The Pilgrimage (10 page)

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.

Lie down on the floor and relax. Cross your arms over your chest in the posture of death.

Imagine all of the details of your burial, as if it were to be carried out tomorrow, the
only difference being that you are being buried alive. As the situation develops in your
mind the chapel, the procession to the cemetery, the lowering of the casket, the worms in
the grave you begin tensing all of your muscles more and more in a desperate attempt to
escape. But you cannot do so. Keep trying until you cannot stand it any longer, and then,
using a movement that involves your entire body, throw aside the confines of the coffin,
breathe deeply, and find yourself free. This movement will have a greater effect if you
scream at the same time; it should be a scream that emanates from the depths of your body.

Petrus, I have one more question. What is it? This morning you were close-mouthed and
strange.

You sensed before I did that the dog was going to appear. How was that possible?

When we both experienced the love that consumes, we shared in the Absolute. The Absolute
shows each of us who we really are; it is an enormous web of cause and effect, where every
small gesture made by one person affects the life of someone else. This morning, that
slice of the Absolute was still very much alive in my soul. I was seeing not only you but
everything there is in the world, unlimited by space or time. Now, the effect is much
weaker and will only return in its full strength the next time that I do the exercise of
the love that con- sumes.

I remembered Petruss bad mood of that morning. If what he said was true, the world was
going through a very bad phase.

I will be waiting for you there at the Parador, he said, as he prepared to leave. I will
leave your name at the desk.

I watched him walk away until I could no longer see him. In the fields to my left, the
peasants had finished their days labors and gone home. I decided that I would do the
exercise as soon as darkness had fallen.

I was content. It was the first time I had been com- pletely alone since I had started
along the Strange Road to Santiago. I stood up and explored my immediate

surroundings, but night was falling fast, and I decided to go back to the tree before I
got lost. Before it became completely dark, I made a mental estimate of the dis- tance
between the tree and the road. Even in darkness, I would be able to see the way perfectly
well and make my way to Santo Domingo with just the help of the frail new moon that had
risen in the sky.

Up until that point, I had not been at all frightened; I felt that it would take a lot of
imagination to make me fearful of any kind of horrible death. But no matter how long we
have lived, when night falls it arouses the hidden fears that have been there in our souls
since we were children. The darker it grew, the less comfortable I became.

There I was, alone in the fields; if I were to scream, no one would even hear me. I
remembered that I had almost passed out completely that morning. Never in my life had I
felt my heart to be so out of control.

And what if I had died? My life would have ended, obviously. Through my experiences with
the Tradition, I had already communicated with many spirits. I was absolutely certain that
there was a life after death, but it had never occurred to me to wonder just how the
transi- tion was made. To pass from one dimension to another, no matter how well prepared
one is, must be terrible. If I had died that morning, for example, I would have known
nothing else about the rest of the Road to Santiago, about my years of study, about my
familys grief for me, or about the money hidden in my belt. I

thought about a plant on my desk in Brazil. The plant would go on, as would other plants,
as would the street- cars, as would the man on the corner who charges more for his
vegetables than anyone else, as would the woman at directory assistance who provides me
with telephone numbers that are not listed in the book. All these things which would have
disappeared if I had died that morning took on an enormous importance for me. I realized
that those were the things, rather than the stars or wisdom, that told me I was alive.

The night was quite dark, and on the horizon I could see the faint lights of the city. I
lay down on the ground and looked at the branches of the tree overhead. I began to hear
strange sounds, sounds of all kinds. They were the sounds of the nocturnal animals,
setting out on the hunt. Petrus could not know everything; he was just another human being
like me. How was I to know if his guarantee about the absence of poisonous snakes was
true? And the wolves, those eternal European wolves wasnt it possible that they had
decided to show up there that night, sniffing out my presence? A louder noise, similar to
the breaking of a branch, frightened me, and my heart once again started pounding.

I was growing scared. The best thing to do would be to complete the exercise right away
and then head for the hotel. I began to relax and crossed my arms over my chest in the
posture of death. Something nearby made a sound. I jumped up immediately.

It was nothing. The night had aroused my greatest fears. I lay down again, deciding that
this time I would turn any source of fear into a stimulus for the exercise. I noticed that
even though the temperature had fallen quite a bit, I was perspiring.

I imagined my coffin being closed, and the screws being turned. I was immobile, but I was
alive, and I wanted to tell my family that I was seeing everything. I wanted to tell them
all that I loved them, but not a sound came out of my mouth. My father and mother were
weeping, my wife and my friends were gathered around, but I was completely alone! With all
of the people dear to me standing there, no one was able to see that I was alive and that
I had not yet accomplished all that I wanted to do in this world. I tried desperately to
open my eyes, to give a sign, to beat on the lid of the coffin. But I could not move any
part of my body.

I felt the coffin being carried toward the grave. I could hear the sound of the handles
grinding against their fittings, the steps of those in the procession, and conversations
from this side and that. Someone said that he had a date for dinner later on, and another
observed that I had died early. The smell of flowers all around me began to suffocate me.

I remembered how I had given up trying to establish a relationship with two or three
women, fearing their rejection. I remembered also the number of times I had failed to do
what I wanted to do, thinking I could always do it later. I felt very sorry for myself,
not only

because I was about to be buried alive but also because I had been afraid to live. Why be
fearful of saying no to someone or of leaving something undone when the most important
thing of all was to enjoy life fully? There I was, trapped in a coffin, and it was already
too late to go back and show the courage I should have had.

There I was, having played the role of my own Judas, having betrayed myself. There I was,
powerless to move a muscle, screaming for help, while the others were involved in their
lives, worrying about what they were going to do that night, admiring statues and
buildings that I would never see again. I began to feel how unfair it was to have to be
buried while others continued to live. I would have felt better if there had been a
catastro- phe and all of us had been in the same boat, heading for the same abyss toward
which they were carrying me now. Help! I tried to cry out. Im still alive. I havent died.
My mind is still functioning!

They placed my coffin at the edge of the grave. They are going to bury me! My wife is
going to forget all about me; she will marry someone else and spend the money we have
struggled to save for all these years! But who cares about that. I want to be with her
now, because Im alive!

I hear sobs, and I feel tears falling from my eyes, too. If my friends were to open my
coffin now, they would see my tears and save me. But instead all I feel is the lowering of
the coffin into the ground. Suddenly, every- thing is dark. A moment ago, there was a ray
of light at

the edge of the coffin, but now the darkness is com- plete. The grave diggers shovels are
filling in the grave, and Im alive! Buried alive! I sense that the air is being cut off,
and the fragrance of the flowers is awful. I hear the mourners departing footsteps. My
terror is total. Im not able to do anything; if they go away now, it will soon be night,
and no one will hear me knocking on the lid of my coffin!

The footsteps fade, nobody hears my screams, and I am alone in the darkness; the air is
heavy, and the smell of the flowers is driving me crazy. Suddenly, I hear a sound. Its the
worms, coming to eat me alive. I try with all my strength to move the parts of my body,
but I am inert. The worms begin to climb over my body. They are sticky and cold. They
creep over my face and crawl into my shorts. One of them enters through my anus, and
another begins to sneak into a nostril. Help! Im being eaten alive, and nobody can hear
me; nobody says a word to me. The worm that entered my nostril has reached my throat. I
feel another invading my ear. I have to get out! Where is God; why doesnt he help me? They
are beginning to eat at my throat, and soon I wont be able to scream! They are coming into
me everywhere: through my ear, the corner of my mouth, the opening in my penis. I feel
those disgusting, oily things inside me, and I have to scream; I have to get away! I am
shut up in this cold, dark grave, alone and being eaten alive! The air is giving out, and
the worms are eating me! I have to move. I have to break out of this coffin! God, help me

gather all of my strength, because I have to escape! I HAVE TO GET OUT OF HERE; I HAVE TO
... IM GOING TO GET OUT! IM GOING TO GET OUT!

I DID IT!

The boards of the coffin flew in all directions, the grave disappeared, and I filled my
lungs with the fresh air of the Road to Santiago. My body was trembling from head to foot
and bathed in perspiration. I moved a bit and felt that my insides had been twisted
around. But none of this was important: I was alive.

The shaking continued, and I made no effort whatso- ever to control it. A great sense of
calm came over me, and I felt a kind of presence alongside me. I looked over and saw the
face of my death. This was not the death that I had experienced a few minutes before, the
death I had created with my fears and my imagination; it was my true death, my friend and
counselor, who was never again going to allow me to act like such a coward. Starting then,
he was going to be of more help to me than Petruss guid- ing hand and advice. He was not
going to allow me to put off until tomorrow what I should be enjoying today. He was not
going to let me flee from lifes battles, and he was going to help me fight the good fight.
Never again, ever, was I going to feel ridiculous about doing anything. Because he was
there, saying that when he took me in hand to travel with me to other worlds, I should
leave behind the greatest sin of all: regret. With the certainty of his presence and the
gentleness of his face, I was sure that I was going to be able to drink from the fountain
of life.

The night held no further secrets or terrors. It was a joyful night, filled with peace.
When the trembling ceased, I got up and walked to the pumps in the fields. I washed my
shorts and put on a fresh pair from my knapsack. Then I returned to the tree and ate the
two sandwiches that Petrus had left for me. They seemed like the most delicious food in
the world, because I was alive and because death frightened me no longer.

I decided to sleep right there. The darkness had never been so reassuring.