The Valkyrie

THEY HAD BEEN DRIVING FOR ALMOST SIX HOURS. FOR THE

hundredth time, he asked the woman at his side if they were on

the right road.

For the hundredth time, she looked at the map. Yes, they

were going the right way, even though their surroundings were

green, and a river ran nearby, and there were trees along the

road.

"I think we should stop at a gas station and check," she

said.

They drove on without speaking, listening to old songs on

the radio. Chris knew that it wasn't necessary to stop at a gas

station, because they were on the right road—even if the

scenery around them was completely different from what they

had expected. But she knew her husband well. Paulo was

nervous and uncertain, thinking that she was misreading the

map. He would feel better if they stopped and asked.

"What are we doing here?"

"I have a task to perform," he answered.

"Strange task," she said.

Very strange, he thought. To speak to his guardian angel.

"Okay," she said after a while, "you're here to speak to

your guardian angel. Meanwhile, how about talking a bit with

me?"

But he said nothing, concentrating on the road, thinking

again that she had made a mistake about the route. No point in

insisting, she thought. She was hoping they would come upon

a gas station soon.

They had headed out on their journey straight from Los

Angeles International Airport. She was afraid that Paulo was

tired, and might fall asleep at the wheel. They didn't seem to

be anywhere near their destination.

I should have married an engineer, she said to herself.

She had never gotten used to his life—taking off suddenly,

looking for sacred pathways, swords, conversing with angels,

doing everything possible to move further along the path to

magic.

He has always wanted to leave everything behind.

She remembered their first date. They had slept together,

and within a week she had moved her art work table into his

apartment. Their friends said that Paulo was a sorcerer, and

one night Chris had telephoned the minister of the Protestant

church she attended, asking him to say a prayer.

But during that first year, he had said not one word about

magic. He was working at a recording studio, and that seemed

to be all he was concerned about.

The following year, life was the same. He quit his job and

went to work at another studio.

During their third year together, he quit his job again (a

mania for leaving everything behind!) and decided to write

scripts for TV. She found it strange, the way he changed jobs

every year—but he was writing, earning money, and they were

living well.

Then, at the end of their third year together, he decided—

once again—to quit his job. He gave no explanation, saying

only that he was fed up with what he was doing, that it didn't

make sense to keep quitting his jobs, changing one for another.

He needed to discover what it was that he wanted. They had

put some money aside, and had decided to do some traveling.

In a car, Chris thought, just like we're doing now.

Chris had met J. for the first time in Amsterdam, when they

were having coffee at a cafe in the Brower Hotel, looking out

at the Singel canal. Paulo had turned pale when he saw the tall,

white-haired man dressed in a business suit. Despite hisanxiety, he finally worked up the courage to approach the

older man's table.

That night, when Paulo and Chris were alone again, he

drank an entire bottle of wine. He wasn't good drinker, and

became drunk. Only then did he reveal what she already knew:

that for seven years he had dedicated himself to learning

magic. Then, for some reason—which he never explained,

although she asked about it a number of times—he had given

it all up.

"I had a vision of J. two months ago, when we visited

Dachau," Paulo said.

Chris remembered that day. Paulo had wept. He said that he

was being called but didn't know how to respond.

"Should I go back to magic?" he had asked.

"Yes, you should," she had answered, but she wasn't sure.

Since Amsterdam, everything had changed. There were

rituals, exercises, practices. There were long trips with J., with

no defined date of return. There were long meetings with

strange women, and men who had an aura of sensuality about

them. There were challenges and tests, long nights when he

didn't sleep, and long weekends when he never left the house.

But Paulo was much happier, and he no longer thought about

quitting his job. Together they had founded a small publishing

house, and he was doing something he'd dreamed of for a long

time: writing books.

Finally, a gas station. As a young Native American woman

filled the tank, Paulo and Chris took a stroll.

Paulo looked at the map and confirmed the route. Yes, they

were on the right road.

Now he can relax. Now he'll talk a bit, Chris thought.

"Did J. say you were to meet with your angel here?" she

asked hesitantly.

"No," he replied.

Great, he gave me an answer, she thought, as she looked

out at the brilliant green vegetation, lit by the setting sun. If

she hadn't checked the map so often, she too would have

doubted this was the right road. The map said that they should

be at their destination in another six miles or so, but the

scenery seemed to be telling them they had a long way to go.

"I didn't have to come here," Paulo continued. "Any place

would do. But I have a contact here."

Of course. Paulo always had contacts. He referred to such

people as members of the Tradition; but when Chris described

them in her diary, she referred to them as the "Conspiracy."

Among them were sorcerers and witch doctors—the kind of

people one has nightmares about.

"Someone who speaks with angels?"

"I'm not sure. One time, J. referred—just in passing—to a

master of the Tradition who lives here, and who knows how to

communicate with the angels. But that might just be a rumor."

He might have been speaking seriously, but Chris knew that

he might also have just selected a place at random, one of the

many places where he had "contacts." A place that was far

from their daily life, and where he could concentrate better on

the Extraordinary.

"How are you going to speak to your angel?"

"I don't know," he replied.

What a strange way to live, thought Chris. She looked at

her husband as he walked over to pay the bill. All she knew

was that he felt he had to speak with the angels, and that was

that! Drop everything, jump on a plane, fly for twelve hours

from Brazil to Los Angeles, drive for six hours to this gas

station, arm himself with enough patience to remain here for

forty days: all of this in order to speak—or rather, try to speak

—with his guardian angel!

He laughed at her, and she smiled back. After all, this

wasn't all that bad. They had their occasional daily irritations

—paying bills, cashing checks, paying courtesy calls,

accepting some tough times.

But they still believed in angels.

"We'll do it," she said.

"Thanks for the 'we,'" he answered with a smile. "But I'm

the magus around here."

THE WOMAN AT THE STATION HAD SAID THEY WERE GOING in the

right direction—about ten more minutes. They drove in

silence. Paulo turned the radio off. There was a small

elevation, but only when they reached the top did they realize

how high up they were. They had been climbing steadily for

six hours, without realizing it.

But they were there.

He parked on the shoulder and turned off the motor. Chris

looked back in the direction from which they had come to see

if it was true: Yes, she could see green trees, plants,

vegetation.

But there in front of them, extending from horizon to

horizon, was the Mojave Desert: the enormous desert that

spreads into many states and into Mexico, the desert she had

seen so many times in Westerns when she was a child, the

desert that had places with strange names like the Rainbow

Forest and Death Valley.

It's pink, Chris thought, but she didn't say anything. He was

staring out at its immensity, trying to determine where the

angels dwelt.

If you stand in the middle of the main park, you can see

where the town of Borrego Springs begins and where it ends.

But there are three hotels for the winter tourists who come

there for the sun.

They left their luggage in the room and went to a Mexican

restaurant for dinner. The waiter stood nearby for some time,

trying to determine what language they were speaking. Finally,

when he couldn't figure it out, he asked. When they said they

were from Brazil, he said he had never met a Brazilian before.

"Well, now you've met two," Paulo laughed.

By the next day, the entire town will have heard about it, he

thought. There's not much news in Borrego Springs.

After their meal, they walked about the town, hand in hand.

Paulo wanted to wander out into the desert, get the feel of it,

breathe in the air of the Mojave. So they meandered over the

desert's rocky floor for a half hour, at last stopping to look

back at the few distant lights of Borrego Springs.

There in the desert, the heavens were clear. They sat on the

ground and made their separate wishes on the falling stars.

There was no moon, and the constellations stood out

brilliantly.

"Have you ever had the feeling, at certain moments in your

life, that someone was observing what you were doing?" Paulo

asked Chris.

"How did you know that?"

"I just know. There are moments when, without really

knowing it, we are aware of the presence of angels."

Chris thought back to her adolescence. In those days, she

had had that feeling very strongly.

"At such moments," he continued, "we begin to create a

kind of film in which we are the main character, and we are

certain that someone is observing our actions.

"But then, as we get older, we begin to think that such

things are ridiculous. We think of it as having been just a

child's fantasy of being a movie actor. We forget that, at those

moments in which we are presenting ourselves before an

invisible audience, the sensation of being observed was very

strong."

He paused for a moment.

"When I look up at the night sky, that feeling often returns,

and my question is always the same: Who is out there

watching us?"

"And who is it?"

"Angels. God's messengers."

She stared up at the heavens, wanting to believe what he

had said.

"All religions, and every person who has ever witnessed

the Extraordinary, speak of angels," Paulo went on. "The

universe is populated with angels. It's they who give us hope.

Like the one who announced that the Messiah had been born.

They also bring death, like the exterminating angel that

traveled through Egypt destroying all those who did not

display the right sign at their door. Angels with flaming

swords in their hands can prevent us from entering into

paradise. Or they can invite us in, as the angel did to Mary.

"Angels remove the seals placed on prohibited books, and

they sound the trumpets on the day of Final Judgment. They

bring the light, as Michael did, or darkness, as Lucifer did."

Hesitantly, Chris asked, "Do they have wings?"

"Well, I haven't seen an angel yet," he answered. "But I

wondered about that, too. I asked J. about it."

That's good, she thought. At least I'm not the only one who

has simple questions about the angels.

"J. said that they take whatever form a person imagines

they have. Because they are God's thoughts in live form, and

they need to adapt to our wisdom and our knowledge. They

know that if they don't, we'll be unable to see them."

Paulo closed his eyes.

"Imagine your angel, and you will feel its presence right

now, right here."

They fell quiet, lying there on the floor of the desert. There

was not a sound to be heard, and Chris began once again to

feel like she was in a film, playing to an invisible audience.

The more intensely she concentrated, the more certain she was

that all around her there was a strong presence, friendly and

generous. She began to imagine her angel, dressed in blue,

with golden hair and immense white wings—exactly as she

had pictured her angel as a child.

Paulo was imagining his angel, as well. He had already

immersed himself many times in the invisible world that

surrounded them, so it was not a new experience for him. But

now, since J. had assigned him this task, he felt that his angel

was much more present—as if the angels made themselves

available only to those who believed in their existence. He

knew, though, that whether one believed in them or not, they

were always there—messengers of life, of death, of hell, and

of paradise.

He dressed his angel in a long robe, embroidered in gold.

And he also gave his angel wings.

THE HOTEL WATCHMAN, EATING HIS BREAKFAST, TURNED TO them

as they came in.

"I wouldn't go out into the desert at night again," he said.

This really is a small town, Chris thought. Everybody

knows what you're doing.

"It's dangerous in the desert at night," the guard explained.

"That's when the coyotes come out, and the snakes. They can't

stand the heat of the day, so they do their hunting after the sun

goes down."

"We were looking for our angels," Paulo said.

The watchman thought that the man didn't speak English

very well. What he had said didn't make sense. Angels!

Perhaps he'd meant something else.

The two finished their coffee quickly. Paulo's "contact" had

set their meeting for early in the morning.

CHRIS WAS SURPRISED WHEN SHE SAW GENE FOR THE first time.

He was quite young, certainly not more than twenty, and he

lived in a trailer out in the desert, several miles from Borrego

Springs.

"This is a master of the Conspiracy?" she whispered to

Paulo, when the youth had gone to fetch some iced tea.

But Gene was back before Paulo could respond. They sat

under an awning that extended along the side of the trailer.

They talked about the rituals of the Templars, about

reincarnation, about Sufi magic, about the Catholic church in

Latin America. The boy seemed to know a great deal, and it

was amusing to listen to their conversation—they sounded like

fans discussing a popular sport, defending certain tactics and

criticizing others.

They spoke of everything—except angels.

The heat of the day was intensifying. They drank more tea

as Gene, smiling agreeably, told them of the marvels of the

desert. He warned them that novices should never go into it at

night, and that it would be smart to avoid the hottest hours of

the day, as well.

"The desert is made of mornings and afternoons," he said.

"The other times are risky."

Chris listened to their conversation for as long as she could.

But she had awakened early, and the sun was getting stronger

and stronger. She decided she'd close her eyes and take a

quick nap.

WHEN SHE AWOKE, THE SOUND OF THEIR VOICES WAS coming

from a different place. The two men were at the rear of the

trailer.

"Why did you bring your wife?" she heard Gene ask in a

guarded tone.

"Because I was coming to the desert," Paulo answered, also

whispering.

Gene laughed.

"But you're missing what's best about the desert. The

solitude."

What a cheeky kid, Chris thought.

"Tell me about the Valkyries you mentioned," Paulo said.

"They can help you to find your angel," replied Gene.

"They're the ones who instructed me. But the Valkyries are

jealous and tough. They try to follow the same rules as the

angels—and, you know, in the kingdom of the angels, there is

no good and no evil."

"Not as we understand them," Paulo countered.

Chris had no idea what they meant by "Valkyries." She had

a vague memory of having heard the name in the title of an

opera.

"Was it difficult for you to see your angel?"

"A better word would be anguishing. It happened all of a

sudden, back in the days when the Valkyries came through

here. I decided I'd learn the process just for the fun of it,

because at that point, I didn't yet understand the language of

the desert, and I was upset about everything that was

happening to me.

"My angel appeared on that third mountain peak. I was up

there just wandering and listening to music on my Walkman.

In those days, I had already mastered the second mind."

What the hell is the "second mind"? Chris wondered.

"Was it your father who taught it to you?"

"No. And when I asked him why he had never told me

about the angels, he told me that some things are so important

that you have to learn about them on your own."

They were silent for a moment.

"If you meet with the Valkyries, there's something that will

make it easier for you to get along with them," Gene said.

"What's that?"

The young man laughed.

"You'll find out. But it would have been a lot better if you

hadn't brought your wife along."

"Did your angel have wings?" Paulo asked.

Before Gene could answer, Chris had arisen from her

folding chair, come around the trailer, and now stood before

them.

"Why is he making such a big thing about your coming

here alone?" she asked, speaking Portuguese. "Do you want

me to leave?"

Gene went on with what he was saying to Paulo, paying no

attention whatsoever to Chris's interruption. She waited for

Paulo's answer—but she might just as well have been

invisible.

"Give me the keys to the car," she said, at the limit of her

patience.

"What does your wife want?" Gene finally asked.

"She wants to know what the 'second mind' is."

Damn! Nine years we've been together, and this stranger

already knows all about us!

Gene stood up.

"Sit down, close your eyes, and I will show you what the

second mind is," he said.

"I didn't come here to the desert to learn about magic or

converse with angels," Chris said. "I came only to be with myhusband."

"Sit down," Gene insisted, smiling.

She looked at Paulo for a fraction of a second, but was

unable to determine what he was thinking.

I respect their world, but it has nothing to do with me, she

thought. Although all their friends thought that she had

become completely involved in her husband's lifestyle, the

fact was that she and he had spoken very little of it to one

another. She was used to going with him to certain places, and

had once even carried his sword for purposes of a ceremony.

She knew the Road to Santiago, and had—because of their

relationship—learned quite a bit about sexual magic. But that

was all. J. had never proposed that he teach her anything.

"What should I do?" she asked Paulo.

"Whatever you think," he answered.

I love you, she thought. If she were to learn something

about his world, there was no doubt it would bring them even

closer. She went back to her chair, sat down, and closed her

eyes.

"What are you thinking about?" Gene asked her.

"About what you two were discussing. About Paulo

traveling by himself. About the second mind. Whether his

angel has wings. And why this should interest me at all. I

mean, I don't think I've ever spoken to angels."

"No, no. I want to know whether you're thinking about

something else. Something beyond your control."

She felt his hands touching both sides of her head.

"Relax. Relax." His voice was gentle. "What are you

thinking?"

There were sounds. And voices. It was only now that she

realized what she was thinking, although it had been there for

almost an entire day.

"A melody," she answered. "I've been singing this melody

to myself ever since I heard it yesterday on the radio on ourway here."

It was true, she had been humming the melody incessantly.

To the end, and then once again, and then from start to finish

again. She couldn't get it out of her mind.

Gene asked that she open her eyes.

"That's the second mind," he said. "It's your second mind

that's humming the song. It can do that with anything. If

you're in love with someone, you can have that person inside

your head. The same thing happens with someone you want to

forget about. But the second mind is a tough thing to deal

with. It's at work regardless of whether you want it to be or

not."

He laughed.

"A song! We're always impassioned about something. And

it's not always a song. Have you ever had someone you loved

stick in your mind? It's really terrible when that happens. You

travel, you try to forget, but your second mind keeps saying:

'Oh, he would really love that!' 'Oh, if only he were here.'"

Chris was astonished. She had never thought of such a

thing as a second mind.

She had two minds. Functioning at the same time.

GENE CAME TO HER SIDE.

"Close your eyes again," he said. "And try to remember the

horizon you were looking at."

She tried to recall it. "I can't," she said, her eyes still

closed. "I wasn't looking at the horizon. I know that it's all

around me, but I wasn't looking at it."

"Open your eyes and look at it."

Chris looked out at the horizon. She saw mountains, rocks,

stones, and sparse and spindly vegetation. A sun that shone

brighter and brighter seemed to pierce her sunglasses and burn

into her eyes.

"You are here," Gene said, now with a serious tone of

voice. "Try to understand that you are here, and that the things

that surround you change you—in the same way that you

change them."

Chris stared at the desert.

"In order to penetrate the invisible world and develop your

powers, you have to live in the present, the here and now. In

order to live in the present, you have to control your second

mind. And look at the horizon."

Gene asked her to concentrate on the melody that she had

been humming. It was "When I Fall in Love." She didn't know

the words, and had been making them up, or just singing a ta-

de-dum.

Chris concentrated. In a few moments, the melody

disappeared. She was now completely alert, listening only to

Gene's words.

But Gene seemed to have nothing more to say.

"I have to be alone now," he said. "Come back in two

days."

PAULO AND CHRIS LOCKED THEMSELVES INSIDE THEIR AIR-

CONDITIONED hotel room, unwilling to confront the 110

degrees of the midday desert. No books to read, nothing to do.

They tried taking a nap, but couldn't sleep.

"Let's explore the desert," Paulo said.

"It's too hot out there. Gene said it was even dangerous.

Let's do it tomorrow."

Paulo didn't answer. He was certain he could turn the fact

that he was locked into his hotel room into a learning

experience. He tried to make sense of everything that

happened in his life, and used conversation only as means for

discharging tension.

But it was impossible; trying to find a meaning in

everything meant he had to remain alert and tense. Paulo never

relaxed, and Chris had often asked herself when he would tire

of his intensity.

"Who is Gene?"

"His father is a powerful magus, and he wants Gene to

maintain the family tradition—like engineers who want their

children to follow in their footsteps."

"He's young, but he wants to act mature," Chris

commented. "And he's giving up the best years of his life out

here in the desert."

"Everything has its price. If Gene goes through all this—

and doesn't abandon the Tradition—he'll be the first in a line

of young masters to be integrated into a world that the older

masters, although they understand it, no longer know how to

explain."

Paulo lay down and started to read the only book available,

The Guide to Lodging in the Mojave Desert. He didn't want to

tell his wife that, in addition to what he had already told her,

there was another reason that Gene was here: He was powerful

in the paranormal processes, and had been prepared by the

Tradition to be ready to act when the gates to paradise opened.

Chris wanted to talk. She felt anxious cooped up in the

hotel room, and had decided not to "make sense of

everything," as her husband did. She was not there to seek a

place within a community of the elite.

"I didn't really understand what Gene was trying to teach

me," she said. "The solitude and the desert can increase your

contact with the invisible world. But I think it causes us to lose

contact with other people."

"He probably has a girlfriend or two around here," Paulo

said, wanting to avoid conversation.

If I have to spend another thirty-nine days locked up with

Paulo, I'll commit suicide, she promised herself.

THAT AFTERNOON, THEY WENT TO A COFFEE SHOP

ACROSS the street from the hotel. Paulo chose a table by the

window. They ordered ice cream. Chris had spent several

hours studying her second mind, and had learned to control it

much better than before, but her appetite was never subject to

control.

Paulo said, "I want you to pay close attention to the people

who pass by."

She did as Paulo had asked. In the next half hour, only five

people passed by.

"What did you see?"

She described the people in detail—their clothing,

approximate age, what they were carrying. But apparently that

wasn't what he wanted to hear. He insisted on more, trying to

get a better answer, but couldn't do so.

"Okay," he said. "I'm going to tell you what it was that I

wanted you to notice: All the people who passed by in the

street were looking down."

They waited for some time before another person walked by.

Paulo was right.

"Gene asked you to look to the horizon. Try that."

"What do you mean?"

"All of us create a kind of 'magic space' around us. Usually

it's a circle with about a fifteen-foot radius, and we pay

attention to what goes on within it. It doesn't matter whether

it's people, tables, telephones, or windows; we try to maintain

control over that small world that we, ourselves, create.

"A magus, though, always looks much further. We expand that

'magic space' and try to control a great many more things.

They call it 'looking at the horizon.'"

"Well, why should I do that?"

"Because you're here. If you do it, you'll see how much things

change."

When they left the coffee shop, she started to pay attention to

things in the distance. She noticed the mountains, the

occasional cloud that appeared as the sun began to set, and—in

a strange way—she seemed to be seeing the air about her.

"Everything Gene told you is important," Paulo said. "He has

already seen and talked with his angel, and he is using you as a

means of instructing me. He knows the power of his words,

and he knows that advice not heeded is returned to its giver,

losing its energy. He needs to be sure that you are interested in

what he tells you."

"Well, why doesn't he show these things directly to you?"

"Because there is an unwritten rule in the Tradition: A master

never teaches another master's disciple. And he knows I am

J.'s disciple. But since he wants to be of help to me, he is using

you for that purpose."

"Is that why you brought me here?"

"No. It was because I was afraid of being alone in the desert."

He could have said it was because he loves me, she thought.

That would have been more truthful.

THEY STOPPED THE CAR ON THE SHOULDER OF THE

narrow dirt road. Two days had passed, and they were to meet

Gene that night—Gene, who had told her always to look to the

horizon. She was excited about their meeting.

But it was still morning. And the days in the desert were long.

She looked out at the horizon: mountains that suddenly sprang

up millions of years ago, crossing the desert in a long

cordillera. Although the earthquakes that created them had

occurred long ago, one could still see how the earth's surface

had buckled—the ground still climbed smoothly toward the

mountains, and then, at a certain altitude, a kind of wound

opened, out of which rocks sprang, pointing to the sky.

Between the mountains and the car was a rocky valley with

sparse vegetation: thorn bushes, cacti, and yucca. Life that

insisted on surviving in an environment that didn't support it.And an immense white expanse the size of five football fields

stood out in the middle of it all. It reflected the morning sun,

and resembled a field of snow.

"Salt. A salt lake."

Yes. This desert must once have been the bed of an ocean.

Once a year, seagulls from the Pacific Ocean flew the

hundreds of miles to this desert to eat the species of shrimp

that appeared when the rains began. Human beings may forget

their origins, but nature, never.

"It must be about three miles from here," Chris said.

Paulo checked his watch. It was still early. They had looked to

the horizon and it had shown them a salt lake. One hour's walk

there, another to return, no risk of the midday sun.

Each placed a canteen of water on their belt. Paulo put his

cigarettes and a Bible in a small bag. When they arrived at the

lake, he was going to suggest that they read a passage from it,

chosen at random.

THEY BEGAN TO WALK. CHRIS KEPT HER EYES

FIXED on the horizon whenever possible. Although it was a

simple thing to be doing, something strange was happening:

She felt better, freer, as if her internal energy had been

increased. For the first time in many years, she regretted not

having taken a more intense interest in Paulo's "Conspiracy."

She had always imagined difficult rituals that only those who

were prepared and disciplined could perform.

They walked at a leisurely pace for half an hour. The lake

appeared to have shifted its location; it always seemed to be at

the same distance from them.

They walked for another hour. They must already have

covered four miles or so, but the lake appeared to be only a bit

closer.

It was no longer early morning, and the heat of the sun was

building.Paulo looked back. He could see the car, a tiny red point in the

distance but still visible—impossible to become lost. And

when he looked at the car, he saw something else that was

important.

"Let's stop here," he said.

They left the path they were taking and walked to a boulder.

They huddled in close to it, because it cast only a very small

shadow. In the desert, shadows appear only early in the

morning or late in the afternoon, and then only near the rocks.

"Our calculation was wrong," he said.

Chris had already noticed that. She was surprised, because

Paulo was good at estimating distances, and he had trusted her

guess of three or four miles.

"I know how we went wrong," he said. "There's nothing in the

desert to base comparisons on. We're used to calculating

distance based on the size of things. We know the approximate

size of a tree, or a telephone pole, or a house. They help us to

decide whether things are near or far away."

Here, there was no point of reference. There were rocks they'd

never seen, mountains whose size they could not estimate, and

only the sparse vegetation. Paulo had realized this as he looked

back at the car. And he could see that they had walked more

than four miles.

"Let's rest a while, and then we'll go back."

That's all right, Chris thought. She was fascinated with the

idea of continuing to look out at the horizon. It was a

completely new experience for her.

"This business of looking at the horizon, Paulo…" Chris

paused.

He waited, knowing that she would continue. He knew that

she was worried that she might say something silly, or find

some esoteric meaning in things, as many do who know only a

little about the path.

"It seems as if…I don't know…I can't explain it…as if my

soul has grown."