The Valkyries Read online

  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 intensi
fying. 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 my husband.”

  “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 our way 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.