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He was thinking of a book he had written, in which--at a certain point--the shepherd, Santiago, climbs to the top of a mountain to look out over the desert. Except for the fact that Paulo was not atop a mountain, he was surprised at the similarity to what he had written about eight months earlier. He had also just realized the significance of the name of the city where he had disembarked in the United States.
Los Angeles. In Spanish: The Angels.
But this wasn't the time to be thinking of the signs he had seen along the way.
"This is your face, my guardian angel," he said aloud. "I see you. You have always been there before me, and never have I recognized you. I hear your voice. Every day I hear it more clearly. I know you exist, because they speak of you in all corners of the earth.
"Perhaps one man, or even an entire society, can be wrong. But all societies and all civilizations, everywhere on the planet, have always spoken of angels. Nowadays, children and the elderly and the prophets are listening. They will continue to speak of angels down through the centuries, because prophets, children, and old people will always exist."
A blue butterfly fluttered about him. It was his angel, responding.
"I broke a pact. I accepted forgiveness."
The butterfly drifted from one side to the other. He had seen numbers of white butterflies in the desert--but this one was blue. His angel was content.
"And I made a bet. That night, up on the mountain, I bet all of my faith in God, in life, in my work, in J. I bet everything I had. I bet that, when I opened my eyes, you would show yourself to me. I placed my entire life on one tray of the scales. I asked that you place your countenance on the other.
"And, when I opened my eyes, the desert was before me. For a few moments, I thought I had lost. But then--ah, how lovely the memory is--then, you spoke."
A streak of light appeared on the horizon. The sun was coming alive.
"Do you remember what you said? You said: 'Look around, this is my face. I am the place where you are. My mantle will cover you with the rays of the sun in daytime, and with the glow of the stars at night.' I heard your voice clearly!
"And then you said: 'Always need me.'"
His heart was content. He would wait for the sun to rise, and look for a long time at the face of his angel. Later, he would tell Chris of his bet. And tell her that seeing one's angel was even easier than speaking with him! One had only to believe that angels exist, only to need the angels. And they would show themselves, as brilliant as the rays of morning. And they would help, performing their task of protection and guidance, so that each generation would speak to the next of their presence--so that they would never be forgotten.
Write something, he heard a voice within him say.
Strange. He wasn't even trying to do his channeling. All he wanted to do was see his angel.
But some being within him was demanding that he write something. He tried to concentrate on the horizon and the desert, but that's all he could manage.
He went to the car and picked up a pen and some paper. He had had some experience with automatic writing, but had never gone deeply into it--J. had said that it wasn't for him. That he should seek out his true gift.
He sat down on the floor of the desert, pen in hand, and tried to relax. Before long, the pen would begin to move itself, would produce some strokes, and then words would follow. In order for this to happen, he had to lose a bit of his awareness, and allow something--a spirit or an angel--to take him over.
He surrendered completely, and accepted his role as instrument. But nothing happened. Write something, he heard the voice within him say again.
He was fearful. He wasn't going to be incorporated by some spirit. He was channeling, without meaning to--as if his angel were there, speaking to him. It wasn't automatic writing.
He took a different grip on the pen--now with firmness. The words began to emerge. And he wrote them down, without time even to think of what he was writing:
For Zion's sake, I will not hold my peace.
And for Jerusalem's sake, I will not rest,
Until her righteousness goes forth as brightness,
And her salvation, as a lamp that burns.
This had never happened before. He was hearing a voice within him, dictating the words:
You shall be called by a new name,
Which the mouth of the Lord will name.
You shall also be a crown of glory in the hand of the Lord,
