“You could have chosen the revelation of the Saint, even if it wasn’t the right ring for you,” the Voices said. “The Saint has the courage of those for whom giving is the only way of receiv-

b r i d a

63

ing. They are a bottomless well from which people can constantly draw water to drink. And if the well runs dry, the Saint offers her blood so that others need never go thirsty. Through surrender, the Saint discovers the wisdom of the world.”

The Voices fell silent. Loni heard Talbo coming up the stone steps. She knew which ring should have been hers in that life, because it was the one she had worn in all her past lives, when she had been known by other names and had spoken other tongues.

With that ring, the wisdom of the world was discovered through Pleasure, but she didn’t want to think about that now. The ring of the Martyr was shining, invisible, on her finger.

Talbo came closer. And suddenly, when she gazed up at him, Loni noticed that the night had a magical glow to it, as if it were a sunny day.

“Wake up,” said the Voices.

But these were different voices, which she had never heard before. She felt someone rubbing her left wrist.

“Come on, Brida, get up.”

She opened her eyes and immediately closed them again, because the light from the sky was so intense. What a strange thing Death was.

“Open your eyes,” said Wicca.

But she needed to go back to the castle. A man she loved had

64

P a u l o C o e l h o

gone off in search of a priest. She couldn’t just run away. He was alone and he needed her.

“Tell me what your Gift is.”

Wicca didn’t give her time to think. She knew she had been through something extraordinary, much more powerful than her experience with the tarot cards. Yet still she didn’t give her time to think. Wicca neither understood nor respected her feelings; all she wanted was to find out what her Gift was.

“Talk to me about your Gift,” Wicca insisted.

Brida took a deep breath, holding in her anger, but there was no escape. The woman would keep insisting until she told her what she wanted to know.

“I was a woman in love with—”

Wicca quickly covered Brida’s mouth. Then she stood up, made a few strange gestures in the air, and turned back to her.

“God is the word. Always be very careful what you say in any situation and at any moment.”

Brida didn’t understand why Wicca was behaving like this.

“God manifests himself in everything, but the word is one of his most favored methods of doing so, because the word is thought transformed into vibration; you are projecting into the air around you something which, before, was only energy. Take great care with everything you say,” Wicca said again. “The word has more power than many rituals.”

Brida still didn’t understand. The only way she had of describing her experience was through words.

“When you spoke of a woman,” Wicca explained, “you were

b r i d a

65

not that woman. You were part of her. Other people might well have the same memory as you.”

Brida felt robbed. That woman had been so strong, and she didn’t want to share her with anyone. Besides, there was Talbo, too.

“Talk to me about your Gift,” Wicca said yet again. She couldn’t allow the girl to be too dazzled by the experience. This form of time travel often brought problems.

“I have so many things to tell, and I need to talk to you, because no one else will believe me. Please,” begged Brida.

She began to tell her everything, from the moment when the rain was dripping on her face. She had a chance and she couldn’t waste it, the chance to be with someone who believed in the extraordinary. She knew that no one else would listen to her with the same respect, because people were afraid of discovering that life was magical. They were used to their houses, their jobs, their expectations, and if someone turned up saying that it was possible to travel in time, that it was possible to see castles adrift in the Universe, tarot cards that told stories, men who walked through the dark night, people who had never experienced such things would feel that life had cheated them. Life, as far as they were concerned, was the same every day, every night, every weekend.

That’s why Brida needed to seize that chance. If words were God, then let it be recorded on the air around her that she had traveled back in time and that she remembered every detail as if it were now, as if it were the wood where they were right now. And so, when, later on, someone managed to prove to her that none

66

P a u l o C o e l h o

of this had happened, when time and space made her doubt it all, when she herself was convinced that it had been mere illusion, the words spoken that evening, there in the wood, would still be vibrating in the air, and at least one person, someone for whom magic was part of life, would know that it had really happened.

She described the castle, the priests in the black and yellow robes, the valley filled with fires, the husband thinking thoughts that she could read without him speaking them. Wicca listened patiently, only showing any interest when she told her about the Voices that appeared in Loni’s mind. Then she would interrupt and ask if the Voices were male or female (they were both), if they expressed any particular emotion, aggression, or sympathy (no, they were impersonal), and if she could summon up the Voices whenever she wished (she didn’t know, she hadn’t had time to find out).

“All right, we can leave now,” said Wicca, taking off her cloak and putting it back in her bag. Brida was disappointed. She thought she might receive some words of praise, or, at the very least, some explanation. But Wicca resembled one of those doctors who study their patient very coolly and objectively, more interested in not-ing down symptoms than in understanding the pain and suffering caused by those symptoms.

They made the long journey back. Whenever Brida tried to raise the subject again, Wicca would show a sudden interest in the increase in the cost of living, in the rush-hour traffic jams, and the difficulties she was having with the manager of the building where she lived.

b r i d a

67

Only when they were once more sitting in the usual two armchairs did Wicca comment on Brida’s experience.

“I just want to say one thing to you,” she said. “Don’t bother trying to explain your emotions. Live everything as intensely as you can and keep whatever you felt as a gift from God. If you think that you won’t be able to stand a world in which living is more important than understanding, then give up magic now. The best way to destroy the bridge between the visible and the invisible is by trying to explain your emotions.”

Emotions were like wild horses, and Brida knew that reason could never entirely master them. When a boyfriend once left her, giving no explanation, she had stayed at home for months, going over and over his many defects and the thousand and one things that had been wrong with their relationship. Yet she woke up every morning thinking about him and knowing that if he phoned her, she would probably agree to meet.

The dog in the kitchen barked. Brida knew this was a sign that her visit was over.

“Oh, please, we haven’t even talked about what happened!” she cried. “And there are two questions I simply must ask.”

Wicca stood up. The girl always found a way of leaving any important questions to the very last moment, just when it was time for her to leave.

“I want to know if the priests I saw really existed.”