re you pilgrims? asked the old woman who served us our breakfast. We were in Azofra, a village of small houses, each with a medieval shield embossed on its facade. We had filled our canteens at the village foun- tain a few moments earlier.

I said that we were, and the womans eyes glowed with respect and pride.

When I was a girl, at least one pilgrim passed through here every day, bound for Compostela. After the war and after Franco, I dont know what happened, but the pilgrimages stopped. Someone must have built a highway. Nowadays, people only want to travel by car.

Petrus said nothing. He had awakened in a bad mood. I nodded in agreement with the old woman and pictured a new, paved expressway, climbing the mountains and running across the valleys, automo- biles with scallop shells painted on their hoods, and souvenir shops at the gates of the monasteries. I fin- ished my coffee and bread dipped in olive oil. Looking at Aymeric Picauds guide, I estimated that we should arrive that afternoon in Santo Domingo de

la Calzada, and I was planning to sleep at the Parador Nacional.*

I was spending much less money than I had planned, even eating three meals a day. It was time for an extravagance, time to give my body the same treat- ment I had been giving my stomach.

I had awakened with a strange feeling of being in a hurry and of wanting to be in Santo Domingo already. I had experienced the same feeling two days earlier, when we had walked to the hermitage. Petrus was more melancholy and quiet than usual; was this the result of our meeting with Alfonso two days ago? I felt a strong need to invoke Astrain so that we could discuss the matter. But I had never summoned him in the morning, and I was not sure that I could. I decided against it.

We finished our coffee and began to walk. We passed a medieval house with its coat of arms, the ruins of an ancient hostel for pilgrims, and a park on the out- skirts of the village. As I once again readied myself to move out across the countryside, I felt a strong presence to my left side. I walked on, but Petrus stopped me.

There is no use running away, he said. Stop and deal with it.

I wanted to get away from Petrus and keep going. I had a disagreeable feeling, a kind of colic near my

* The Paradores Nacionales are ancient castles and historic monu- ments that have been turned into first-class hotels by the Spanish government.

stomach. For a few moments, I tried to believe that it was caused by the bread with olive oil, but I knew that I had felt it earlier in the day and I could not fool myself. It was tension tension and fear.

Look behind you. Petruss voice had an urgency to it. Look before its too late!

I spun around quickly. To my left was an abandoned house, its vegetation burned by the sun. An olive tree raised its twisted branches to the sky. And between the tree and the house, looking fixedly at me, was a dog.

A black dog, the same dog that I had banished from the womans house a few days earlier.

I forgot all about Petrus and looked squarely into the dogs eyes. Something inside me perhaps it was the voice of Astrain or of my guardian angel told me that if I averted my eyes, the dog would attack me. We remained that way, staring at each other, for some time. Here I was, I thought, after having experienced the wonder of the love that consumes, once again about to be confronted by the daily and constant threats to my existence that the world would always present. I won- dered why the animal had followed me for such a great distance and what it was that he wanted; after all, I was just a pilgrim in quest of my sword, and I had neither the desire nor the patience for problems with people or animals. I tried to say this to him with my eyes remembering the monks at the convent who communi- cated through their eyes but the dog did not move. He continued to stare at me, without emotion, but he

appeared ready to attack should I become distracted or show fear.

Fear! I could sense that my fear had vanished. I thought the situation too stupid for fear. My stomach was knotted up, and I felt like vomiting, but I wasnt frightened. If I had been, something told me that my eyes would have given me away, and the animal would try to overcome me, as he had before. I did not want to avert my eyes, even when I sensed that a figure was approaching along a narrow road to my right.

The figure stopped for an instant and then came directly toward us. It crossed my line of sight as I stared at the dog, and this person said something I could not understand in a feminine voice. Its presence was good friendly and positive.

In the fraction of a second during which the image had crossed my line of sight, my stomach relaxed. I felt that I had a powerful friend who was there to help me through this absurd, unnecessary conflict. When the figure had passed by, the dog lowered his eyes. Then he jumped, ran behind the abandoned house, and disap- peared from view.

It was only then that my heart began to react. The tachycardia was so strong that I felt dizzy and faint. As the scene around me spun, I looked along the road that Petrus and I had walked only a few minutes earlier, seeking the figure that had given me the strength to defeat the dog. It was a nun. Her back was to me, and she was walking toward Azofra. I could not see her face,

but I remembered her voice, and I guessed that she was in her early twenties. I looked in the direction from which she had come: she had appeared from a narrow path that seemed to lead nowhere.

It was she ... it was she who helped me, I mur- mured, as my dizziness grew worse.

Dont start creating fantasies in a world that is already extraordinary, said Petrus, supporting me by the arm. She comes from a convent in Ca–as, three or four miles from here. You cant see it from here.

My heart was still pounding, and I was sure I was going to be sick. I was too upset to speak or ask for an explanation. I sat down on the ground, and Petrus threw some water on my forehead and on the nape of my neck. I remembered that he had done the same thing after we had left the womans house but that day I had cried for joy. Now the sensation was just the oppo- site.

Petrus let me rest a bit. The water brought me around, and the nausea began to subside. Things slowly returned to normal. When I felt restored, Petrus said we should walk a little, and I obeyed. We walked for about fifteen minutes, but the exhaustion returned. We sat down at the foot of a rollo, a medieval column support- ing a cross. Such columns marked a number of stretches along the Jacobean route.

Your fear has hurt you much more than the dog did, said Petrus, as I rested.

I wanted to understand that absurd encounter.

In the life on the Road to Santiago, certain things happen that are beyond our control. When we first met, I told you that I had read in the gypsys eyes the name of the demon you would have to confront. I was surprised to learn that the demon was a dog, but I did not say any- thing to you about it at the time. Only after we arrived at that womans house when for the first time, you showed the love that consumes did I see your enemy.

When you chased away that womans dog, you did not place him anywhere. You didnt hurl the spirits into a drove of pigs that was thrown over a precipice, as Jesus did. You simply chased the dog away. Now his force wanders along behind you, without a destination. Before finding your sword, you are going to have to decide whether you want to be enslaved by that force or whether you will dominate it.

My fatigue began to pass. I took a deep breath and felt the cold stone of the rollo against my back. Petrus gave me some more water and went on:

Cases of obsession occur when people lose their mastery over the forces of the earth. The gypsys curse had frightened that woman, and her fear had opened a breach that the messenger of death was then able to penetrate. This doesnt always happen, but neither is it rare. Your confidence and your sense of mastery depend a great deal on how you react to threats made by others.

This time it was I who remembered a passage from the Bible. A verse in the Book of Job says, For the thing that I greatly feared is come upon me.

A threat leads to nothing if it is not accepted. In fighting the good fight, you should never forget that. Just as you should never forget that both attacking and fleeing are part of the fight. What isnt a part of the fight is becoming paralyzed by fear.

I had not felt fear when the dog was there. This had surprised me, and I told Petrus about it.

I could see that you felt no fear. If you had, the dog would have attacked you. And without a doubt, he would have won the fight. Because the dog was not afraid either. The strangest thing, though, was the arrival of that nun. When you sensed the presence of some- thing positive, your imagination concluded that some- one had arrived to help you. And this, your faith, saved you. Even though it was based on an assumption that was absolutely false.

Petrus was right. He laughed at me, and I laughed, too. We got up to resume our walking. I was already feeling better.

There is one thing you have to know, though, said Petrus as we moved on. The duel with the dog will end only with a victory for you or for him. He will be back, and the next time you must try to take the fight through to the end. If you dont, his presence will worry you for the rest of your life.

In the encounter with the gypsy, Petrus had told me, he had learned the name of the demon. I asked him what it was.

Legion, he answered. Because he is many.

We passed through fields that the farmers were preparing for sowing. Here and there, some peasants operated crude water pumps in the centuries-old fight against the arid soil. Along the edge of the Road to Santiago, stones had been piled into endless walls, criss- crossing the fields. I thought about how, in spite of all the centuries during which that soil had been worked, stones still surfaced stones that could break the blade of a plow, render a horse lame, and leave calluses on the peasants hands. It was a battle every year, a battle that would never end.

Petrus was quieter than usual, and I realized that he had said almost nothing since morning. After our con- versation at the medieval rollo, he had been mute, not answering any of the questions I had asked. I wanted to know more about the many demons, because he had already explained to me that each person has only one messenger. But Petrus was not interested in talking about it, and I decided to wait for a better time.

We climbed a small rise, and from the top we could see the main tower of the church at Santo Domingo de la Calzada. I was glad to see it; I began to think about the magical comfort of the Parador Nacional. From what I had read about it, the building had been con- structed by Santo Domingo himself as a shelter for pil- grims. Saint Francis of Assisi had stayed there on his way to Compostela. Everything about it excited me.

At about seven oclock that evening, Petrus said we should stop. I was reminded of Roncesvalles and of the

slow pace we had taken when I had needed some wine to warm me, and I was afraid that he was preparing something like that.

A messenger would never help you to defeat some- one else. Messengers are neither good nor bad, as I have already told you, but they have a sense of loyalty among themselves. Dont rely on your messenger to help you defeat the dog.

Now it was my turn not to want to talk about mes- sengers. I wanted to get to Santo Domingo.

The messengers of people who have died can occupy the body of someone who is dominated by fear. That is why, in the case of the dog, he is many. Messengers were invited in by the womans fear not just the murdered gypsys messenger but all of the many messengers who wander in space, seeking a way to establish contact with the forces of the earth.

He was finally answering my question, but there was something in the way he spoke that seemed artificial, as if this were not what he really wanted to say. My instincts told me to be wary.

What do you want, Petrus? I asked him, a bit irri- tated.

My guide did not answer. He walked into the field toward an ancient, almost leafless tree that stood about thirty yards from us. It was the only tree visible on the entire horizon. Since he had not given me the signal to follow, I stood where I was. And I saw a strange thing happen: Petrus walked around the tree several times

and said something out loud, while he looked at the ground. When he had finished, he gestured for me to come over.

Sit here, he said. There was a different tone to his voice, and I couldnt tell whether it was friendliness or irritation. Stay here. I will see you tomorrow in Santo Domingo de la Calzada.

Before I could say a word, Petrus continued, One of these days and I guarantee you that it will not be today you are going to have to confront the most important enemy you will meet on the Road to Santiago: the dog. When that day comes, you can be sure that I will be close at hand and will give you the strength you need to fight him. But today you are going to confront a different type of enemy, an unreal enemy that may destroy you or may turn out to be your best friend: death.

Human beings are the only ones in nature who are aware that they will die. For that reason and only for that reason, I have a profound respect for the human race, and I believe that its future is going to be much better than its present. Even knowing that their days are numbered and that everything will end when they least expect it, people make of their lives a battle that is worthy of a being with eternal life. What people regard as vanity leaving great works, having children, acting in such a way as to prevent ones name from being for- gotten I regard as the highest expression of human dignity.

Still, being fragile creatures, humans always try to hide from themselves the certainty that they will die. They do not see that it is death itself that motivates them to do the best things in their lives. They are afraid to step into the dark, afraid of the unknown, and their only way of conquering that fear is to ignore the fact that their days are numbered. They do not see that with an awareness of death, they would be able to be even more daring, to go much further in their daily con- quests, because then they would have nothing to lose for death is inevitable.

The possibility of spending the night in Santo Domingo was looking more and more remote. But now I was interested in what Petrus was saying. The sun itself was dying beyond the horizon there in front of us.

Death is our constant companion, and it is death that gives each persons life its true meaning. But in order to see the real face of our death, we first have to know all of the anxieties and terrors that the simple mention of its name is able to evoke in any human being.

Petrus sat down beside me under the tree. He said that he had circled its trunk a few minutes before because it reminded him of everything that had hap- pened to him when he had been a pilgrim bound for Santiago. Then he took from his knapsack two sand- wiches that he had bought at lunchtime.

Here, where you are now, there is no danger, he said, giving me the sandwiches. There are no poisonous snakes, and the dog will return to attack you only after

he has forgotten this mornings defeat. And there are no bandits or criminals around here. You are in a spot that is absolutely safe, with one exception: the danger cre- ated by your own fear.

Petrus pointed out to me that two days earlier, I had experienced a sensation that had been as intense and as violent as death itself that of the love that consumes. And that at one point I had vacillated and been afraid. He said that I had been afraid because I knew nothing about universal love. He explained to me that although all of us have some idea of death, we do not see that death is only another manifestation of agape. I answered that with all of my years of training in magic, I had practically lost my fear of death. Actually, I was more frightened by the way in which I would die than by death itself.

Well, then, tonight take a look at the most frighten- ing way to die.

And at that point, Petrus taught me the Buried Alive Exercise.

You should do this exercise only once, he said. I was thinking of an exercise from the theater that was quite similar. It is important that you be as truthful with yourself as possible and that you be as fearful as neces- sary for the exercise to get at the roots of your soul; it has to strip away the scary mask that hides the gentle face of your death.

Petrus stood up, and I saw his silhouette against the background of the setting sun. From where I was seated, he seemed to be a gigantic and powerful figure.