By The River Piedra I Sat Down & Wept

'The Virgin Mother's power is also your power, Pere. It was you who brought it here.'

This time, he didn't look my way.

'Pray for my husband, Pere,' the woman insisted.

The priest took a deep breath. 'Stand in front of me,' he said to the man.

The old man did as he was told. The padre closed his eyes and said an Ave Maria. Then he invoked the Holy Spirit, asking that it be present and help the man.

He suddenly began to speak rapidly. It sounded like a prayer of exorcism, although I couldn't understand what he was saying. His hands touched the man's shoulders and then slid down his arms to his fingertips. He repeated this gesture several times.

The fire began to crackle loudly in the fireplace. This may have been a coincidence, yet it seemed that the priest was entering into territory I knew nothing about—and that he was affecting the very elements.

Every snap of the fire startled the woman and me, but the padre paid no attention to it; he was completely involved in his taskan instrument of the Virgin, as he had said. He was speaking a strange language, and the words came forth at great speed. He was no longer moving his hands; they simply rested on the man's shoulders.

The ritual stopped as quickly as it had started. The padre turned and gave a conventional blessing, making the sign of the cross with his right hand. 'May God be ever here in this house,' he said.

And turning to me, he asked that we continue our walk.

'But you haven't had coffee,' the woman said, as she saw that we were about to leave.

'If I have coffee now, I won't be able to sleep,' the padre answered.

The woman laughed and murmured something like 'It's still morning.' But we were already on our way.

'Padre, the woman spoke of a young man who cured her husband. Was it he?'

'Yes, it was.'

I began to feel uneasy. I remembered the day before, and Bilbao, and the conference in Madrid, and people speaking of miracles, and the presence that I had sensed as we embraced and prayed.

I was in love with a man who was capable of performing cures. A man who could help others, bring relief to suffering, give health to the sick and hope to their loved ones. Was I distracting him from his mission just because it was at odds with my image of a house with white curtains, cherished records, and favorite books?

'Don't blame yourself, my child,' the padre said.

'You're reading my mind.'

'Yes, I am,' the padre said. 'I have that gift too, and I try to be worthy of it. The Virgin taught me to penetrate the turmoil of human emotions in order to control them as well as possible.'

'Do you perform miracles, too?'

'I am not able to cure. But I have one of the gifts of the Holy Spirit.'

'So you can read my heart, Padre. And you know I love him, with a love that is growing every minute. We discovered the world together, and together we remain in it. He has been present every day of my life—whether I wanted him there or not.'

What could I say to this priest who was walking beside me? He would never understand that I had had other men, that I had been in love, and that if I had married, I would be happy. Even as a child, I had found and forgotten love in the plaza of Soria.

But the way things looked now, I hadn't forgotten that first love very well. It had taken only three days for all of it to come rushing back.

'I have a right to be happy, Padre. I've recovered what was lost, and I don't want to lose it again. I'm going to fight for my happiness. If I give up the fight, I will also be renouncing my spiritual life. As you said, I would be putting God aside, along with my power and my strength as a woman. I'm going to fight for him, Padre.'

I knew what that little man was doing here. He had come to convince me to leave him, because he had a more important mission to accomplish.

No, I couldn't believe that the padre walking at my side wanted us to marry and live in a house like the one in Saint-Savin. The priest had said that to trick me. He wanted me to lower my defenses and then—with a smile—he would convince me of the opposite.

He read my thoughts without saying a word. Or perhaps he was trying to fool me. Maybe he didn't know what others were thinking. The fog was dissipating rapidly, and I could now see the path, the mountain peak, the fields, and the snow-covered trees. My emotions were becoming clearer, as well.

Damn! If it's true that be can read someone's thoughts, then let him read mine and know everything! Let him know that yesterday he wanted to make love to me—that I refused and that now I regret it.

Yesterday I had thought that if he had to leave, I would still at least have the memory of my childhood friend. But that was nonsense. Even though he hadn't entered me, something even more profound had, and it had touched my heart.

'Padre, I love him,' I repeated.

'So do I. And love always causes stupidity. In my case, it requires that I try to keep him from his destiny.'

'That won't be easy, Padre. And it won't be easy in my case, either. Yesterday, during the prayers at the grotto, I discovered that I too can bring forth these gifts that you were talking about. And I'm going to use them to keep him with me.'

'Good luck,' said the padre, with a smile. 'I hope you can.'

He stopped and took a rosary from his pocket. Holding it, he looked into my eyes. 'Jesus said that we should not take oaths, and I am not doing so. But I'm telling you, in the presence of all that is sacred to me, that I would not like him to adopt the conventional religious life. I would not like to see him ordained a priest. He can serve God in other waysat your side.'

It was hard for me to believe that he was telling me the truth. But he was.

'He's up there,' the padre said.

I turned. I could see a car parked a bit further ahead—the same car we had driven from Spain.

'He always comes on foot,' he said, smiling. 'This time he wanted to give us the impression that he'd traveled a long way.'

The snow was soaking my sneakers. But the padre was wearing only open sandals with woolen socks. I decided not to complain—if he could stand it, so could I. We began to hike toward the top of the mountains.

'How long will it take us?'

'Half an hour at the most.'

'Where are we going?'

'To meet with him. And others.'

I could see that he didn't want to say any more. Maybe he needed all of his energy for climbing. We walked along in silencethe fog had by now disappeared almost completely, and the yellow disk of the sun was coming into view.

For the first time I had a view of the entire valley; there was a river running through it, some scattered villages, and Saint-Savin, looking as though it were pasted against the slope of the mountain. I could make out the tower of the church, a cemetery I had not noticed before, and the medieval houses looking down on the river.

A bit below us, at a point we had already passed, a shepherd was tending his flock of sheep.

'I'm tired,' the padre said. 'Let's stop for a while.'

We brushed the snow from the top of a boulder and rested against it. He was perspiring—and his feet must have been frozen.

'May Santiago preserve my strength, because I still want to walk his path one more time,' said the padre, turning to me.

I didn't understand his comment, so I decided to change the subject. 'There are footsteps in the snow.'

'Some are those of hunters. Others are of men and women who want to relive a tradition.'