Paulo Coelho - Aleph

The shaman is lighting a fire in a hollow he dug to protect the flames from the wind that continues to blow. He places a kind of drum next to the fire and opens a bottle containing some unfamiliar liquid. The shaman in Siberia—where the term originated—is following the same rituals as pajé in the Amazonian jungle, as hechiceros in Mexico, as Candomblé priests from Africa, spiritualists in France, curanderos in indigenous American tribes, aborigines in Australia, charismatics in the Catholic Church, Mormons in Utah, et cetera.

That is what is so surprising about these traditions, which seem to live in eternal conflict with one another. They meet on the same spiritual plane and are to be found all over the world, even though they have nothing to do with one another on the physical plane. That is the Great Mother saying, “Sometimes my children have eyes but cannot see, ears but cannot hear. I will therefore demand that some should not be deaf and blind to me. They may have to pay a high price, but they will be responsible for keeping the Tradition alive, and one day my blessings will return to the Earth.”

The shaman begins to beat on the drum, gradually getting faster and faster. He says something to Yao, who immediately translates: “He didn’t use the word ‘qi,’ but he says the qi will come on the wind.”

The wind is getting stronger. Even though I am well wrapped up—special anorak, thick woolen gloves, and a scarf up to my eyes—it’s not enough. My nose appears to have lost all feeling; small ice crystals gather on my eyebrows and beard. Yao is kneeling, his legs folded neatly beneath him. I try to do the same but have to keep changing position because I’m wearing ordinary trousers and the chill wind penetrates them, numbing my muscles and causing painful cramps.

The flames dance wildly about but do not go out. The drumming grows more furious. The shaman is trying to make his heart keep time with the beating of his hand on the leather skin, the bottom part of the drum being left open to let in the spirits. In the Afro-Brazilian tradition, this is the moment when the medium or priest lets his soul leave his body, allowing another, more experienced being to occupy it. The only difference is that in my country there is no precise moment for what Yao calls qi to manifest itself.

I cease being a mere observer and decide to join in the trance. I try to make my heart keep time with the beats. I close my eyes and empty my mind, but the cold and the wind won’t allow me to go further than that. I need to change position again; I open my eyes and notice that the shaman is holding a few feathers in one hand—possibly from some rare local bird. According to traditions throughout the world, birds are the messengers of the gods. They help the shaman rise up and speak with the spirits.

Yao has his eyes open, too; only the shaman will enter that ecstatic state. The wind increases in intensity. I am feeling colder and colder, but the shaman appears to be utterly impervious. The ritual continues. He opens the bottle containing the greenish liquid, takes a drink, and hands the bottle to Yao, who also drinks before handing it to me. Out of respect, I follow suit and take a mouthful of the sugary, slightly alcoholic mixture, then return the bottle to the shaman.

The drumming continues, interrupted only when the shaman pauses to trace a shape on the ground, symbols I have never seen before and which resemble some long-since-vanished form of writing. Strange noises emerge from his throat, like the greatly amplified cries of birds. The drumming is getting louder and faster all the time; the cold doesn’t seem to bother me much now, and suddenly, the wind stops.

I need no explanations. What Yao calls qi is here. The three of us look at one another, and a kind of calm descends. The person before me is not the same man who steered the boat or who asked Hilal to stay behind on the shore; his features have changed, and he looks younger, more feminine.

He and Yao talk in Russian for a while—how long, I can’t say. The horizon brightens. The moon is rising. I accompany it on its new journey across the sky, its silvery rays reflected in the waters of the lake, which, from one moment to the next, have grown utterly still. To my left, the lights of the village come on. I feel completely serene, trying to take in as much of this moment as I can, because I had not expected this; it was simply lying in my path, along with many other moments. If only the unexpected always wore this pretty, peaceful face.

Finally, through Yao, the shaman asks me why I am here.

“To be with my friend, who had made a promise to return here. To honor your art. And to share with you in the contemplation of the mystery.”

“The man beside you does not believe in anything,” says the shaman through Yao. “He has come here several times in order to speak to his wife, and yet he still does not believe. Poor woman! Instead of walking with God while she awaits her time to return to Earth, she has to keep coming back to console this poor unfortunate. She leaves the warmth of the divine Sun for this wretched Siberian cold because love will not let her go!”

The shaman laughs.

“Why don’t you tell him?” I ask.

“I have, but he, like most people I know, won’t accept what he considers to be a loss.”

“Pure selfishness.”

“Yes, pure selfishness. People like him would like time to stop or go backward, and by doing so, they prevent the souls of their loved ones from moving on.”

The shaman laughs again.

“When his wife passed onto another plane, he killed God, and he will keep coming back once, twice, ten times, to try again and again to talk to her. He doesn’t ask for help in order to understand life better. He wants things to conform to his way of seeing life and death.”

He pauses and looks around him. It is now completely dark, apart from the light from the flames.

“I cannot cure despair when people find comfort in it.”

“Who am I talking to?”

“You are a believer.”

I repeat the question, and he answers: “Valentina.”

A woman.

“The man at my side may be slightly foolish when it comes to things spiritual,” I say, “but he is an excellent human being, prepared for anything except what he calls the ‘death’ of his wife. The man at my side is a good man.”

The shaman nods. “So are you. You came with a friend who has been by your side for a long time, long before you met in this life. As have I.” Another laugh. “It was in a different place, and we met the same fate in battle, what your friend here calls ‘death.’ I don’t know in which country it was, but the wounds were caused by bullets. Warriors meet again. It is part of the divine law.”

He throws some herbs onto the flames, explaining that we have done this, too, in another life, sitting around a fire and talking about our adventures.

“Your spirit converses with the eagle of Baikal, which watches over and guards everything, attacking enemies and protecting and defending friends.”

As if to confirm his words, we hear a bird far off. The feeling of cold has been replaced by one of well-being. He again holds out the bottle to us.

“Fermented drinks are alive; they pass from youth to old age. When they reach maturity, they can destroy the Spirit of Inhibition, the Spirit of Loneliness, the Spirit of Fear, the Spirit of Anxiety. But if you drink too much of them, they rebel and usher in the Spirit of Defeat and Aggression. It’s all a matter of knowing when to stop.”

We drink and celebrate.

“At this moment, your body is on the earth, but your spirit is with me up here in the heights, and that is all I can offer you: a stroll through the skies above Baikal. You did not come here to ask for anything, and so I will give you only that. I hope it will inspire you to continue doing what you do.