The Valkyries

what infatuation is: the creation of an image of someone, without advising that someone as to what the image is.
    But some day, when familiarity revealed the true identity of both, they would discover that behind the Magus and the Valkyrie there was a man and a woman. Each possessing powers, perhaps, each with some precious knowledge, maybe, but—they couldn’t ignore the fact—each basically a man and a woman. Each with the agony and the ecstasy, the strength and the weakness of every other human being.
    And when either of them demonstrated how they really were, the other would want to flee—because it would mean the end of the world they had created.
    He found love on a cliff where two women had tried to stare each other down, with the full moon as a backdrop. And love meant dividing the world with someone. He knew one of the women well, and had shared his universe with her. They had seen the same mountains, and the same trees, although each had seen them differently. She knew his weaknesses, his moments of hatred, of despair. Yet she was there at his side.
    They shared the same universe. And although often he had had the feeling that their universe contained no more secrets, he had discovered—that night in Death Valley—that the feeling was wrong.
    He stopped the car. Ahead, a ravine pierced the mountain. He had chosen the place based on its name—actually, angels are present at all times and in all places. He got out, drank some more of the water that now he always carried in bottles in the trunk of the car, and fixed the canteen to his belt.
    He was still thinking about Chris and Valhalla as he made his way to the ravine.
I
think I’ll probably be infatuated many more times,
he said to himself. He felt no guilt about it. Infatuation was a good thing. It gave spice to life, and added to its enjoyment.
    But it was different from love. Love was worth everything, and couldn’t be exchanged for anything.
    He stopped at the mouth of the ravine and looked out over the valley. The horizon was shading to crimson. It was the first time he had seen the dawn out in the desert; even when they had slept out in the open, the sun was always up when he awoke.
    What a beautiful sight I’ve been missing,
he thought. The peaks of the mountains in the distancewere gleaming, and pink streaks were creeping into the valley, coloring the stones and the plants that survived there virtually without water. He gazed at the scene for some time.
    He was thinking of a book he had written, in which—at a certain point—the shepherd, Santiago, climbs to the top of a mountain to look out over the desert. Except for the fact that Paulo was not atop a mountain, he was surprised at the similarity to what he had written about eight months earlier. He had also just realized the significance of the name of the city where he had disembarked in the United States.
    Los Angeles. In Spanish: The Angels.
    But this wasn’t the time to be thinking of the signs he had seen along the way.
    “This is your face, my guardian angel,” he said aloud. “I see you. You have always been there before me, and never have I recognized you. I hear your voice. Every day I hear it more clearly. I know you exist, because they speak of you in all corners of the earth.
    “Perhaps one man, or even an entire society, can be wrong. But all societies and all civilizations, everywhere on the planet, have always spoken of angels. Nowadays, children and the elderly and theprophets are listening. They will continue to speak of angels down through the centuries, because prophets, children, and old people will always exist.”
    A blue butterfly fluttered about him. It was his angel, responding.
    “I broke a pact. I accepted forgiveness.”
    The butterfly drifted from one side to the other. He had seen numbers of white butterflies in the desert—but this one was blue. His angel was content.
    “And I made a bet. That night, up on the mountain, I bet all of my faith in God, in life, in my work, in J. I bet everything I had. I bet that, when I opened my eyes, you would show yourself to me. I placed my entire life on one tray of the scales. I asked that you place your countenance on the other.
    “And, when I opened my eyes, the desert was before me. For a few moments, I thought I had lost. But then—ah, how lovely the memory is—then, you spoke.”
    A streak of light appeared on the horizon. The sun was coming alive.
    “Do you remember what you said? You said: ‘Look