Free The Pilgrimage by Paulo Coelho Page B

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 mum- bled. 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 there in the square.
    The shells on Petruss knapsack had also changed the owners 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. Petrus wanted to know how. The priest said that
    these were stories told by the villagers and that the church did not approve of them. But
     the owner of the bar went on:
    Before the gypsy died, he said that the youngest child in the village was going to receive
     and incorporate his devils. And that when that child became old and died, the devils would
     pass on to another child. And so on, for all the centuries to come.
    The soil here is the same as the soil in the other towns around here, said the priest.
     When the other towns have a drought, we do, too. Nothing has hap- pened here with us that
     has not happened in the neigh- boring towns, too. This whole story is a fantasy.
    Nothing has happened because we isolated the curse, said the owner.
    Well, then, lets see it, answered Petrus. The priest laughed and said that that was no way
     to talk. The owner of the bar made the sign of the cross. But neither of them moved.
    Petrus got the check and insisted that someone take us to the person who had inherited the
     curse. The priest excused himself, saying that he had been inter- rupted at something
     important and had to get back to his church. And he left before anyone could say any-
     thing.
    The owner of the bar looked at Petrus fearfully.
    Not to worry, said my guide. Just show us the house where the curse resides. We are going
     to try to rid the town of it.
    The owner of the bar went out into the dusty street with us. The hot sun of the afternoon
     beat down every- where. We