e arrived one afternoon at the ruins of an old castle of the Order of the Knights Templar. We sat down to rest, and while Petrus smoked his usual cigarette, I drank a bit of the wine left over from lunch. I studied the view that surrounded us: a few peasant houses, the tower of the castle, the undulating fields ready for sowing. To my right appeared a shepherd, guiding his flock past the walls of the castle, bound for home. The sky was red, and the dust raised by the animals blurred the view, making it look like a dream or a magic vision. The shepherd waved to us, and we waved back.

The sheep passed in front of us and continued down the road. Petrus got to his feet. It was an impressive scene, and I would like to have stayed, but Petrus said, Lets go, right away. Weve got to hurry.

Why?

Because I said so. Dont you think we have spent enough time on the Road to Santiago?

But something told me that his haste had something to do with the magic scene of the shepherd and his sheep.

Two days later we were close to some mountains to the south; their elevation was a relief to the monotony of the immense wheat fields. The area had some natural elevations, but it was well punctuated by the yellow markers that Father Jordi had mentioned. At that point, Petrus, without explanation, began to stray from the markers and to plunge more and more in a northerly direction. When I pointed this out to him, he answered brusquely, saying that he was the guide and that he knew where he was leading me.

After half an hour or so along the new path, I began to hear the sound of tumbling water. All about us were the sun-drenched fields, and I tried to imagine what the sound could be. As we continued, the sound grew louder, and there was no doubt that it was produced by a waterfall. But I could see neither mountains nor falls near us.

Then, as we crested a small rise, we were confronted with one of natures most extravagant works: a basin opened up in the plateau, deep enough to contain a five-story building, and a stream hurtled to its floor. The immense crater was bordered by luxuriant vegetation, completely different in appearance from the flora we had been passing until then, and it framed the falling water.

Lets climb down here, Petrus said.

We began a descent that put me in mind of Jules Verne; it was as if we were descending to the center of the earth. The way was steep and difficult to navigate,

and so as not to fall, we were forced to grasp at thorny branches and sharp rocks. When I reached the bottom, my arms and legs were lacerated.

Isnt this beautiful, said Petrus, taking no notice of my discomfort.

I agreed. It was an oasis in the desert. The plant life and the rainbow formed by the droplets of water made the basin as beautiful seen from below as from above.

This is where nature really shows its power, he said. True, I nodded. And it gives us a chance to show our own strength.

Lets climb the falls, said my guide. Through the water!

I looked again at the scene. Now I no longer saw it as an oasis, nor as one of natures more sophisticated caprices. Instead, I was looking at a wall more than fifty feet high over which the water fell with a deafening force. The small lagoon formed by the cataract was no deeper than a mans height, since the river ran to an opening that probably took it underground. On the wall, there were no protrusions that I could make use of in a climb, and the depth of the pool was not sufficient to break a fall. I was looking at an absolutely impossible task.

I thought of an event from five years ago, during a ritual that had required like this situation an extremely dangerous climb. My Master had given me a choice as to whether I wanted to continue or not, I was

younger and fascinated by his powers and by the mira- cles of the Tradition, so I decided to go on. I needed to demonstrate my courage and my bravery.

After I had climbed the mountain for nearly an hour and as I was approaching the most difficult stretch, a wind of unexpected force arose, and to keep myself from falling, I had had to cling with all my strength to the small ledge that supported me. I closed my eyes, expecting the worst, and dug my nails into the rock. A minute later, I was surprised to find that someone had helped me to assume a safer and more comfortable position. I opened my eyes to see that my Master was there at my side.

He made some gestures in the air, and the wind sud- denly ceased. With an absolutely mysterious agility, at times seeming to require an exercise in levitation, he descended the mountain and told me to do likewise.

I arrived at the base with my legs trembling and asked him angrily why he hadnt caused the wind to abate before it threatened me.

Because it was I who ordered the wind to blow, he answered.

So it would kill me?

No, in order to save you. It would have been impos- sible for you to climb this mountain. When I asked if you wanted to, I was not testing your courage. I was test- ing your wisdom.

You made it into an order, when I had not given one, said the Master. If you were able to levitate your-

self, you would not have had a problem. But you wanted to be brave, when it was enough to have been intelligent.

That day, he told me about Magi who had become insane during the process of illumination and who could no longer distinguish between their own powers and those of their disciples. During my lifetime, I have known some great men in the Tradition. I had gotten to know three great Masters including my own who were able to dominate material objects in ways that went far beyond what anyone could imagine. I had wit- nessed miracles, exact predictions of the future, and knowledge of past incarnations. My Master had spoken of the Falklands War two months before Argentina had invaded the islands. He had described everything in detail and had explained the reasons, on an astral level, for the conflict.

But after that day, I had begun to notice that there were Magi who, in the Masters words, had been crazed by the process of illumination. They were individuals who in almost every way were the equal of their Masters, even with respect to their powers: I saw one of them make a seed germinate in twenty minutes of extreme concentration. But that man and some others had already led many disciples to madness and despair; some of those disciples had had to be committed to mental hospitals, and there was at least one confirmed case of suicide. Those Masters were on the blacklist of the Tradition, but it was impossible to control them,

and I know that many of them continue their work even today.

All of this passed through my mind in a fraction of a second as I looked at the waterfall that seemed impossi- ble to scale. I thought of the length of time that Petrus and I had traveled together, of the dogs attack that had left me unhurt, of Petruss lack of control with the boy who had waited on us in the restaurant, and of Petruss drinking bout at the wedding celebration. Those events were all I could remember.

Petrus, theres no way Im going to climb that water- fall. And for a very simple reason: its impossible.

He didnt say a word. He sat down in the grass, and I did the same. We sat there in silence for fifteen minutes. His silence disarmed me, and I took the initiative by beginning to speak.

Petrus, I dont want to climb because Ill fall. I know that Im not going to die, because when I saw the face of my death, I also saw the day it will happen. But I could fall and be crippled for the rest of my life.

Paulo, Paulo ... He looked at me and smiled. You have completely changed. There is in your voice a bit of the love that consumes, and your eyes are shining.

Are you going to say that Im breaking a vow of obe- dience that I made before setting out on the Road?

You are not breaking that vow. You are not afraid, and you are not lazy. Nor should you be thinking that I have given you a useless order. You dont want to climb the falls because you are thinking about the Black

Magi.* You have not broken a vow just because you have used your decision making ability. A pilgrim is never prevented from using that ability.

I looked again at the cataract and again at Petrus. I was weighing my chances of success in making the climb, and they didnt weigh very much.

Now, pay attention, he continued. Im going to climb before you do, without using any gift. And Im going to make it. If I succeed just by knowing where to place my feet, you will have to climb, too. I am nullify- ing your freedom to make a decision. If you refuse, after you have seen me make the climb, then you will be breaking your vow.

Petrus began to take off his sneakers. He was at least ten years older than I, and if he succeeded in the climb, I would have no further excuse. I studied the waterfall and felt my stomach seize up.

But he didnt move. Even though he had taken off his sneakers, he remained seated in the same place. He looked at the sky and said, A few kilometers from here, in 1502, the Virgin appeared to a shepherd. Today is the feast day commemorating that event the Feast of the Virgin of the Road and I am going to offer my victory

* This is the name given, in the Tradition, to those Masters who have lost their magical contact with their disciples, as just described. This expression is also used to describe Masters who interrupted their learning process after having established dominion only over earthly forces.

to her. I would advise you to do the same thing. Offer a victory to her. Dont offer the pain in your feet or the cuts on your hands from the rocks. Everybody in the world offers only pain as penance. There is nothing wrong with that, but I think she would be happier if, rather than just pain, people would also offer her their joys.

I was in no condition to speak. I still doubted whether Petrus could climb the wall. I thought the whole thing was a farce, that I was being drawn in by the way he spoke and that he would then convince me to do something I really did not want to do. In the face of these doubts, I closed my eyes for a moment and prayed to the Virgin of the Road. I promised that if Petrus and I were able to climb the wall, I would one day return to this place.

Everything you have learned up to now makes sense only if it is applied in real life. Dont forget that I described the Road to Santiago to you as the road of the common person; I have said that a thousand times. On the Road to Santiago and in life itself, wisdom has value only if it helps us to overcome some obstacle.

A hammer would make no sense in the world if there were not nails to be driven. And even given the existence of nails, the hammer would be useless if it only thought, I can drive those nails with two blows. The hammer has to act. To put itself into the hands of the carpenter and to be used in its proper function.

I remembered my Masters words at Itatiaia: Whoever has the sword must constantly put it to the test, so it doesnt rust in its scabbard.

The waterfall is the place where you will put into practice everything you have learned so far, said my guide. There is one thing working in your favor: you know the day on which you are going to die so that fear will not paralyze you when you have to decide quickly where to find a hold. But remember that you are going to have to work with the water and use it to provide what you need. Remember that you have to dig a nail into your thumb if a bad thought takes over. And most important, that you have to find support for yourself in the love that consumes during every minute of the climb, because it is that love which directs and justifies your every step.

Petrus fell silent. He took off his shirt and his shorts and was completely naked. He went into the cold water of the lagoon, wet himself completely, and spread his arms to the sky. I could see that he was happy; he was enjoying the coldness of the water and the rainbows cre- ated by the mist that surrounded us.

One more thing, he said, before going in under the falls. This waterfall will teach you how to be a Master. I am going to make the climb, but there will be a veil of water between you and me. I will climb without your being able to see where I place my hands and feet.

In the same way, a disciple such as you can never imitate his guides steps. You have your own way of

living your life, of dealing with problems, and of win- ning. Teaching is only demonstrating that it is possible. Learning is making it possible for yourself.

He said nothing else as he disappeared through the veil of the cascade and began to climb. I could see only his outline, as if perceived through frosted glass. But I could see that he was climbing. Slowly and inexorably he moved toward the top. The closer he got to the crest, the more fearful I became, because my time was coming. Finally, the most terrible moment arrived: the moment when he had to come up through the falling water without holding to the sides. The force of the water would surely plunge him back to the ground. But Petruss head emerged there at the top, and the falling water became his silver mantle. I saw him for just an instant because, with a rapid motion, he threw his body upward and secured himself somehow on top of the plateau, still immersed in the stream of water. Then, I lost sight of him for some moments.

Finally, Petrus appeared on the bank. He was bathed in moisture, brilliant in the sunlight, and laughing.

Lets go, he yelled, waving his hands. Its your turn.

It really was my turn. Either I did it, or I forever renounced my sword.

I took all of my clothes off and prayed again to the Virgin of the Road. Then I dived into the lagoon. It was freezing, and my body went rigid with its impact; but I then felt a pleasant sensation, a sensation of being really alive. Without thinking about it, I went straight to the waterfall.

The weight of the water on my head brought me back to a sense of reality, the sense that weakens us at the moment when we most need to have faith in our powers. I could see that the falls had much more force than I had thought and that if the water continued to fall directly onto the top of my head, it would defeat me, even if I kept both feet firmly planted on the bottom of the lagoon. I passed through the falls and stood between the water and the rock, in a space into which my body just fit, glued to the wall. From there, I could see that the task was easier than I had thought.

The water did not beat down here, and what had appeared to me to be a wall with a polished surface was actually a wall with a great many cavities. I was dumb- founded to think that I might have renounced my sword out of fear of the smoothness of the wall when it turned out to be the kind of rock that I had climbed dozens of times. I seemed to hear Petruss voice saying, Didnt I tell you? Once a problem is solved, its simplic- ity is amazing.

I began to climb, with my face against the humid rock. In ten minutes I was almost to the top. Only one hurdle remained: the final phase, the place where the water fell over the crest on its trajectory toward the lagoon. The victory I had won in making the climb would be worth nothing if I were not able to negotiate the last stretch that separated me from the open air. This was where the danger lay, and I had not been able to see how Petrus had succeeded. I prayed again to the Virgin

of the Road, a Virgin I had never heard of but who was now the object of all my faith and all my hopes for suc- cess. I began tentatively to put first my hair and then my entire head up through the water that was rushing over and past me.

The water covered me completely and blurred my vision. I began to feel its impact and held firmly to the rock. I bent my head to create an air pocket that would allow me to breathe. I trusted completely in my hands and feet. My hands had, after all, already held an ancient sword, and my feet had trod the Road to Santiago. They were my friends, and they were helping me. But the noise of the water was deafening, and I began to have trouble breathing. I was determined to put my head through the flow, and for several seconds everything went black. I fought with all my strength to keep my hands and feet anchored to their holds, but the noise of the water seemed to take me to another place. It was a mysterious and distant place where nothing that was happening at that moment was at all impor- tant, and it was a place that I could get to if I had the strength. In that place, there would no longer be any need for the superhuman effort it took to keep my hands and feet holding to the rock; there would be only rest and peace.

But my hands and feet did not obey this impulse to surrender. They had resisted a mortal temptation. And my head began to emerge from the stream as gradually as it had entered it. I was overcome by a profound love

for my body. It was there, helping me in this crazy adventure of climbing through a waterfall in search of a sword.

When my head came completely through the sur- face, I saw the bright sun above me and took a deep breath. This renewed my strength, and as I looked about, I could see, just a few inches away, the plateau we had originally walked along the end of the journey. I had an impulse to throw myself up and grab for some- thing to hold, but I could see nothing to grab through the flowing water. The impulse was strong, but the moment of victory had not yet come, and I had to con- trol myself. I was at the most difficult point in the ascent, with the water beating on my chest, and the pressure was threatening to throw me back to the place below that I had dared to leave in pursuit of my dream.

It was no time to be thinking about Masters or friends, and I could not look to the side to see if Petrus would be able to save me if I should slip. He has proba- bly made this climb a million times, I thought, and he knows that here is where I most desperately need help. But he had abandoned me. Or maybe he hadnt aban- doned me, but he was there somewhere behind me, and I couldnt turn to look for him without losing my bal- ance. I had to do it all. I, alone, had to win my victory.

I kept my feet and one hand holding to the rock, while the other hand let go and sought to become one with the water. I didnt want to exert any more effort, because I was already using all of my strength. My hand,

knowing this, became a fish that gives itself up but knows where it wants to go. I remembered films from my childhood in which I had seen salmon jumping over waterfalls because they had a goal and they simply had to achieve it.

The arm rose slowly, using the force of the water to its advantage. It finally burst free, and it took on the task of finding a hold and deciding the fate of the rest of my body. Like a salmon in the film, the hand dived into the water atop the crest, searching for a place, a point that would support me in the final leap.

The rock had been polished by centuries of running water. But there must be a handhold: if Petrus had been able to find one, I could, too. I began to feel great pain, because now I knew that I was only one step from suc- cess; this is the moment when ones strength begins to flag, and one loses confidence in oneself. On a few occasions in my life I had lost at the last minute swum across an ocean and drowned in the surf of regret. But I was on the Road to Santiago, and that old experience must not be allowed to repeat itself I had to win.

My free hand slid along the smooth stone, and the pressure was becoming stronger and stronger. I felt that my other limbs could not hold out and that I was going to begin to cramp. The water was beating on my geni- tals, too, and the pain was unbearable. Then my free hand suddenly found a hold in the rock. It wasnt a large one, and it was off to the side of where I wanted to rise, but it would serve as a support for my other hand

when its turn came. I marked its location mentally, and my free hand returned to its search for my salvation. A few inches from the first hold, I found another.

There it was! There was the place that for centuries had served as a hold for the pilgrims bound for Santiago. I could see this, and I held on with all my strength. The other hand came free, was thrown back by the force of the water, but, in an arc across the sky, reached and found the handhold. With a quick move- ment, my entire body followed the path opened by my arms, and I threw myself upward.

The biggest and final step had been taken. My whole body came up through the water, and a moment later the savage waterfall had become just a trickle of water, hardly moving. I crawled to the bank and gave in to exhaustion. The sun fell on my body, warming me, and I told myself again that I had won, that I was alive as before when I had stood below in the lagoon. Over the sound of the water, I heard Petruss approaching footsteps.

I wanted to get up and show how happy I was, but my exhausted body refused.

Relax, rest a little, he said. Try to breathe slowly.

I did so and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep. When I awoke, the sun had moved across the sky, and Petrus, already fully dressed, handed me my clothes and said we had to move on.

Im very tired, I answered.

Dont worry. I am going to show you how to draw energy from everything around you.

And Petrus taught me the RAM Breathing Exercise.

I did the exercise for five minutes and felt better. I arose, dressed, and grabbed my knapsack.

Come here, Petrus said. I went to the edge of the cliff. At my feet, the waterfall rushed by.

Looking at it from here, it looks a lot easier than it did from down there, I said.

Exactly. And if I had shown it to you from here before, you would have been misled. You would have made a poor analysis of your chances.

I still felt weak, and I repeated the exercise. Shortly, the entire universe about me fell into harmony with me and came into my heart. I asked Petrus why he had not taught me RAM breathing before, since many times I had felt lazy and tired on the Road to Santiago.

Because you never looked like you felt that way, he said, laughing. Then he asked me if I still had any of the delicious butter cookies I had bought in Astorga.