ight there. Thats the exact spot where love was mur- dered, said the old man, pointing to a small church built into the rocks.

We had walked for five days in a row, stopping only to eat and sleep. Petrus continued to be guarded about his private life but asked many questions about Brazil and about my work. He said that he really liked my country, because the image he knew best was that of Christ the Redeemer on Corcovado, standing open armed rather than suffering on the cross. He wanted to know everything, and he especially wanted to know if the women were as pretty as the ones here in Spain. The heat of the day was almost unbearable, and in all of the bars and villages where we stopped, the people com- plained about the drought. Because of the heat, we adopted the Spanish custom of the siesta and rested between two and four in the afternoon when the sun was at its hottest.

That afternoon, as we sat in an olive grove, the old man had come up to us and offered us a taste of wine. In spite of the heat, the habit of drinking wine had been part of life in that region for centuries.

What do you mean, love was murdered there? I asked, since the old man seemed to want to strike up a conversation.

Many centuries ago, a princess who was walking the Road to Santiago, Felicia of Aquitaine, decided, on her way back to Compostela, to give up everything and live here. She was love itself, because she divided all of her wealth among the poor people of the region and began to care for the sick.

Petrus had lit one of his horrible rolled cigarettes, but despite his air of indifference, I could see that he was listening carefully to the old mans story.

Her brother, Duke Guillermo, was sent by their father to bring her home. But Felicia refused to go. In desperation, the duke fatally stabbed her there in that small church that you can see in the distance; she had built it with her own hands in order to care for the poor and offer praise to God.

When he came to his senses and realized what he had done, the duke went to Rome to ask the popes for- giveness. As penitence, the pope ordered him to walk to Compostela. Then a curious thing happened: on his way back, when he arrived here, he had the same impulse as his sister, and he stayed on, living in that little church that his sister had built, caring for the poor until the last days of his long life.

Thats the law of retribution at work, Petrus laughed. The old man did not understand, but I knew what Petrus was saying. His concept of the law of retribution was

similar to that of karma, or of the concept that as one sows, so shall they reap.

As we had been walking, we had gotten involved in some long theological discussions about the relationship between God and humanity. I had argued that in the Tradition, there was always an involvement with God, but that it was a complex one. The path to God, for me, was quite different from the one we were following on the Road to Santiago, with its priests who were sorcerers, its gypsies who were devils, and its saints who performed miracles. All of these things seemed to me to be primi- tive, and too much connected with Christianity; they lacked the fascination, the elegance, and the ecstasy that the rituals of the Tradition evoked in me. Petrus on the other hand, argued that the guiding concept along the Road to Santiago was its simplicity. That the Road was one along which any person could walk, that its signifi- cance could be understood by even the least sophisti- cated person, and that, in fact, only such a road as that could lead to God. So Petrus thought my relationship to God was based too much on concept, on intellect, and on reasoning; I felt that his was too simplistic and intuitive.

You believe that God exists, and so do I, Petrus had said at one point. So God exists for both of us. But if someone doesnt believe in him, that doesnt mean God ceases to exist. Nor does it mean that the nonbeliever is wrong.

Does that mean that the existence of God depends on a persons desire and power?

I had a friend once who was drunk all the time but who said three Hail Marys every night. His mother had conditioned him to do so ever since he was a child. Even when he came home helplessly drunk, and even though he did not believe in God, my friend always said his three Hail Marys. After he died, I was at a ritual of the Tradition, and I asked the spirit of the ancients where my friend was. The spirit answered that he was fine and that he was surrounded by light. Without ever having had the faith during his life, the three prayers he had said ritualistically every day had brought him salva- tion.

God was manifest in the caves and in the thunder- storms of prehistory. After people began to see Gods hand in the caves and thunderstorms, they began to see him in the animals and in special places in the forest. During certain difficult times, God existed only in the catacombs of the great cities. But through all of time, he never ceased to live in the human heart in the form of love.

In recent times, some thought that God was merely a concept, subject to scientific proof. But, at this point, history has been reversed, or rather is starting all over again. Faith and love have resumed their importance. When Father Jordi cited that quotation from Jesus, saying that wherever your treasure is, there also would your heart be, he was referring to the importance of love and good works. Wherever it is that you want to see the face of God, there you will see it. And if you dont want

to see it, that doesnt matter, so long as you are perform- ing good works. When Felicia of Aquitaine built her small church and began to help the poor, she forgot about the God of the Vatican. She became Gods mani- festation by becoming wiser and by living a simpler life in other words, through love. It is in that respect that the old man was absolutely right in saying that love had been murdered.

Now Petrus said, The law of retribution was operat- ing when Felicias brother felt forced to continue the good works he had interrupted. Anything is permissible but the interruption of a manifestation of love. When that happens, whoever tried to destroy it is responsible for its recreation.

I explained that in my country the law of return said that peoples deformities and diseases were punish- ments for mistakes committed in previous incarnations.

Nonsense, said Petrus. God is not vengeance, God is love. His only form of punishment is to make some- one who interrupts a work of love continue it.

The old man excused himself, saying that it was late and that he had to get back to work. Petrus thought it was a good time for us to get up, too, and get back on the Road.

Lets forget all of our discussion about God, he said, as we made our way through the olive trees. God is in everything around us. He has to be felt and lived. And here I am trying to transform him into a problem in logic so that you can understand him. Keep doing the

exercise of walking slowly, and you will learn more and more about his presence.

Two days later, we had to climb a mountain called the Peak of Forgiveness. The climb took several hours, and at the top, I was shocked to find a group of tourists sunbathing and drinking beer; their car radios blasted music at top volume. They had driven up a nearby road to get to the top of the mountain.

Thats the way it is, said Petrus. Did you expect that you were going to find one of El Cids warriors up here, watching for the next Moorish attack?

As we descended, I performed the Speed Exercise for the last time. Before us was another immense plain with sparse vegetation burned by the drought; it was bor- dered by blue mountains. There were almost no trees, only the rocky ground and some cactus. At the end of the exercise, Petrus asked me about my work, and it was only then that I realized that I hadnt thought about it for some time. My worries about business and about the things I had left undone had practically disappeared. Now I thought of these things only at night, and even then I didnt give them much importance. I was happy to be there, walking the Road to Santiago.

I told Petrus how I was feeling, and he joked, Any time now you are going to do the same thing as Felicia of Aquitaine. Then he stopped and asked me to put my knapsack on the ground.

Look around you, and choose some point to fixate on, he said.

I chose the cross on a church that I could see in the distance.

Keep your eyes fixed on that point, and try to con- centrate only on what I am going to tell you. Even if you feel something different, dont become distracted. Do as I am telling you.

I stood there, relaxed, with my eyes fixed on the cross, as Petrus took a position behind me and pressed a finger into the base of my neck.

The Road you are traveling is the Road of power, and only the exercises having to do with power will be taught to you. The journey, which prior to this was torture because all you wanted to do was get there, is now begin- ning to become a pleasure. It is the pleasure of searching and the pleasure of an adventure. You are nourishing something thats very important your dreams.

We must never stop dreaming. Dreams provide nourishment for the soul, just as a meal does for the body. Many times in our lives we see our dreams shat- tered and our desires frustrated, but we have to continue dreaming. If we dont, our soul dies, and agape cannot reach it. A lot of blood has been shed in those fields out there; some of the cruelest battles of Spains war to expel the Moors were fought on them. Who was in the right or who knew the truth does not matter; whats important is knowing that both sides were fighting the good fight.

The good fight is the one we fight because our heart asks it of us. In the heroic ages at the time of the

knights in armor this was easy. There were lands to conquer and much to do. Today, though, the world has changed a lot, and the good fight has shifted from the battlefields to the fields within ourselves.

The good fight is the one thats fought in the name of our dreams. When were young and our dreams first explode inside us with all of their force, we are very courageous, but we havent yet learned how to fight. With great effort, we learn how to fight, but by then we no longer have the courage to go into combat. So we turn against ourselves and do battle within. We become our own worst enemy. We say that our dreams were childish, or too difficult to realize, or the result of our not having known enough about life. We kill our dreams because we are afraid to fight the good fight.

The pressure of Petruss finger on my neck became stronger. I perceived that the cross on the church had been transformed; now its outline seemed to be that of a winged being, an angel. I blinked my eyes, and the cross became a cross again.

The first symptom of the process of our killing our dreams is the lack of time, Petrus continued. The busiest people I have known in my life always have time enough to do everything. Those who do nothing are always tired and pay no attention to the little amount of work they are required to do. They complain constantly that the day is too short. The truth is, they are afraid to fight the good fight.

The second symptom of the death of our dreams lies in our certainties. Because we dont want to see life as a grand adventure, we begin to think of ourselves as wise and fair and correct in asking so little of life. We look beyond the walls of our day-to-day existence, and we hear the sound of lances breaking, we smell the dust and the sweat, and we see the great defeats and the fire in the eyes of the warriors. But we never see the delight, the immense delight in the hearts of those who are engaged in the battle. For them, neither victory nor defeat is important; whats important is only that they are fighting the good fight.

And, finally, the third symptom of the passing of our dreams is peace. Life becomes a Sunday afternoon; we ask for nothing grand, and we cease to demand any- thing more than we are willing to give. In that state, we think of ourselves as being mature; we put aside the fan- tasies of our youth, and we seek personal and profes- sional achievement. We are surprised when people our age say that they still want this or that out of life. But really, deep in our hearts, we know that what has hap- pened is that we have renounced the battle for our dreams we have refused to fight the good fight.

The tower of the church kept changing; now it appeared to be an angel with its wings spread. The more I blinked, the longer the figure remained. I wanted to speak to Petrus but I sensed that he hadnt finished.

When we renounce our dreams and find peace, he said after a while, we go through a short period of

tranquillity. But the dead dreams begin to rot within us and to infect our entire being. We become cruel to those around us, and then we begin to direct this cruelty against ourselves. Thats when illnesses and psychoses arise. What we sought to avoid in combat disappoint- ment and defeat come upon us because of our cow- ardice. And one day, the dead, spoiled dreams make it difficult to breathe, and we actually seek death. Its death that frees us from our certainties, from our work, and from that terrible peace of our Sunday afternoons.

Now I was sure that I was really seeing an angel, and I couldnt pay attention to what Petrus was saying. He must have sensed this, because he removed his finger from my neck and stopped talking. The image of the angel remained for a few moments and then disap- peared. In its place, the tower of the church returned.

We were silent for a few minutes. Petrus rolled him- self a cigarette and began to smoke. I took the bottle of wine from my knapsack and had a swallow. It was warm, but it was still delicious.

What did you see? he asked me.

I told him about the angel. I said that at the begin- ning, the image would disappear when I blinked.

You, too, have to learn how to fight the good fight. You have already learned to accept the adventures and challenges that life provides, but you still want to deny anything that is extraordinary.

Petrus took a small object from his knapsack and handed it to me. It was a golden pin.

This was a present from my grandmother. In the Order of the RAM, all of the ancients have an object such as this. Its called the Point of Cruelty. When you saw the angel appear on the church tower, you wanted to deny it, because it wasnt something that you are used to. In your view of the world, churches are churches, and visions occur only during the ecstasy cre- ated by the rituals of the Tradition.

I said that my vision must have been caused by the pressure he was applying to my neck.

Thats right, but that doesnt change anything. The fact is that you rejected the vision. Felicia of Aquitaine must have seen something similar, and she bet her entire life on what she saw. And the result of her having done that transformed her work into a work of love. The same thing probably happened to her brother. And the same thing happens to everyone every day: we always know which is the best road to follow, but we follow only the road that we have become accustomed to.

Petrus began to walk again, and I followed along. The rays of the sun made the pin in my hand glisten.

The only way we can rescue our dreams is by being generous with ourselves. Any attempt to inflict self- punishment no matter how subtle it may be should be dealt with rigorously. In order to know when we are being cruel to ourselves, we have to transform any attempt at causing spiritual pain such as guilt, remorse, indecision, and cowardice into physical pain.

By transforming a spiritual pain into a physical one, we can learn what harm it can cause us.

And then Petrus taught me the Cruelty Exercise.

In ancient times, they used a golden pin for this, he said. Nowadays, things have changed, just as the sights along the Road to Santiago change.

Petrus was right. Seen from down at this level, the plain appeared to be a series of mountains in front of me. Think of something cruel that you did to yourself

today, and perform the exercise. I couldnt think of anything. Thats the way it always is. We are only able to be

kind to ourselves at the few times when we need severity. Suddenly I remembered that I had called myself an idiot for having laboriously climbed the Peak of Forgiveness while the tourists had driven up in their cars. I knew that this was unfair and that I had been cruel to myself; the tourists, after all, were only looking for a place to sunbathe, while I was looking for my sword. I wasnt an idiot, even if I had felt like one. I dug the nail of my index finger forcefully into the cuticle of my thumb. I felt intense pain, and as I concentrated on

it, the feeling of having been an idiot dissipated. I described this to Petrus, and he laughed without

saying anything. That night, we stayed in a comfortable hotel in the

village where the church I had focused on was located. After dinner, we decided to take a walk through the streets, as an aid to digestion.