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"Let's climb down here," Petrus said.
We began a descent that put me in mind of Jules Verne; it was as if we were descending to the center of the earth. The way was steep and difficult to navigate, and so as not to fall, we were forced to grasp at thorny branches and sharp rocks. When I reached the bottom, my arms and legs were lacerated.
"Isn't this beautiful," said Petrus, taking no notice of my discomfort.
I agreed. It was an oasis in the desert. The plant life and the rainbow formed by the droplets of water made the basin as beautiful seen from below as from above.
"This is where nature really shows its power," he said.
"True," I nodded.
"And it gives us a chance to show our own strength. Let's climb the falls," said my guide. "Through the water!"
I looked again at the scene. Now I no longer saw it as an oasis, nor as one of nature's more sophisticated caprices. Instead, I was looking at a wall more than fifty feet high over which the water fell with a deafening force. The small lagoon formed by the cataract was no deeper than a man's height, since the river ran to an opening that probably took it underground. On the wall, there were no protrusions that I could make use of in a climb, and the depth of the pool was not sufficient to break a fall. I was looking at an absolutely impossible task.
I thought of an event from five years ago, during a ritual that had required--like this situation--an extremely dangerous climb. My Master had given me a choice as to whether I wanted to continue or not. I was younger and fascinated by his powers and by the miracles of the Tradition, so I decided to go on. I needed to demonstrate my courage and my bravery.
After I had climbed the mountain for nearly an hour and as I was approaching the most difficult stretch, a wind of unexpected force arose, and to keep myself from falling, I had had to cling with all my strength to the small ledge that supported me. I closed my eyes, expecting the worst, and dug my nails into the rock. A minute later, I was surprised to find that someone had helped me to assume a safer and more comfortable position. I opened my eyes to see that my Master was there at my side.
He made some gestures in the air, and the wind suddenly ceased. With an absolutely mysterious agility, at times seeming to require an exercise in levitation, he descended the mountain and told me to do likewise.
I arrived at the base with my legs trembling and asked him angrily why he hadn't caused the wind to abate before it threatened me.
"Because it was I who ordered the wind to blow," he answered.
"So it would kill me?"
"No, in order to save you. It would have been impossible for you to climb this mountain. When I asked if you wanted to, I was not testing your courage. I was testing your wisdom.
"You made it into an order, when I had not given one," said the Master. "If you were able to levitate yourself, you would not have had a problem. But you wanted to be brave, when it was enough to have been intelligent."
That day, he told me about Magi who had become insane during the process of illumination and who could no longer distinguish between their own powers and those of their disciples. During my lifetime, I have known some great men in the Tradition. I had gotten to know three great Masters--including my own--who were able to dominate material objects in ways that went far beyond what anyone could imagine. I had witnessed miracles, exact predictions of the future, and knowledge of past incarnations. My Master had spoken of the Falklands War two months before Argentina had invaded the islands. He had described everything in detail and had explained the reasons, on an astral level, for the conflict.
But after that day, I had begun to notice that there were Magi who, in the Master's words, had been "crazed by the process of illumination." They were individuals who in almost every way were the equal of their Masters, even with respect to their powers: I saw one of them make a seed germinate in twenty minutes of extreme concentration. But that man and some others had already led many disciples to madness and despair; some of those disciples had had to be committed to mental hospitals, and there was at least one confirmed case of suicide. Those Masters were on the "blacklist" of
the Tradition, but it was impossible to control them, and I know that many of them continue their work even today.
All of this passed through my mind in a fraction of a second as I looked at the waterfall that seemed impossible to scale. I thought of the length of time that Petrus and I had traveled together, of the dog's attack that had left me unhurt, of Petrus's lack of control with the boy who had waited on us in the restaurant, and of Petrus's drinking bout at the wedding celebration. Those events were all I could remember.
"Petrus, there's no way I'm going to climb that waterfall. And for a very simple reason: it's impossible."
He didn't say a word. He sat down in the grass, and I did the same. We sat there in silence for fifteen minutes. His silence disarmed me, and I took the initiative by beginning to speak.
"Petrus, I don't want to climb because I'll fall. I know that I'm not going to die, because when I saw the face of my death, I also saw the day it will happen. But I could fall and be crippled for the rest of my life."
"Paulo, Paulo..." He looked at me and smiled. "You have completely changed. There is in your voice a bit of the love that consumes, and your eyes are shining."
"Are you going to say that I'm breaking a vow of obedience that I made before setting out on the Road?"
"You are not breaking that vow. You are not afraid, and you are not lazy. Nor should you be thinking that I have given you a useless order. You don't want to climb the falls because you are thinking about the Black Magi.1 You have not broken a vow just because you have used your decision-making ability. A pilgrim is never prevented from using that ability."
I looked again at the cataract and again at Petrus. I was weighing my chances of success in making the climb, and they didn't weigh very much.
"Now, pay attention," he continued. "I'm going to climb before you do, without using any gift. And I'm going to make it. If I succeed just by knowing where to place my feet, you will have to climb, too. I am nullifying your freedom to make a decision. If you refuse, after you have seen me make the climb, then you will be breaking your vow."
Petrus began to take off his sneakers. He was at least ten years older than I, and if he succeeded in the climb, I would have no further excuse. I studied the waterfall and felt my stomach seize up.
But he didn't move. Even though he had taken off his sneakers, he remained seated in the same place. He looked at the sky and said, "A few kilometers from here, in 1502, the Virgin appeared to a shepherd. Today is the feast day commemorating that event--the Feast of the Virgin of the Road--and I am going to offer my victory to her. I would advise you to do the same thing. Offer a victory to her. Don't offer the pain in your feet or the cuts on your hands from the rocks. Everybody in the world offers only pain as penance. There is nothing wrong with that, but I think she would be happier if, rather than just pain, people would also offer her their joys."
