The Dreamseller: The Calling by Augusto Cury

behind his aid: He loved attention. Edson wasn’t the spiritual leadercharged with offering words of consolation at the funeral. He was there out of self-interest.
    Incredible as it seems, the Miracle Worker desired to resurrect the old woman. He wanted to put on a dazzling show capable of making the spectators bow at his feet; he actually hoped to awaken the elderly woman from death and be recognized as the bearer of a supernatural gift. Just as Caligula used his power to be hailed as a god on earth, Edson hoped to use his knowledge of the Bible to invoke the supernatural and be treated like a demigod himself—although he never would have admitted it.
    As a sociologist I had learned that there is no power as complete as religion. Dictators, politicians, intellectuals, psychiatrists and psychologists fail to penetrate the minds of others like certain religious figures. Because they represent a deity, these men can achieve a status the likes of which Napoleon or Hitler never could.
    In our wanderings, the dreamseller would tell us that spiritual leaders who represented an altruistic, generous God contributed to the good of humanity. But those who represented a controlling, vengeful God—in effect, a God created in their own image—caused disasters, destroyed freedom and controlled people. The dreamseller always warned us that it’s easy to construct a manipulative God in our mind. He seemed to want to keep us in touch with our humanity.
    But this charlatan we saw at the wake had mixed intentions. At certain times he wanted to contribute to the good of his fellow man and was sincere and caring. At other times he seemed swollen with pridefulness.
    But this Miracle Worker, though ambitious, was no fool. He wanted to create a spectacle but not a scene. He wanted to resurrect the old woman but tried to guard against insulting anyone. Many thoughts swirled in his brain. “What if she doesn’tcome to life? What if I tell her to rise and she just lies there? My reputation will be lost.”
    The dreamseller watched him closely, like a leopard scrutinizing the landscape. We knew the dreamseller took pleasure in dealing with extremely complicated people, but we didn’t understand his true intention that day. Little by little we began to see the kind of showthe Miracle Worker was hoping to put on.
    After a moment of reverence, the Miracle Worker approached the dead woman and whispered in an almost inaudible voice, “Rise.” He hoped not to be heard in case his faith failed him.
    The old woman showed no sign of life. Immediately, he repeated in that low voice, “Rise.”
    If she were to have moved in the slightest, Edson would have shouted to the heavens and proclaimed himself a true miracle worker. It would be his most glorious moment. Countless people hungering for supernatural acts would follow him.
    But nothing happened. The deceased remained motionless. Bartholomew, Dimas and I, who were far from saints, were indignant with the Miracle Worker’s trickery. What an arrogant jerk, we thought.
    But he didn’t give up. He filled his lungs and in a louder voice, but speaking between his teeth so no one could understand clearly what he was saying, he declared, “Rise, woman. I command you!”
    The unimaginable happened. The woman moved. But not because of the Miracle Worker. An older man, reeking of alcohol the way Bartholomew did the day I met him, bumped the coffin. But the Miracle Worker, wrapped up in himself and in looking for any signs of life from the old woman, didn’t notice when the deceased’s nephew came staggering in and smacked the coffin, causing the old woman’s hands, gently resting on her chest, to change position.
    The Miracle Worker’s heart leaped with emotion. He thought his moment of glory had arrived, that his supernatural abilities had finally revealed themselves. Overcome with joy, and desperate to take credit for his “miracle,” he yelled out and proclaimed to the mourners:
    “Rise, woman! I