before, when her Teacher had sealed her destiny with the Great Mysteries. For a moment, she tried to imagine the person she had been then, what her dreams had been, what she'd wanted from life.
"I must be getting old," she said out loud, "sitting here, thinking about the past." She drank her coffee and began her preparations. There were still things to do. She knew, though, that she wasn't getting old. In her world, Time did not exist.
Brida was surprised by the number of cars parked by the roadside. That morning's heavy clouds had been replaced by a clear sky from which the last rays of the setting sun were now fading. Despite the distinct chill in the air, it was still the first day of spring.
She invoked the protection of the spirits of the forest, and then looked at Lorens. He rather awkwardly repeated the same words, and yet he seemed qu
ite happy to be there. If they were to remain together, they would each, from time to time, have to enter the other's reality. Between them, too, there existed a bridge between the visible and the invisible. Magic was present in their every act.
They walked quickly through the wood and soon reached the clearing. Brida was prepared now for what she saw: men and women of all ages, and doubtless from a wide range of professions, were gathered in groups, talking and trying to make the whole event seem like the most natural thing in the world. In reality, though, they were feeling as perplexed as she and Lorens.
"Are all these people part of the ceremony?" Lorens asked, for he hadn't been expecting such a crowd.
Brida explained that some, like him, were guests. She didn't know exactly who would be taking part, but all would be revealed at the chosen moment.
They selected a corner to put their things down, including the bag Lorens was carrying. Inside were Brida's dress and three bottles of wine. Wicca had recommended that each person, both participants and guests, should bring a large bottle of wine. Before they left the house, Lorens had asked who the other guest was. Brida told him that it was the Magus whom she went to visit in the mountains, and Lorens gave the matter no further thought.
"Imagine," he heard a woman next to him comment, "imagine what my friends would say if they knew I was at a real witches' Sabbath."
A witches' Sabbath. The celebration that had survived the spilled blood, the fires, the Age of Reason and oblivion. Lorens tried to reassure himself; after all, there were many other people like him there. However, a shudder ran through him when he saw a pile of logs in the middle of the clearing.
Wicca was talking to some other people, but as soon as she saw Brida, she came over to say hello and to ask if she was all right. Brida thanked her for her kindness and introduced Lorens.
"And I've invited someone else as well," she said.
Wicca looked at her, surprised, then smiled broadly. Brida was sure she knew who she meant.
"I'm glad," Wicca said. "After all, it's his celebration, too. And it's ages since I saw that old wizard. Maybe he's learned a thing or two."
More people arrived, and Brida couldn't tell who were the guests and who were the participants. Half an hour later, when almost a hundred people were gathered in the clearing, talking quietly, Wicca called for silence.
"This is a ceremony," she said, "but it is also a celebration. And no celebration can begin without everyone filling their glass."
She opened her bottle of wine and filled the glass of the person next to her. The wine was soon flowing freely, and the voices grew louder. Brida didn't want to drink. Still fresh in her memory was a field of wheat in which a man had shown her the secret temples of the Tradition of the Moon. Besides, the guest she was expecting had still not arrived.
Lorens, on the other hand, was starting to feel much more relaxed and had started chatting to the people around him.
"It really is a party!" he said to Brida, smiling. He had come there expecting something extraordinary, but it turned out it was just a party, and much more fun than the parties held by his fellow scientists.
A little way off stood a man with a white beard, whom he recognized as a professor from the university. He didn't know quite what to do, but, after a while, the professor recognized him, too, and raised his glass in greeting.
Lorens felt relieved. Witches were no longer hunted, nor were their sympathizers.
"It's like a picnic," Brida heard someone say. Yes, it was like a picnic, and that made her feel rather irritated. She had expected something more ritualistic, more like the Sabbaths that had inspired Goya, Saint-Saens, and Picasso. She picked up the bottle beside her and began to drink.
A party. Crossing the bridge between the visible and the invisible by means of a party. Brida was intrigued to know how anything sacred could possibly happen in such a secular atmosphere.
Night was falling fast, and people continued to drink. Just as darkness threatened to submerge everything, some of the men present--without performing any specific ritual--lit the fire. That is how it had been in the past. Before fire became a powerful element in the rituals of witchcraft, it had been merely a source of light. A light around which women gathered to talk about their men, their magical experiences, their encounters with incubi and succubi, the much-feared sexual demons of the Middle Ages. That is how it had been in the past--a party, a huge popular festival, a joyful celebration of spring and hope, in an age when being happy was a challenge to the Law, because no one could enjoy themselves in a world made only to tempt the weak. The lords of the land, shut up in their dark castles, gazed out at the fires in the forests and felt as if they'd been robbed--those peasants were eager for happiness, and no one who has experienced happiness can ever again feel at ease with sadness. The peasants might then expect to be happy year-round, and that would threaten the whole political and religious system.
Four or five people, who were already slightly tipsy, began dancing round the fire, perhaps in imitation of a witches' Sabbath. Among the dancers Brida saw an Initiate whom she'd met when Wicca commemorated the martyrdom of the sisters. She was shocked. She had assumed followers of the Tradition of the Moon would behave in a way more in keeping with that sacred place. She remembered the night she had spent with the Magus, and how drink had hindered communication between them during their astral travel.
"My friends will be green with envy," she heard someone say. "They'll never believe I was here."
That was too much. She needed to get a little distance, to understand properly what was going on, and to resist a strong desire simply to leave and go home before she became entirely disillusioned with everything she'd believed in for nearly a year now. She looked for Wicca, and saw her talking and laughing with some of the guests. The number of people dancing round the fire was growing larger all the time; some were clapping and singing, accompanied by others keeping time by beating on the empty bottles with sticks or keys.
"I need to go for a walk," she told Lorens.
A group of people had gathered round him, fascinated by what he was telling them about ancient stars and the miracles of modern physics. However, he immediately stopped talking and asked:
"Would you like me to come with you?"
"No, I'd rather be alone."
She left the group and headed off into the forest. The voices were growing ever louder and more raucous, and everything--the drunkenness, the comments, the people playing at being witches and wizards around the fire--became mixed up in her head. She had waited so long for this night, but it was turning out to be just another party, like one of those charity dos, where people eat, get drunk, tell jokes, and then make speeches about the need to help the Indians in the Southern Hemisphere or the seals at the North Pole.
She began walking through the forest, always keeping within sight of the fire. She walked along a path that gave her a view from above the central stone. However, seen from high up, the view was even more disappointing: Wicca was busy circulating among the different groups, asking if everything was all right; people were dancing around the fire; a few couples were already exchanging their first drunken kisses. Lorens was talking animatedly to two men, perhaps about things that would have been fine in the setting of a bar, but not at a celebration like this. A latecomer entered the wood, a stranger attracted by the noise, in search of a little fun.
She recognized his way of walking.
The Magus.
Startled, Brida began running back down the path. She wanted to reach him before he got to the party. She needed him to help her, as he had before. She needed to understand the meaning of what was going on there.
Wicca certainly knows how to organize a Sabbath," thought the Magus as he approached. He could see and feel the free flow of energy among the people present. At this phase of the ritual, the Sabbath resembled any other party; it was important to ensure that all the guests were on the same wavelength. At his first Sabbath, he had felt very shocked b
y all this. He remembered calling his Teacher over and asking him what was going on.
"Haven't you ever been to a party before?" his Teacher had asked, annoyed at the Magus for interrupting an interesting conversation.
Of course he had, the Magus said.
"And what makes for a good party?"
"Everyone enjoying themselves."
"Men have been holding parties since the days when they lived in caves," said his Teacher. "They're the first group rituals we know of, and the Tradition of the Sun took it upon itself to keep that ritual alive. A good party cleanses the minds of all those taking part, but it's very difficult to make that happen; it only takes a few people to spoil the general mood. Those people think they're more important than the others; they're hard to please; they think they're wasting their time because they can't make contact with anyone else. And they usually end up the victims of a mysterious form of poetic justice: they tend to leave weighed down by the astral larvae given off by those people who have managed to bond with others. Remember, the first road to God is prayer, the second is joy."
Many years had passed since that conversation with his Teacher. The Magus had taken part in many Sabbaths since then, and he knew that this was a very skillfully arranged example; the collective energy level was growing all the time.
He looked for Brida. There were a lot of people there, and he wasn't used to crowds. He knew that he needed to partake of that collective energy, and he was quite prepared to do so, but first he needed to reaccustom himself. She could help him. He would feel more at ease once he had found her.
He was a Magus. He knew about the point of light. All he needed was to alter his state of consciousness and the point of light would appear in the midst of all those people. For years, he had searched for that light, and now it was there only yards away from him.