alk for twenty minutes at half the speed at which you normally walk. Pay attention to the details, people, and surroundings. The best time to do this is after lunch.

Repeat the exercise for seven days.

and I put the watch back in my knapsack. I tried to pay more attention to the Road, the plain, and the stones I stepped on, but I kept looking ahead to the tavern and I was convinced that we hadnt moved at all. I thought about telling myself some stories, but the exercise was making me anxious, and I couldnt concentrate. When I couldnt resist any longer and took my watch out again, only eleven minutes had passed.

Dont make a torture out of this exercise, because it wasnt meant to be like that, said Petrus. Try to find pleasure in a speed that youre not used to. Changing the way you do routine things allows a new person to grow inside of you. But when all is said and done, youre the one who must decide how you handle it.

The kindness expressed in his final phrase calmed me down a bit. If it was I who decided what I would do, then it was better to take advantage of the situa- tion. I breathed deeply and tried not to think. I put myself into a strange state, one in which time was something distant and of no interest to me. I calmed myself more and more and began to perceive the things that surrounded me through new eyes. My imagination, which was unavailable when I was tense, began to work to my advantage. I looked at the small village there in front of me and began to create a story about it; the delight in finding people and lodging after the cold wind of the Pyrenees. At one point, I sensed that there was in the village a strong, mysteri- ous, and all-knowing presence. My imagination

peopled the plain with knights and battles. I could see their swords shining in the sun and hear the cries of war. The village was no longer just a place where I could warm my soul with wine and my body with a blanket; it was a historic monument, the work of heroic people who had left everything behind to become a part of that solitary place. The world was there around me, and I realized that seldom had I paid attention to it.

When I regained my everyday awareness, we were at the door of the tavern, and Petrus was inviting me to enter.

Ill buy the wine, he said. And lets get to sleep early, because tomorrow I have to introduce you to a great sorcerer.

Mine was a deep and dreamless sleep. As soon as daylight began to show itself in the two streets of the village of Roncesvalles, Petrus knocked on my door. We were in rooms on the top floor of the tavern, which also served as a hotel.

We had some coffee and some bread with olive oil, and we left, plodding through the dense fog that had fallen over the area. I could see that Roncesvalles wasnt exactly a village, as I had thought at first. At the time of the great pilgrimages along the Road, it had been the most powerful monastery in the region, with direct influence over the territory that extended all the way to the Navarra border. And it still retained some of its original character: its few buildings had been part of a

religious brotherhood. The only construction that had any lay characteristics was the tavern where we had stayed.

We walked through the fog to the Collegiate Church. Inside, garbed in white, several monks were saying the first morning mass in unison. I couldnt understand a word they were saying, since the mass was being cele- brated in Basque. Petrus sat in one of the pews to the side and indicated that I should join him.

The Church was enormous and filled with art objects of incalculable value. Petrus explained to me in a whisper that it had been built through donations from the kings and queens of Portugal, Spain, France, and Germany, on a site selected by the emperor Charlemagne. On the high altar, the Virgin of Roncesvalles sculpted in massive silver, with a face of precious stone held in her hands a branch of flowers made of jewels. The smell of incense, the Gothic con- struction, and the chanting monks in white began to induce in me a state similar to the trances I had experi- enced during the rituals of Tradition.

And the sorcerer? I asked, remembering what he had said on the previous afternoon.

Petrus indicated with a nod of his head a monk who was middle-aged, thin, and bespectacled, sitting with the other brothers on the narrow benches beside the high altar. A sorcerer, and at the same time a monk! I was eager for the mass to be over, but as Petrus had said to me the day before, it is we who determine the pace of

time: my anxiety caused the religious ceremony to last for more than an hour.

When the mass was over, Petrus left me alone in the pew and went out through the door that the monks had used as an exit. I remained there for a while, gazing about the church and feeling that I should offer some kind of prayer, but I wasnt able to concentrate. The images appeared to be in the distance, locked in a past that would never return, like the Golden Age of the Road to Santiago.

Petrus appeared in the doorway and, without a word, signalled that I should follow him.

We came to an inside garden of the monastery, sur- rounded by a stone veranda. At the center of the garden there was a fountain, and seated at its edge, waiting for us, was the bespectacled monk.

Father Jordi, this is the pilgrim, said Petrus, intro- ducing me.

The monk held out his hand, and I shook it. No one said anything else. I was waiting for something to happen, but I heard only the crowing of roosters in the distance and the cries of the hawks taking off for their daily hunt. The monk looked at me expressionlessly, in a way that reminded me of Mme Lourdess manner after I had spoken the Ancient Word.

Finally, after a long and uncomfortable silence, Father Jordi spoke.

It looks to me like you rose through the levels of the Tradition a bit early, my friend.

I answered that I was thirty-eight and had been quite successful in all the trials.*

Except for one, the last and most important, he said, continuing to look at me without expression. And without that one, nothing you have learned has any sig- nificance.

That is why I am walking the Road to Santiago. Which guarantees nothing. Come with me. Petrus stayed in the garden, and I followed Father

Jordi. We crossed the cloisters, passed the place where a king was buried Sancho the Strong and went to a small chapel set among the group of main buildings that made up the monastery of Roncesvalles.

There was almost nothing inside: only a table, a book, and a sword a sword that wasnt mine.

Father Jordi sat at the table, leaving me standing. He took some herbs and lit them, filling the place with their perfume. More and more, the situation reminded me of my encounter with Mme Lourdes.

First, I want to tell you something, said Father Jordi. The Jacobean route is only one of four roads. It is the Road of the Spades, and it may give you power, but that is not enough.

What are the other three?

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

You know at least two others: the Road to Jerusalem, which is the Road of the Hearts, or of the Grail, and which endows you with the ability to perform miracles; and the Road to Rome, which is the Road of the Clubs; it allows you to communicate with other worlds.

So whats missing is the Road of the Diamonds to complete the four suits of the deck, I joked. And the father laughed.

Exactly. Thats the secret Road. If you take it some- day, you wont be helped by anybody. For now, let us leave that one aside. Where are your scallop shells?

I opened my knapsack and took out the shells on which stood the image of Our Lady of the Visitation. He put the figure on the table. He held his hands over it and began to concentrate. He told me to do the same. The perfume in the air was growing stronger. Both the monk and I had our eyes open, and suddenly I could sense that the same phenomenon was occurring as had taken place at Itatiaia: the shells glowed with a light that did not illuminate. The brightness grew and grew, and I heard a mysterious voice, emanating from Father Jordis throat, saying, Wherever your treasure is, there will be your heart.

It was a phrase from the Bible. But the voice contin- ued, And wherever your heart is, there will be the cradle of the Second Coming of Christ; like these shells, the pilgrim is only an outer layer. When that layer, which is a stratum of life, is broken, life appears, and that life is comprised of agape.

He drew back his hands, and the shells lost their glow. Then he wrote my name in the book that was on the table. Along the Road to Santiago, I saw only three books where my name was written: Mme Lourdess, Father Jordis, and the Book of Power, where later I was to write my own name.

Thats all, he said. You can go with the blessing of the Virgin of Roncesvalles and of San Tiago of the Sword.

The Jacobean route is marked with yellow pointers, painted all the way across Spain, said the monk, as we returned to the place where Petrus was waiting. If you should lose your way at any time, look for the markers on trees, on stones, and on traffic signs and you will be able to find a safe place.

I have a good guide.

But try to depend mainly on yourself so that you arent coming and going for six days in the Pyrenees.

So the monk already knew the story.

We found Petrus and then said good-bye. As we left Roncesvalles that morning, the fog had disappeared completely. A straight, flat road extended in front of us, and I began to see the yellow markers Father Jordi had mentioned. The knapsack was a bit heavier, because I had bought a bottle of wine at the tavern, despite the fact that Petrus had told me that it was unnecessary. After Roncesvalles, hundreds of small vil- lages dotted the route, and I was to sleep outdoors very seldom.

Petrus, Father Jordi spoke about the Second Coming of Christ as if it were something that were happening now.

It is always happening. That is the secret of your sword.

And you told me that I was going to meet with a sorcerer, but I met with a monk. What does magic have to do with the Catholic Church?

Petrus said just one word: Everything.