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He laughed, and I smiled in my trance. He showed me a closed bag, then opened it and looked inside--but in such a way that I could not see into it. Then a name came to my mind: Astrain.1
I began to envision the name and make it dance between the two fires, and the messenger gave a nod of approval; I had learned his name.
It was time to end the exercise. I said the ritual
words and extinguished the fires--first on the left and then on the right. I opened my eyes, and there was the river Ega in front of me.
"It was much less difficult than I had imagined," I said to Petrus, after I had told him about everything that had occurred between the two fires.
"This was your first contact--a meeting to establish mutual recognition and mutual friendship. Your conversations with the messenger will be productive if you invoke him every day and discuss your problems with him. But you have to know how to distinguish between what is real assistance and what is a trap. Keep your sword ready every time you meet with him."
"But I don't have my sword yet," I answered.
"Right, so he can't cause you much damage. But even so, don't make it easy for him."
The ritual having ended, I left Petrus and went back to the hotel. In bed, I thought about the poor young waiter who had served us lunch. I felt like going back there and teaching him the Messenger Ritual, telling him that he could change everything if he wanted to. But it was useless to try to save the world: I hadn't even been able to save myself yet.2
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"TALKING WITH YOUR MESSENGER DOESN'T MEAN ASKING questions about the world of the spirits," Petrus said the next day. "The messenger performs only one function for you: he helps you with regard to the material world. And he will give you this help only if you know exactly what it is that you want."
We had stopped in a town to have something to drink. Petrus had ordered a beer, and I asked for a soft drink. My fingers made abstract designs in the water on the table, and I was worried.
"You told me that the messenger had manifested himself in the boy because he needed to tell me something."
"Something urgent," he confirmed.
We talked some more about messengers, angels, and devils. It was difficult for me to accept such a practical application of the mysteries of the Tradition. Petrus said that we are always seeking some kind of reward. But I reminded him that Jesus had said that the rich man would not enter into the kingdom of heaven.
"But Jesus rewarded the man who knew how to make his master more adept. People did not believe in Jesus just because he was an outstanding orator: he had to perform miracles and reward those who followed him."
"No one is going to blaspheme Jesus in my bar," said the owner, who had been listening to our conversation.
"No one is blaspheming Jesus," Petrus answered. "People speak poorly of Jesus when they commit the sin of taking his name in vain. Like all of you did out there in the plaza."
The owner hesitated for a moment. But then he answered, "I had nothing to do with that. I was only a child at the time."
"The guilty ones are always the others," Petrus mumbled. The owner went into the kitchen, and I asked Petrus what he was talking about.
"Fifty years ago, in this twentieth century of ours, a gypsy was burned at the stake out there in the plaza. He was accused of sorcery and of blaspheming the sacred host. The case was lost amid the news of the Spanish civil war, and no one remembers it today. Except the people who live here."
"How do you know about it, Petrus?"
"Because I have already walked the Road to Santiago."
We went on drinking there in the empty bar. The sun was hot, and it was our siesta time. A few minutes later, the owner reappeared, accompanied by the town priest.
"Who are you people?" asked the priest.
Petrus showed him the scallop shells sewn to his knapsack. For twelve hundred years, pilgrims had passed along the Road in front of the bar, and the tradition was that every pilgrim was respected and welcomed under any circumstance. The priest changed his tone.
"How can it be that pilgrims on the Road to Santiago are speaking poorly of Jesus?" he asked, in a tone that was appropriate to a catechism.
"Nobody here was speaking poorly of Jesus. We were speaking poorly of the crimes committed in the name of Jesus. Like the gypsy that was burned at the stake there in the square."
The shells on Petrus's knapsack had also changed the owner's attitude. Now he addressed us with some respect.
"The curse of the gypsy is still with us today," he said, and the priest looked at him reprovingly.
